The artists say Rosson--a thirtysomething man who rents the whole space from Samis Land Company and sublets 14 units while reportedly living in the 15th space--isn't taking care of the place. He hasn't paid rent to Samis (a letter to Rosson from Samis' attorney was posted on the front door July 24, demanding $13,862.22 in back rent and other fees), hasn't paid the utilities (electricity was temporarily shut off last week), and has been handing out eviction notices to some of the artists, which tenants feel is retaliation for speaking up. Meanwhile, there are repairs throughout the building that need attention--like sinks that have fallen off the wall in several of the bathrooms, toilets that get plugged up on a regular basis, a busted lock on the front door, and a broken freight elevator. "Every basic function of the building is degraded," says one guy who shares a studio in the building.
But the artists are in a tricky situation, since the building, squeezed between a leather-furniture store and a police museum, is a commercial space. Nobody's supposed to live there (though most folks, including Rosson, reportedly do), which means it's risky to make official complaints. If the city got involved, housing codes that could result in artists' evictions would have to be enforced. That's the last thing the artists want, because they love their space. Dubbed Pseudo Studios, it's one of the few Pioneer Square spaces left where artists are immersed in their work. The building's residents host regular events, showing off everything from performance art (which has even been staged in the elevator) to mixed-media installations.
So the artists have taken matters into their own hands, seeking legal advice from lawyers in the yellow pages, and discussing their rights with the city's Department of Design, Construction and Land Use. The artists swapped info at their recent meeting, and decided to write a group letter to Rosson.
The tenants' most pressing concern, besides the repairs, was a packet of utility bills that Rosson distributed on July 14--containing unpaid bills from as early as January, sprinkled with late fees--along with a note requiring full payment of just over $500 from each unit by July 31. Tenants balked, demanding to know why, for example, the electricity hadn't been paid in six months, and Rosson hadn't distributed utility bills monthly. Several requested a meeting with him. "We were trying to formally bring up our grievances," says one tenant (most asked for anonymity, fearing retaliation). The response they got was a man affiliated with Rosson's other venture--the Noiselab nightclub on Capitol Hill--coming around to collect payment. Rosson did not return our calls at two of his phone numbers. A third number's message box was full.
In the days around the tenants' meeting, several artists got eviction notices from Rosson, giving them three to 30 days to move. The tenants' meeting facilitator got his eviction notice less than 24 hours after the meeting. "We're not dealing with a reasonable man," one tenant says, describing Rosson as a Jekyll and Hyde type of character, who will be nice to tenants one day, and banging on pipes, yelling, the next. As one tenant says, Rosson is an "adversarial son of a bitch."
Artists at a different building, on Airport Way, dealt with Rosson several years ago, and report similar problems. The tenants ended up in a court case between Rosson and the building's owner (Rosson has been the defendant in three landlord-tenant cases in King County: in 1999, 1995, and 1987). In the end, Rosson was out of the picture, and the tenants formed a co-op to run the building.
At the Pseudo Studios building, it's possible things will improve without legal intervention. On Monday, August 4, tenants received a letter from Rosson apologizing for the utility snafu, and reportedly rescinding the eviction notices. He also started doing repairs. "He wrote, 'I'm sorry for my behavior over the last few months,'" says one tenant who received the letter.
