Artists in a forgotten mill building on the outskirts of the city are fighting to retain their flexible, spacious, and inexpensive studio space. The rent was low, the windows were enormous, and the ceilings were high. Artists and small businesses worked side by side and customized each space to suit their needs. They were under the radar, and they preferred it that way. Attract too much attention and the good thing they have now could be taken away.

It is the year 2000, and the place is known colloquially as Eagle Square. To the artists and musicians in the enclave, it is known as Fort Thunder. Started by a few friends in 1995, the collective rented space in the Valley Worsted Mills, a large complex of interconnected brick mill buildings at the bottom of Atwells Avenue between Eagle and Valley Streets. 

Artists carved out big work spaces that may or may not have contained lofted beds. Bands invited audiences to see them perform, and as the crowds got bigger the entertainment got more avant garde. Artists and musicians mixed gallery showings and performance art with larger-than-life theatrics like wrestling. In the Providence underground, Fort Thunder was the nexus that drew attendees from all across New England. National press outlets took notice as well.

Eventually, the Whitney Biennial would feature one of the art collectives and Nest magazine would document the intricately decorated spaces. The Fort would birth bands that claimed national attention and its own reputation as a center for creativity would inspire others to create similar collectives. The potent mix of space, freedom, and low, low rent made it a unique and difficult to replicate moment in time. 

Towards the end of 2000, a New York real estate developer took interest in the land. To them and most people in City government, the buildings were underutilized. No one knew that Fort Thunder was getting national attention. The landlord, who might have known people were living there, pretended they had empty industrial space. The trend of turning these mills into expensive lofts hadn’t started yet, so the developers planned to demolish the buildings and create an urban strip mall.

For the artists and the collective known as Fort Thunder, it ended poorly. After flooding City Council meetings, receiving local news coverage for their plight, and even some national attention in the underground press, they were evicted. Some moved to locations deeper into Olneyville while others knew this cycle was going to continue. The ones with means started new collectives and purchased new spaces, taking ownership of their destiny. These included The Steelyard, Monohasett Mill, Firehouse 13, and the Hive Archive. That these collectives continue today is the silver lining of the story.

The preservation community in Providence paid attention. While they could not stop development, they could help shape it into something better. Instead of razing the entire historic mill collection — some buildings originated as far back as 1866 — the developer saved four of the sixteen. The new buildings would include brick and an industrial look. Another effort at The Plant changed rental regulations to allow multiple unrelated renters, pushing back against laws meant to stop college kids from sharing large apartments. They were also one of the few developments in the city to leverage zoning that allowed live/work space.  

Predictably, history repeats itself. The gentrification cycle of artists moving into a run-down and forgotten neighborhood, making a place desirable, and then being priced out repeats ad nauseam. In Providence, this happened multiple times. Fort Thunder was the loudest iteration, but before the Fort, there was Silver Springs on Charles Street, and after there were Rising Sun and American Locomotive. These projects forced out small businesses — long-time family businesses as well as new entrepreneurs. (Aren’t all artists also entrepreneurs, after all?)

At Atlantic Mills, we have a similar story. The owner no longer wants the property, which has suffered from deferred maintenance and safety updates. Part of the low rent is undoubtedly the low investment back into the building itself. (Or if rents were higher, would the building be better maintained? Chicken or egg?) An out-of-state developer has again expressed interest in the property. This time, at least, they have publicly been claiming they intend to maintain the status quo, but we have heard that before. 

We won’t have a repeat of Fort Thunder’s silver lining if tenants are forced out. Real estate is simply too expensive to produce another Steel Yard or Monohasett Mill. The relative deals of the early 2000s are gone now — already converted into residential spaces with the occasional artist-run enclave. 

If artists and small businesses are pushed out of the Atlantic Mills, Providence will lose that talent to neighboring towns where space is cheaper. Maybe Pawtucket, maybe Cranston or Warwick, maybe further out into Massachusetts. And if many lose the investment they have made in their spaces at Atlantic Mills, it is doubtful they will have the capital to purchase their next space. Therefore, the cycle of history will continue to repeat.

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J. Hogue is a Providence resident, digital designer, and amateur historian as curator of ArtInRuins.com.