Losing our creative spaces

Gabriela Mateescu in dialogue with Evantia Barca (the Romanian interview here)

While European countries are investing in the artistic community and creative industries as engines of growth—encouraging developers to build studios in the attics of new buildings or to offer preferential rental rates—Romania appears to be facing a crisis in this area. In Bucharest, there are approximately 300 creative studios rented by the Union of Visual Artists (UAP), most of them located in legally precarious buildings. Every few years, due to lawsuits, yet another building is lost. The number of workspaces available to the artistic community is already insufficient, considering that over 3,000 artists are registered in the Bucharest branch of the Union, not to mention the many others working independently.

The situation is even more strained in the rest of the country, where the total number of Union`s studios ranges between 300 and 400, serving another 3,000 artists. For instance, Iași has 30 studios available for 440 artists; Cluj has 50 studios for approximately 500–600 artists, while Timișoara has only about 30 studios for more than 200 artists. These figures, although approximate and gathered through conversations with Petru Lucaci—the president of the Union of Visual Artists of Romania—offer an accurate reflection of the current situation across the country.

Evantia Barca: Some studios acquire such a distinct identity that they become museums in themselves. Others host legendary encounters—such as the one between Warhol and Basquiat—and some are explored in search of personal items, objects, sketches, and notes that might shed new light on an artistic journey. Why is it important to talk about artists’ studios, and more broadly, what is the relationship between the physical space where an artist creates and their work?

Gabriela Mateescu: The studio is a place where creators go to reconnect with themselves, to experiment, to destroy, to build, to discard—without value judgments. If they choose to, they can share these explorations with the public, but it’s not a requirement. Some artists open their studio doors, interested in dialogue with the public, while most remain solitary, preserving their studio as a private space for refuge and creation. Historically, it is rare for artists to work without a studio, relying solely on a personal room. This approach is more common in literature. For visual artists, a space for contemplation and research is essential for the conception and realization of their work.

Evantia Barca: What is the importance of talking about these specific studios in Romania—perhaps because these creative spaces are becoming increasingly scarce? What is their local history, and what is their current state?

Gabriela Mateescu: During communism, the Artists’ Union was a very wealthy institution. It owned the Plastic Fund Factory, where materials for art-making were produced. The Union had its own printing house, publishing house, foundry, and workshops for metal, glass, and ceramics. All of the artists’ works were produced there, as well as artworks commissioned for public spaces, such as sculptures or other types of monumental works. The Union controlled all market transactions—either through direct sales via its countless galleries or by coordinating commissioned works, from which it would take a percentage. One major issue, however, was that it was not allowed to own property. Despite being a millionaire institution at the time, the Union kept building and purchasing spaces for studios using its own funds, but these spaces were officially under the authority of the state or local municipalities. But, most of the buildings were, in fact, nationalized properties.

After the Revolution, the currency was devalued, and many studio buildings were taken back by local municipalities and government ministries. Consumption habits also shifted—people no longer flocked to UAP galleries to purchase gifts, as they did in the past. Instead, they now shop at neighborhood stores or malls, where commercial options are more abundant. There was a time when UAP galleries offered a wide variety of unique and interesting objects—textiles, clothing, jewelry, books, greeting cards, paintings, sculptures, and postcards. Today, items like perfumes, chocolate boxes, and even decorative prints or framed photo works from furniture and home decor chains are much more accessible.

The Union has lost most of its artist studios nationwide since the 1990s. In Bucharest, only four of the original 40 galleries remain. The number of studios has also declined year after year. Authorities appear completely uninterested in the impact this shortage of creative spaces has on the artistic community—not only are they failing to provide new buildings, they are actively reclaiming the old ones. Attempts to find solutions included discussions with the Ministry of Defense about repurposing old military barracks once relocated outside cities, as well as talks about transforming former industrial buildings. However, none of these ideas were ever implemented.

Things are very different in countries that understand the vital connection between urban development and the creative industries. In Paris, for example, real estate developers are required to include artist studios on the top floors of new buildings. In London, a Cultural Infrastructure Plan was introduced to protect specific areas so they remain affordable for artists over the long term. Across most European countries, there is a consistent concern for supporting the artistic community: research is conducted, studies on creative workspaces are published, and actionable solutions are developed as a result.

In Romania, however, the art and creative market—once monopolized by the UAP—has been left to drift. The Union’s influence has steadily declined over the past few decades, and no new system has replaced it. Today, both the commercial and museum sectors, which should be supporting independent artists, are instead competing for the same limited public funding intended for the independent scene.

Evantia Barca: After all, how long does an artist have to wait before receiving a studio from the Union? What consequences does this postponement have? What do they do in the meantime, and what are the chances for young artists to work in a dedicated space?

Gabriela Mateescu: UAP studios are often granted for life, based on an application with a portfolio, but without any obligation for the artists who occupy or use them to demonstrate or justify their activity after. In other countries, any artist who is assigned a creative space is required to submit an annual activity report. The Union`s system disadvantages young artists, who often have to wait a decade or more to receive a studio. These studios frequently come with outstanding rent and utility debts, as some artists do not vacate the spaces on time—even after they stop paying—or the studios require substantial renovation to be usable.

In the meantime, young artists typically rent apartments or other makeshift spaces, often without formal contracts. Even when contracts do exist, they are limited in duration, and once the lease ends, many artists face doubled rents or sudden eviction.

An increasingly common solution in the art world is for several artists to join together and collectively rent houses or industrial spaces. Arthub, a center coordinated by Nona Șerbănescu, began this way—with several artists coming together to rent a house in Bucharest that included shared spaces for cultural events, exhibitions, talks, and other gatherings. However, after moving for more than 5 times in 10 years, the contracts remained unstable, rents kept rising, and eventually the situation became unsustainable, forcing the artists to give up the space. When renting from private landlords, one cannot expect concessions simply because they are an artist.

Other successful examples include artist collectives that managed to establish studios in industrial or abandoned spaces—Malmaison in Bucharest, the recently opened Scânteia Studios in a state-owned building, Centrul de Interes and Fabrica de Pensule in Cluj, and Azur Factory in Timișoara. These are initiatives led by creators who came together to modernize the spaces, creating value and visibility, often bringing the facilities up to European standards—only for rents to suddenly increase, forcing them to vacate due to rising costs. And let’s be clear: even in these cases, rents are only slightly lower than the market rate for companies. In no case do they approach a modest, artist-accessible rate, such as the rents offered by the Union, which are 10 to 20 times lower.

Evantia Barca: You have initiated a project aimed at raising awareness about artists’ studios in Romania. What are the main themes you want to bring to the public discussion, what is the method by which they will reach the attention of those interested and what is the result you are aiming for through this endeavor?

Gabriela Mateescu: This project tries to bring to public discussion the problem of the lack of studios in Romania. We are trying to compensate for the lack of actions by local and national authorities, who seem to avoid this topic. They probably have reasons, since they did not build and did not offer anything after ‘89, and even more, they took back studio buildings and galleries built by UAP, with UAP money, over time. While artists multiplied with the democratization of education, studios decreased. High rents for private studios and the insecurity of contracts are pushing many to abandon art, to move away from culture, in favor of more reasonable occupations, from which a family could support itself. Creating art should not involve so many sacrifices. We are talking about artists, many of whom, if they work, do so on the minimum wage in the economy. The rest work on insecure copyright contracts. A rent of 200 euros per room per month, plus utilities, even if it seems small, is a sacrifice for many artists, in addition to daily expenses. By assuming such monthly payments, many artists end up living on the verge of subsistence.