Walking up the rainbow-coloured stairs to the second floor of the Irene artists warehouse in Melbourne feels a bit like stepping back in time, with political and psychedelic stencil art sprayed between higgledy-piggledy MDF board walls separating a maze of studios amid remnants of the building’s industrial history.
The converted former lingerie factory in a cul de sac off Lygon Street in the inner-north suburb of Brunswick has been a not-for-profit artist and activist space since 2001 but is now facing an uncertain future as urban gentrification and council regulations close in.
The not-for-profit collective-run warehouse now provides affordable rent to about 30 artists working in an array of mediums including sculpture, circus, puppetry, film and dance.
But like many other noncommercial creative workplaces in inner Melbourne, Irene warehouse is facing what its co-caretaker Jordan Brown describes as an “existential threat”.
After a visit from council building inspectors in February the tenants received a building notice in March informing them of an extensive list of building upgrades including repairing fire extinguishers and hydrants, installing exit lighting, servicing all stairways and fixing roof leaks. They now have until 25 November to comply to avoid hefty fines and a building order to demolish all internal structures – basically to gut the place.
“It makes us feel precarious here – if we don’t meet the requirements we are out,” says Brown, stressing that they have been working constructively with the council and their landlord to try to comply thus far. “Our problem is that much of the studio infrastructure was built in such a haphazard way that it’s hard now to bring it up to modern standards. It does feel like an existential threat.”
In response to questions from Guardian Australia, a spokesperson for Merri-Bek city council said it was “committed to ensuring the safety of all building occupants and the public”.
“Council supports the provision of arts and civic spaces for our community to use and enjoy, and we have a responsibility to ensure that buildings are safe for people,” a statement said.
The warehouse has set up a fundraising page to try to meet the requirements, but for Alex Kelly, one of 25 people who co-founded Irene in 2001, such places remain a vital and precious part of Melbourne’s cultural and political landscape that must be retained.
She speaks of the early days of the warehouse as a time when a number of independent media publications including the Paper and Indymedia were established, along with groups including a bike co-op, Food not Bombs, Barricade books and innumerable art projects – as well as staging of wild warehouse parties.
“Affordable and creative spaces where artists and organisers can experiment, collaborate and learn from each other are essential,” she says.
Today, the walls of Irene reveal layer upon layer of artists having worked here – including stencil art and more detailed paintings, painted slogans include “Look up – our sky is sick” and “Politicians are not shamans” amid remnants of its former industrial past.
Iona Julian-Walters is an interdisciplinary artist who shares a small studio here with her former RMIT art school friend, Alison Newman. They had to relocate to this studio after the building inspectors insisted the mezzanine studios upstairs be discontinued.
Like other artists, Julian-Walters says she moved to Irene after her previous studio in another building was bought by a developer and they all had to find new digs.
“I feel so lucky to be here – there’s something about this place where you can really feel the history here – it feels really special to be connected to a long line of people that have been here making really anti-establishment art in Melbourne,” she says.
“What kind of society are we living in if we can’t provide spaces for artists to make art?”
The film-maker and animator Lukas Schrank, who works from a well-designed, sparsely decorated ground floor studio, shares a similar story of having moved to Irene when his Collingwood studio made way for upmarket apartments.
“When I first moved in here during Covid I was sharing this studio with a family of possums who had burrowed into the wall through the broken windows – so the first thing I had to do was move them out and perspex the windows,” he says, adding that he likes the grunginess and diversity of Irene as opposed to “nicer” commercial studios that charge six times the rent.
“Many of us share that lived experience of coming from other studio spaces that have been squeezed out because of gentrification,” he says.
“The fact that the rent is affordable means I can focus on doing pro-bono community work rather than having to take work just to pay the bills.”
Alex Kelly believes the loss of Irene would reverberate far beyond the warehouse’s walls.
“Every city around the world that has gentrified and closed its squats and warehouses ends up regretting it and trying to design back in the innovation and dynamism that these kinds of places bring,” she says.
“Irene is a rare gem that so many people have used for myriad low-budget projects, recordings and political organising – it’s precious.”
