Inside the Ghost Ship before the fire (courtesy of Tumblr)

The devastating fire at the Oakland “Ghost Ship” warehouse is a tragedy that highlights the plight of young artists everywhere. So far, the remains of 36 people have been recovered, with hope for any further survivors dwindling as the missing are confirmed dead and frantic loved ones or family members seek answers from the charred ruins of what had once been a thriving, eclectic artistic collaborative. An electronic dance party, apparently a regular event on the warehouse’s second floor, was being held on the night of December 2 when the fire erupted at around 11:30 p.m., trapping those upstairs at the party in a vast labyrinthine structure without working sprinklers, fire exits or indeed any viable exits, as it’s reported the lone available staircase to the second floor was made of wood pallets, as seen in photos of the space on the Ghostship site, with a second back staircase blocked off by a tangle of electrical cords.

It’s too early to cast blame, though that hasn’t stopped self-proclaimed social media pundits. One tweet in particular enraged me:

This, no doubt, will be a common, callous sentiment going forward. Artists seen as “slackers” and “squatters”, a partying blight on the surrounding community, and therefore courting such an infernal fate. What this insensitive tweet fails to take into account is that in the Bay Area, where the fire took place, the tech boom has brought jobs and immense wealth, but the downside has been increasing marginalization and homogenization, particularly among our LGBQT communities. Artists, bohemians, and other eccentrics who once made this such an exciting place to live are going extinct under a dotcom influx of overpriced everything. As of October 2016, the average rent for a one-bedroom apartment in Oakland is $2778. In San Francisco, it’s over $3000 — if you can find one. Studio spaces for artists are either overpriced to an extreme or disappearing at an exponential rate as developers tear down older structures to build high-end condo units for legions of tech workers.

Having lived in the Bay Area since 1978, I’ve personally seen the drastic transformation we’ve undergone. Some of it has been good, if you happen to be among the lucky like me, who bought my San Francisco home in the late 1980s at a decent price and now find myself sitting on a gold mine. But for many others, including some of my friends who survived the horrors of the HIV pandemic and an existence overturned by illness, grief, or years of sacrifice to help others, the harsh reality is that without the means to maintain the very roof over their heads, staying in the Bay Area is impossible. They have moved away to more affordable states, leaving behind jagged pieces of their hearts in the City by the Bay they once called home.

Most of these friends are artists. Writers, musicians, sculptors, painters, clothing and jewelry designers, multi-media creators, photographers and film makers. Since civilization arose out of the quagmire of our origins, art has defined and separated us from other beings. We’re not an ideal species by any means, but our capacity to create and value art are two of our exemplary qualities. To create art is always a sacrifice, an undeniable obsession that ignites the soul. If an artist can’t create, he or she can’t live. Or they can live miserably, because artists are miserable if they’re not doing what they love, and we, the benefactors of their creations, would be miserable in a monochrome world, dominated by technology and cookie-cutter products.

The struggle to be an artist isn’t new. Leonardo da Vinci could barely pay his bills in Renaissance Florence and eventually moved to Milan to produce art for wealthy patrons, a necessity that drained him. He later constructed war machines and engineering feats for Cesare Borgia, which inspired him, but in the end, he immigrated to France at the invitation of that great patron of the arts, Francois I, who recognized da Vinci’s genius and provided him with financial stability in his final years, which is why the Mona Lisa now hangs in the Louvre. Michelangelo took on paying jobs to support himself, like adorning the Sistine Chapel, which he complained about incessantly. And so it goes. Even Picasso started out in a garret, painting ballet sets, until his talent was recognized. Every one of our celebrated artists is celebrated today because they never ceased to fight for the right to create, persevering against all odds. It’s what they do. When did we stop thinking this is a good thing?

This fire really hit me, because some of my best friends in the ’80s were fashion designers who lived in a warehouse just like the Ghostship, where they slept, ate, and created their clothes. It could have happened to us. We often got high, partied, and lit candles everywhere. One misstep could have resulted in calamity. This SoMa warehouse where I often spent my youthful nights had only a front door and a sealed entry at the back for shipments, but as that entry hadn’t been used in years, it was rusted shut. We strung Xmas lights around it. All year. And the electrical system was old and unreliable; I can still recall how the lights would flicker off without warning for hours on end while we fiddled ineptly with archaic circuit breakers. Calling the landlord was futile. My friends weren’t supposed to be living there, and any complaint raised the specter of eviction. So, I get how the Ghost Ship fire happened; and it breaks my heart.

We can fault the owner for not ensuring the building was up-to-code and safe for tenants. We can fault the city of Oakland for not following up more efficiently after its inspectors failed to gain earlier access to the warehouse. We can fault the rampant greed of developers who seize opportunity in the financial tech boom to raze our historic bohemian flair, and we can blame landlords seizing the same opportunity to jack up rents above anything a struggling artist can pay. Indeed, we can toss blame wherever we like, as there’s plenty to go around; but to blame the artists who established the Ghost Ship collaborative in an attempt to circumvent an insurmountable housing crisis and devise an inclusive space where they could create is unworthy of us, and of those who lost their lives.

When we lose our artists, we lose more than their art. We lose our humanity. We lose the very thing that makes us unique. We lose our thinkers, our changers, our rebels, and our conscience. We lose our passion. If we don’t support the eccentric misfit artists around us, what does that say about us?