Next to a gas station on Bushwick Avenue and Jefferson Street, a large building covered in colorful murals awaits a premature vacancy. The Silent Barn Collective, a DIY music venue and collaborative living and art space, has been an important part of New York’s artist community for many years. It has faced its share of obstacles—fires, closures, moves—but until now it has always been able to successfully get back on its feet. This time, however, it seems that the legendary venue might have met its match.
Before moving to New York City—though I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time—I was not immune to the usual expectations of grandeur. I, like many youthful transplants, imagined a city of magic. A city of dirt and art; of music and discovery. A city that took true resolve to conquer. Ever the romantic, the promise of wonder riddled with adversity excited me. I took it as a challenge.
I was not incorrect in imagining the city to be challenging. I did, however, imagine my challenges as slightly more glamorous than they turned out to be. I imagined myself surrounded by emerging artists. I imagined close quarters and painted walls; long nights and crowded hallways; rooftop dances and recording sessions in makeshift basement studios. I knew that rent wasn’t going to be cheap. I knew that gentrification had arrived years before I would. Still, I hadn’t realized that these factors could threaten the very community that made the big city so attractive in the first place.
The Silent Barn is not the only DIY venue or collaborative artist space to suffer a premature end in the last few years. There have been a variety of factors leading to the dismantling of the DIY community. Rent, restrictions, and permits have successfully hindered the continuation of several DIY venues, such as Shea Stadium, Death by Audio, Glasslands, Palisades, and 285 Kent. After the tragic Ghost Ship fire in 2016, DIY venues across the country began feeling the strain of tightening restrictions. Many of them had to shut down, but some of them found ways to open their doors again as well. The repeal of New York’s Cabaret Law (a Prohibition Era rule that criminalized dancing in many nightclubs) and the introduction of the position of a Night Mayor last fall gave hope to the DIY community—several venues worked to legitimize their locations in the hopes of staying open.
The Silent Barn was one of them. They brought their space up to code. They fundraised. They rallied the community. And for a moment, it looked like they were going to succeed.
Then, in a statement they put out on their website last month, the legendary venue announced that they would be closing their doors at the end of April.
The reason for this unfortunate closure is all too familiar. The city has begun to grow too desirable and too expensive to support spaces like the Silent Barn: the type of spaces which used to harbor the very allure and character that made New York City so desirable in the first place. The influx of large companies and increased rent is resulting in the subconscious sterilization of one of the most vibrant communities the country has to offer.
It’s a scary phenomenon, but it’s real. Still, I don’t believe it is time to panic just yet.
Spaces like the Silent Barn are here to harbor creativity and community, but in essence, they are just that: space. The communities themselves still exist. The creative ambitions of young people in metropolitan areas are not going to disappear. We will always find space to collaborate and create. It just might be necessary to find new ways to do so.
The reality of my life in New York is different than what I’d imagined. My home is cleaner and less colorful. I pay a higher rent for a larger room in a neighborhood whose community isn’t quite as enthusiastic about my arrival as I’d hoped. I do not have a secret underground recording studio in my building, and there is very little graffiti on my block.
And yet, the life that I’d imagined is not that far off. I am surrounded by artists and writers. I have found ways to see new bands and meet young performers. I know painters and photographers and dancers and musicians that are all trying just as hard as I am.
The city is still a city of magic. It’s still a city of dirt and art; of music and discovery. It’s different than I’d imagined, but it isn’t dead. Not yet. We still have time to make it our own.