There is a fickle brand of bohemianism that pervades every student party, every open mic night in Dalston, every New Wave/Post Punk section of Rough Trade. It’s the dressed-down for show kind, the “I work at a craft brewery on the weekends but don’t need the money” kind, the “my job title is Young Creative” kind. These self-proclaimed non-conformists are everywhere, and they tend to move in packs. While East London has been their hub for some time, there is no other area in London more desirable to this neo-haute Bohème than London’s Warehouse District.
The warehouses are mainly in London’s North East Harringay, though the concept has spread to other parts of the capital. They were once home to dozens of businesses: Maynard’s famously launched their Wine Gums factory from one of in 1909. Piano makers Eavestaffs and Brasteds were once resident too. But as the companies slowly vacated – declining trade, or in search of bigger locations – these warehouses were left empty and desperate for a new purpose. Development began in the mid-90s, transforming these empty spaces into homes for artists, “thinkers”, free-spirited individuals and anyone else who sought an unconventional and affordable lifestyle. Like anything that is cheap and recusant, it was only a matter of time before the self-important, self-styled “Young Creatives” caught a whiff of the project and thought “I’d like to try that”.
Myself included. I witnessed this subgenre of yuppies first hand when I attended a warehouse viewing two years ago. The viewing was listed on Facebook. Warehouse districts tend to operate via tightly patrolled social media pages (listing the property on Rightmove is bourgeois). The page I joined had over 10,000 members. The warehouse advertised two rooms; both were mezzanines. Warehouses are full of mezzanines. There must have been 20 of us at my viewing; no one was older than 30. All of us had some form of vintage jacket on. A young man, who was a current tenant, opened the door.
“You’re the third batch to view the rooms today,” he said, “and we’ve been holding viewings all weekend!”
We shuffled into the living room and were greeted by the other tenants. Various musty rugs and shabby pieces of furniture littered the room. They made us sit down in a circle like some sort of group therapy session and say our names. There was a competitive nature amongst us viewers – the sort of competition you find in an open casting. The tenants, who all looked like extras from Nathan Barley, scribbled notes furiously.
A cat darted across the room. “I hope you’re all fine with pets. Our cat is a part of this family.” There was a faint smell of animal faeces in the air.
“How about everyone says their favourite band?” proposed one of the tenants.
I can’t remember what I said, but I knew from the group’s reaction that I was out of the race. This was their litmus test, their dealbreaker, their million dollar question, and I had failed. One of the rooms was windowless and cost roughly £800 a month (a decent price, even for a prison cell). As we were about to leave, one of the tenants pointed at a rectangular box above the kitchen. “This isn’t technically a room, but we’re renting it out for £500 a month.” I looked at the steel tomb, its door smaller than the one from Being John Malkovich, and said, “That’s not a room, that’s a storage container. It’s barely big enough for a mattress.”
“It was a storage container. Now it’s a space. Where else are you going to find a room in London for £500?”
Needless to say, I didn’t get either room, nor did I get the box above the kitchen. This was probably for the best. It’s not the warehouse’s affordability that interests these people, but the imagined prestige. It is possible to move to Bromley and rent an apartment with real windows and a functioning toilet for the same price tomorrow, but there is nothing bohemian about living on the outskirts of Kent.
I am qualified to comment because I am among their ranks: I was a student at Bristol. I was a Gauloises smoker. I owned three roll necks. I sat in Wetherspoons and talked about Charles Bukowski and the importance of The 400 Blows. I gave it up in the end – largely because I couldn’t afford it. It’s an expensive personality.
And here is the inherent contradiction in their nature: fauxhemians, artificial artists, part-time paupers or whatever you want to call them are fine on their own, but in groups they are invasive – spreading quickly and smothering native vegetation. They can turn a spit-and-sawdust pub into the most ear-curdling music venue in London. They can turn a successful theatre into the least engaging playhouse within the M25. And they can turn a warehouse district – an affordable concept – into the most exclusive “inclusive” space this mean city has to offer.
This fickle bohemia is boring. But this is not a new trend. In 2017, Julian Barnes wrote about Princess Margaret’s affection towards some of London’s counter-cultural figures: “She liked to run with a well-heeled artistic crowd, imagining it to be ‘bohemian’ – though the true bohemia of the talented yet impoverished was unknown to her.” We can say the same of our friends in East London; surrounding yourself with artists, haunting infamous dive bars and living in glorified shacks does not make you a bohemian by association, and it certainly doesn’t make you anti-capitalist. In Princess Margaret’s defence, the people she ingratiated herself with – the likes of Gore Vidal, Noël Coward and Jack Nicholson – Noël Coward possessed some artistic integrity, which is more than I can say for the Russell Group graduate living in a warehouse and pilfering his financial-director-father’s bank account for beer money.
The great irony, of course, is that this supposedly non-conformist lifestyle is rather prescriptive indeed (the right bands, the right politics, the right drugs). It is hard to know where the true dissenters and sceptics live today. But it is a long way from Harringay.
