On the top floor of 101 Spring, looking out past a Dan Flavin red-and-blue fluorescent installation and over the rooftops of Soho, it might feel like New York hasn’t changed since the ‘70s. But to Rainer Judd, daughter of legendary artist Donald Judd, that era is long gone.
“There are these beautiful moments where there is a sense of community; everyone was connected by art and food and raising children,” Rainer says, “But a lot of the people who were here in the ‘70s can’t afford to be in the lofts anymore.”
We are sitting on the floor next to her father’s former bed, a mattress atop wooden slats, only barely elevated off the floor. Back in the day, this was her father’s sanctuary. Rainer’s room is a yard or two away, followed by a lofted area (with an Oldenburg Mickey Mouse) where her brother, Flavin, slept. That was when this five-story former sewing factory was simply their home.
A little over a year ago, 101 Spring opened to the public as half-museum, half-homage to Donald Judd, showcasing his art collection and workspace to hundreds of fans. Today, tours of 101 Spring are typically booked three months out.
“It’s very much the same, except there weren’t any exit signs,” Rainer says. “It was unheated, not air-conditioned, and it was just a lot rougher. There was a ramshackle feeling to the neighborhood, and this building, like air was always flowing through it.”
We head out past a John Chamberlain sculpture, pass by the Duchamp shovel and bathroom with Judd-built sinks, and end up at the parlor featuring Frank Stella’s Gur II. “I know there was a certain ease in terms of being around pieces,” Rainer says. “We were raised to feel like art was the cutting edge of thinking, like science and literature, architecture, that there was a role in society for artists and thinkers to further civilization.”
So dinner parties in the Judd household brought together the artists of the century—think a twenty-something David Novros, Dan Flavin, Lucas Samaras, Ron Clark, and Julian Schnabel. “It was kind of like being involved in a great science experiment, and special scientists come in from all over the world to see it,” Rainer says.
But, of course, Soho is no longer the hotbed of artists it once was. Recently one artist friend sold his loft to move to Jersey City, while others are moving to Long Island City, Brooklyn. “Now everyone is all over, so you can’t even hold the community together,” Rainer says. “It’s a bit of a bummer the city couldn’t find a way to create some affordable housing in this neighborhood; I can’t even afford to live in this neighborhood. It just creates a flatness in the cultural landscape because the really interesting people don’t have a lot of extra dough.”
We look out on the corner of Spring and Mercer from the Judd dining room: high-end boutiques, tourists window shopping, a hot dog stand in the sun. “There definitely weren’t any hot-dog stands here before,” Rainer says. “There was a really great dog that would sit outside there, a Bernese Mountain dog. That was a furniture shop, and there were a lot of very dirty buildings.” The building that now houses a Ben Sherman? “It was full of factories and textiles when I was a teenager,” Rainer says. “Then all of a sudden these flags went up, and it was Green Peace. So I went across the street and made friends with them.”
Inside 101 Spring, however, it’s mostly all the same. Judd’s books still sit in the library; the train stove that they warmed their feet against during t
“There are these beautiful moments where there is a sense of community; everyone was connected by art and food and raising children,” Rainer says, “But a lot of the people who were here in the ‘70s can’t afford to be in the lofts anymore.”
We are sitting on the floor next to her father’s former bed, a mattress atop wooden slats, only barely elevated off the floor. Back in the day, this was her father’s sanctuary. Rainer’s room is a yard or two away, followed by a lofted area (with an Oldenburg Mickey Mouse) where her brother, Flavin, slept. That was when this five-story former sewing factory was simply their home.
A little over a year ago, 101 Spring opened to the public as half-museum, half-homage to Donald Judd, showcasing his art collection and workspace to hundreds of fans. Today, tours of 101 Spring are typically booked three months out.
“It’s very much the same, except there weren’t any exit signs,” Rainer says. “It was unheated, not air-conditioned, and it was just a lot rougher. There was a ramshackle feeling to the neighborhood, and this building, like air was always flowing through it.”
We head out past a John Chamberlain sculpture, pass by the Duchamp shovel and bathroom with Judd-built sinks, and end up at the parlor featuring Frank Stella’s Gur II. “I know there was a certain ease in terms of being around pieces,” Rainer says. “We were raised to feel like art was the cutting edge of thinking, like science and literature, architecture, that there was a role in society for artists and thinkers to further civilization.”
So dinner parties in the Judd household brought together the artists of the century—think a twenty-something David Novros, Dan Flavin, Lucas Samaras, Ron Clark, and Julian Schnabel. “It was kind of like being involved in a great science experiment, and special scientists come in from all over the world to see it,” Rainer says.
But, of course, Soho is no longer the hotbed of artists it once was. Recently one artist friend sold his loft to move to Jersey City, while others are moving to Long Island City, Brooklyn. “Now everyone is all over, so you can’t even hold the community together,” Rainer says. “It’s a bit of a bummer the city couldn’t find a way to create some affordable housing in this neighborhood; I can’t even afford to live in this neighborhood. It just creates a flatness in the cultural landscape because the really interesting people don’t have a lot of extra dough.”
We look out on the corner of Spring and Mercer from the Judd dining room: high-end boutiques, tourists window shopping, a hot dog stand in the sun. “There definitely weren’t any hot-dog stands here before,” Rainer says. “There was a really great dog that would sit outside there, a Bernese Mountain dog. That was a furniture shop, and there were a lot of very dirty buildings.” The building that now houses a Ben Sherman? “It was full of factories and textiles when I was a teenager,” Rainer says. “Then all of a sudden these flags went up, and it was Green Peace. So I went across the street and made friends with them.”
Inside 101 Spring, however, it’s mostly all the same. Judd’s books still sit in the library; the train stove that they warmed their feet against during t