How to transform empty office blocks – with a simple change in the rules

The Hive Dalston, on Kingsland Road. Image: Google Streetview.

Nestled among the trendy bars and restaurants of Hackney’s Kingsland Road lies an ugly, unassuming office block. Despite its looming facade you could be forgiven for missing it entirely.

And yet inside, late on a Thursday night, the four-story building is a throng of activity. Its occupants are not overzealous executives, but members of a local community group.

The Hive Dalston – Human Interest Versatile Environment – was set up to transform the block, which until last May lay empty for eight years. Founder Gee Sinah persuaded the building’s developer to allow the space to be temporarily used for free: “We opened about three weeks later on a budget of £250, with everything either made out of pallets or carried up the stairs – stuff that was either donated or found.”

It has since hosted a wide array of events: from gigs to charity fundraisers, dance performances and language classes – even two tribal ceremonies. Besides a main stage, the space now boasts a cafe, art gallery, training facilities and a recording studio. The Hive also hosts start-ups and social enterprises.


The motivation behind the project, Sinah explains, was that “these spaces are currently a blight on the area and a criminal waste of resources. We’re expected to recycle things like tin cans and plastic bottles – and yet land banking companies are able to keep land empty for 10 or 20 years until it gains value. That’s just ridiculous.”

He stresses that the project has been driven by the needs of the community: “The Hive is a platform built by underprivileged people so that they can also have a voice. Right now, these empty, useless spaces are more important than ever because people can use them to help rebuild their lives.”

Sinah credits a squatted community centre that was known as the 491 Gallery with helping him find his own feet after a personal crisis: “I had lost my job, I had lost my family, I lost everything. Places like this save people.”

Despite this experience inspiring the project, he emphasises that, unlike a squat, the Hive promotes a cooperative model that benefits all parties involved – crucially this includes the landowner as well as local businesses and neighbours. “It’s not about rioting or smashing things up, it’s just about reinvigorating a sense of community within people.”

Make do and mend

It’s a model that many believe has the potential to expand across London and beyond. The project has ambitions beyond simply demonstrating that the concept can work: its organisers hope to build a collective pool of “flatpackable” resources that can deployed at short notice wherever permission is granted.

“The Hive is just a flagship,” Sinah explains. “It’s not about this single building, it’s about building an infrastructure that is strong enough for people to be able to run projects themselves without having to bend over backwards for funding.

“So much waste is produced on a daily basis that you could build 20 Hives a week all over London. We have a deal with Wilmot Dixon that has supplied all of our materials for free – from less than the waste of one of their sites we built the entire Hive.”

With the building's lease coming to an end this summer, Sinah is now imploring local councils to introduce a new planning classification that would enable landlords and community groups to temporarily repurpose empty buildings more easily. There is already a “meanwhile lease” system in use in some places; but critics argue that it is difficult to access for smaller community groups and social enterprises, leading to the dominance of large, profit-making “property guardian” companies.

Sinah argues a new “re-space” classification would help free up huge amounts of space: “It’s almost a no-brainer for councils. It’s a slick way of encouraging community groups to rebuild simply by cutting red tape and bureaucracy.”

It’s a policy that appears to be gaining traction politically. Should he be re-elected, London Assembly member Tom Copley has pledged to pursue the idea with the city’s next mayor: “I think we need to be looking a lot more at how we can bring properties into use – both public and privately owned.”
“You benefit the high street by making it more vibrant and dynamic. You benefit the community by providing spaces that they wouldn’t have. And you often also benefit the property owner as well, because the building’s being looked after and sometimes it means that they’ll qualify for a discount on their business rates.

“So, really, everyone’s a winner.”

Ben Dilks is commissioning editor for an international thinktank. He tweets as @BenDilks

 
 
 
 

Canada’s gay neighbourhoods are struggling. Can queer pop-ups plug the gap?

Vancouver. Image: Getty.

Queer life was highly visible in Western Canada last year. In May, Vancouver declared 2018 the “Year of the Queer,” celebrating decades of service that the city’s cultural organisations have provided for lesbian, bisexual, gay, transgender, queer and two-spirit (LGBTQ/2S) people across the region.

Yet 2018 also saw the loss of multiple queer venues and gay bars. While economic forces, such as rapacious gentrification are part of the story and struggle, our research shows that something creative and generative is happening in the city as well.

In the face of changing urban landscapes, economic hardships, and more straights moving into historically gay neighbourhoods, queer pop-ups — ephemeral gathering spaces whose impact lingers among revellers long after the night is over — now play a large role in the fight for LGBTQ/2S equality.

Scattered gay places became neighbourhoods

Queer life germinated in “scattered gay places” across cities in North America from the late 1800s to the Second World War. Inside cabarets, bars, theatres or outside in public parks, washrooms and city streets, queers found spaces which could hold and celebrate transgressive sexual connections while also providing respite from daily experiences of discrimination and social exclusion.

After the Second World War, scattered gay places congealed into permanent gay bars and residential “gaybourhoods” in a period anthropologist Kath Weston calls “the great gay migration.” Queer people flocked to urban centres and sexual subcultures flourished in cities like New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Toronto.

The formation of queer community spaces has always been controversial. Cultural and legal backlashes marred early developments. A host of laws and regulations tried to suppress and contain homosexuality in North America by limiting its presence in the public sphere.

These measures resulted in frequent hostilities, police raids and violence. Queers congregated together not just to find love or community, but to protect themselves, to protect one another and to find refuge. Pride parades, now celebrated worldwide, commemorate these early turf wars.

Pop-ups revitalise queer spaces

Researchers have written a great deal on the cultural and political importance of gay districts in urban centres, and they have grappled with concerns that these areas, along with the establishments they house, are fading.

But innovative urban forms challenge arguments about the death and demise of queer spaces in the city. Our research suggests that queer pop-ups, or temporary cultural gathering spaces, cater to diverse and often marginalised queers.

Some gaybourhoods are dwindling in their residential concentration and gay bars are dropping like flies. But new queer place-making efforts are emerging.

Two of the authors at the queer pop-up in 2018 at East Side Studios in Vancouver. Ryan is on the far left, back row, Adriana is on the far right of the back row. Image: author provided.

Unlike gaybourhoods and gay bars, pop-ups are intentional in how they address persistent, intersectional forms of inequality. Queer pop-ups offer patrons a space to explore non-binary forms of gender and sexual identities, and especially a place to experience collective effervescence among queer people of colour, and femme lesbians.

Some pop-ups create environments that are explicitly trans-inclusive, consent-focused, and sex-positive. Pop-ups are not panaceas for queer life. Pop-ups can also be places where issues around socioeconomic status, gender identity and expression, and racial inequality are called out.

Yet these spaces directly and indirectly encourage dialogue on inequalities within the queer community, conversations that help produce safer spaces for marginalised queers to find each other and forge enduring queer consciousnesses.

Turf wars

Queer pop-ups show similar trajectories of infighting and compromise that the LGBT social movement encountered from the late 1970s through the early 2000s when trying to forge a collective consciousness, gain social visibility and win legal rights.

These turf wars, expressed as contests over space and inclusion, are generally sparked over three perennial concerns: privilege, race and gender. One interviewee, a 20-year-old self-identified queer, trans person of colour (QTPoC), who spoke about Vancouver’s gay district told us:

“I tend to avoid the gay bars on Davie [because] a lot of the gay bars there have now been taken over by cis-gender, heterosexual people. I’ve [also] heard from a lot of QTPoC friends that they are often uncomfortable going to gay bars on Davie, because it’s usually very dominated by cis-gender, white gay men.”

A 28-year-old white, cisgender, queer male found pop-ups more politically and culturally radical than gay bars. He put it this way:

“It’s very rare that we’ll ever have a conversation about politics [in gay bars]. It’s just about partying and things that we kind of see as very stereotypical portrayals of gay culture: like going out, dancing, drinking, fucking.”

Historically, gaybourhoods have served an important role in the fight for LGBT rights, but they have also developed to cater to a specific cis-gender, white, middle-class, male sensibility. One 30-year-old, white, trans DJ put it bluntly, “the mainstream scene is just not welcoming to trans people, in my experience,” adding that verbal transphobic harassment is common in the streets of Vancouver’s gaybourhood.

At Vancouver Pride this year we were reminded of this schism at a local pop-up event. “Gay men won’t come here, it’s too trashy,” shouted a white Australian lesbian playfully to friends over loud music. We were at Eastside Studios, a large warehouse turned into the newest collaborative queer venue in Vancouver.


The comment was striking because it highlights the visible bifurcation occurring in queer life and queer consumption in Vancouver. Many gay men tend to patronise businesses and events in the West End, Vancouver’s official gaybourhood; whereas, other members of the LGBTQ community are scattered across the city at events and venues that are far less permanent. Eastside Studios attempts to break through the homonormative bent some gay bars perpetuate. It is a space that generously houses some of the struggling pop up events who lost space to gentrification in Vancouver’s out of control rental market.

Historically, pop-ups arose as the first signs of urban sexual transgression. They continue to emerge as spatial innovations which nurture transgressive queer diversities that do not have space or representation in the gaybourhood. Weekly social media blasts via Facebook or Instagram and word-of-mouth dissemination play an important role in linking queers around the city to these events. Pop-ups take different tones and establish different vibes among patrons. Collectively, pop-ups highlight the many important projects local queers are undertaking to increase the plurality of what queer life looks like and how it is expressed.

Struggles for equality

Marriage is the leading story in many headlines these days, but queer struggles for equality were never only about relationship recognition or acceptance into the mainstream.

Queer struggles are also fights to resist oppressive normativity, to end racial inequality and white supremacy, to end sexualised violence, to reconcile generational traumas associated with colonialism.

Continuing these fights is perhaps what makes queer pop-ups unique. Organisers of these events are intentional and responsive to such concerns. They seek to create new worlds that soften the impact of inequalities, both in gaybourhoods and in other parts of Canadian cities as well.

Pop-ups nourish queer lives; they emerge as temporary meeting grounds where diverse, oftentimes marginalised, queers flock for community and collective, momentary release. Here an image from a Man Up pop-up event in Vancouver. Image: Shot by Steph/Facebook/The Conversation.

Many of these spaces are an opportunity for patrons to travel in a re-imagined world, even if only for the night. While not all pop-ups that appear survive, the ones that do matter, fundamentally, because they create spaces that resist heteronormative culture and homonormativity, address intersecting inequalities, assert and anchor queer cultural and political identities, and promote well-being for a wider portion of the community in ways that gaybourhoods used to and have always had the potential to.

Pop-ups nourish queer lives in ways that gaybourhoods and gay bars historically had. They emerge as temporary meeting grounds where diverse, oftentimes marginalised, queers flock for community and collective, momentary release. They allow patrons to dance and comfortably explore the implications of their gender and sexual identities around like-minded individuals. At times they are more than friendly social gatherings, becoming sites where the moral arch of the community is shaped through demonstrations on urgent issues impacting queer lives and the surrounding community.

Queer pop-ups are vibrant locations that work to push forward the unfinished projects of social justice first envisioned during gay liberation.

The Conversation

Ryan Stillwagon, Ph.D. Student, Sociology, University of British Columbia; Adriana Brodyn, Ph.D. Candidate, University of British Columbia; Amin Ghaziani, Associate Professor of Sociology and Canada Research Chair in Sexuality and Urban Studies, University of British Columbia, and D. Kyle Sutherland, PhD Student, Department of Sociology, University of British Columbia.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.