Warhol’s formula was simple: take a bunch of underground artists, bring them together under one roof, then make sure there is a wild party burning at all times. It was certainly a lot more fun than sitting alone in a garret, waiting for inspiration to strike. And now, like all things Warhol, the creative collective is back. New “Factories” are popping up in loft spaces and warehouses from Berlin to New York.
Rampant hedonism and constant chaos are evidently catalysts for creativity. Domestic duties are kept to a minimum, so head space is freed for more creative pursuits, and there is always something on the boil, whether it be solo shows, group shows or living installations. There is also cross-pollination (so a musician might inspire a writer, for example) and plenty of multidisciplinary collaborations — proof that these communities always end up greater than the sum of their parts.
For all the liberal ideals, natural rulers always emerge to rein in those naughty bohemians, though their methods by be offbeat. At the Chateau in Glasgow, the “anti-leader” Robb Mitchell chastised one wayward reveller by dangling him from the ceiling. The roots of the collectives may be in the underground, but the rising stars within them will surface as they start to court financial success. And for all that anarchy, success is easier if you’re in a collective: there is a ready fanbase, contacts, pooled assets and free favours. And, of course, there are the parties.
THE CHATEAU, GLASGOW
Made famous by Franz Ferdinand, this space has what one commentator calls “I was there cachet”. In the Franz Ferdinand days, it was a place of illegal gigs and police raids; the lead singer, Alex Kapranos, was even taken into custody for running an illegal club. Now, the “Shat” — a semiderelict former department store, with studio space for more than 35 artists, sculptors, furniture designers, theatre groups and musicians — is coming of age, seeking licences and funding.
“We could be arrested if we were caught selling drinks [again],” says the co-founder Simon Harlow, 31, a product designer and former assistant to the Timorous Beasties. “But with the arrival of licences comes the danger of leaving the underground.”
There is, though, still no set membership procedure. “It’s not Fame Academy,” says the artist Robb Mitchell, 31, the reluctant leader and another co-founder. “People home in gradually. There’s no structure, no hierarchy; there’s much more trust involved than that. And no tidying rotas — we’re a bit of a mess to start with.”
Glasgow’s best breaking bands continue to play here, loudly, and everyone gets a chance to exhibit, whether professionally or personally. Alcohol is usually free and unlimited, couplings come in various orientations and the police are still regular “guests”.
Chateau parties have achieved such notoriety that they now start at midday, so there is more chance of them finishing early (meaning 4am). Sleepovers are a frequent occurrence, even on the roof, though there are no bedrooms. And like any good party, the best and worst times hail from the kitchen. “We eat really well here,” says Harlow. “We had a massive German-themed Frühstück the other day, with meats, fruits and fine spirits from around the world.” That’s starting early for you.
THE MILCHHOF, BERLIN
Founded in 1991 in an empty milk factory in East Berlin, the Milchhof now houses more than 50 artists and is some way down the line from underground to overground, with exchange programmes and government funding. “In the beginning, we were wild anti-capitalists,” says the painter and director Manfred Fuchs, 44. “The Milchhof grew out of the collapse of the Wall, and there was a great energy in the city. We made a name for ourselves through our infamous parties, but we got into trouble with the police and eventually, in 1997, they banned them.
“Now we have grown up — we have a 20-year housing contract with the government, and we want to rent our art to businesses. We hope to become a famous institution. To sell art, you have to become famous. We still have two or three hardliners, but the younger people here want to make money.”
THE UNIT, LONDON
“It’s not the most tidy place,” says the musician Mylo, of the former sweatshop in Dalston that he shares with the sculptors Conrad Shawcross and Nathaniel Rackowe and various itinerant creatives that camp out on the sofas. With the sculptors’ power tools and the 24-hour musical experimentations, it is a noisy place. “So it’s great for parties,” say Mylo. “They’re the crystallisation of the collective.”
“It’s unpredictable and chaotic,” says Shawcross. “But it’s well connected — worlds mix and there’s a continuous exchange of ideas.” Mylo admits that nobody could stay for ever. “Resentment brews up over space. I’ll return from tour to find my room has turned into a poker den.” With no house rules, Shawcross says, the most critical thing is the dishwasher: “This place would fall apart without it.”
FLUX FACTORY, NEW YORK
Founded in 1994, Flux is pretty advanced for a collective. It now has its own exhibition space, library, recording studio, computer lab, darkroom and bedrooms for artists in residence. There is even a board, presided over by the writer and philosopher Morgan Meis, 32. His wife, the musician and artist Stefany Goldberg, is the executive director. Then there is a vice-president — Jason Brown, a graphic designer — and a treasurer — the illustrator Aya Kakeda. “We’re pretty organised now and starting to hit the big time,” says Meis. Not that it was always like this. “We f***ed it up for years. We were a group of writers, philosophers, artists and musicians in our early twenties who just wanted a space to be creative together. We had no idea how to structure it, who was to do dishes, who was having a mental breakdown. It was a lot of fun, but it was also a nightmare.“
Recent shows — from novelists living in Big Brother-style installations to floating tea parties on the Hudson river — as well as corporate sponsors and an online shop, are all the result of Flux learning to take itself more seriously. But chaos is still encouraged. “It’s self- producing,” says Meis. Flux’s Thursday salons, for example, can be pretty unpredictable — on these open nights, all sorts drop by for dinner and a private view; numbers can reach up to 100. The point is for artists to get feedback, but “lots of people come just to get laid”, says Meis. “There’s lots of drinking, and they’re not exactly drug-free.”
Flux is no stranger to social tension, but here, conflict is considered positive. “I call it the ‘productivity of opposition’,” says Meis. “It’s a principle of physics where there’s a collision of two bodies to produce a third. We did a show recently called When Everybody Agrees, It Means Nobody Understood.”
