Property Tales

It seems to me it started when Reagan was president. Real estate went crazy. Everyone wanted to own. So they exchanged affordable rents for mortgages they struggled to pay. Prices rose so drastically, artists had to move away from New York—to the outer boroughs, suburbs or other cities. When churches stopped offering free performance spaces, many small but interesting theaters had to dim their lights forever. The real estate rush undoubtedly made some investors very rich, but at the same time it impoverished the city itself, because it diverted a goodly measure of New York's artistic vitality and abundance. We should try to withstand, reverse that trend.

—George Crowley, actor/playwright

GEORGE CROWLEY RETURNED to New York seven years ago after a stint in graduate school in Chicago and a four-month spiritual sojourn in India.

"I moved away from New York because I didn't want to be rent-poor. I came back because my family is here, and because I'm in show business. Plus, because I was born in New York, my ethereal body is probably here," he says and pauses. "That's a joke."

Ethereally and materially, Crowley lives at Dexter House Hotel on W. 86th St. near Riverside Dr., and he seems to believe it was fate that brought him there.

"I was searching for my New York roots. I'd stayed with friends, then rented a room in an apartment on the way-Upper West Side—Riverside Dr. and 157th St. The room was nice enough, but I was extremely uncomfortable there because the woman who owned the apartment was—how should I put it?—rather convent-like. It was the wrong energy for me. I could have been okay with monastery-like, but convent-like was all wrong.

"I was talking about the situation with friends who put me in touch with another friend who lived at the Dexter House Hotel, and that person called me the next day to say the room next to his was available, and if I came there with two months' rent, he was sure I could move in immediately. That's what happened. It was on Riverside Drive and 86th St.! Right near my yoga center! It was perfect. It is perfect!"

Crowley's fourth-floor, 10-by-12 room has three large north-facing windows overlooking a flower-filled courtyard. The room is quiet, ideal for writing.

"I brought in my own furniture: a queen-size bed, refrigerator, chiffonier and a big desk with a big computer—which is where I spend most of my time when I'm at home. I try to keep it to essentials, and I have everything I need."

He shares two toilets and bath with four neighboring single-room occupants. There are six shared bathrooms per floor.

"It's not a problem. We're all clean, and we're all considerate of each other. You share a bathroom when you live with family, too. This really isn't very different."

Crowley pays less than $1000 per month, but refuses to disclose his exact rent, because there are big variations in what Dexter House residents pay for rooms, depending upon the duration of their tenancy.

"For people who've lived there for 20 years, the rent is dirt-cheap. And some residents still get their linens changed because that was part of their original rental agreement. There are many long-term tenants. People come to Dexter House through word of mouth, and those who like it stay for a long time," he says. "About 15 percent of the residents are artists, many others are caregivers. We have a very international and interesting group. Several rooms with private baths are let to overnight guests—usually very worldly Europeans."

Crowley crows about Dexter House's ambience—which "isn't quite retro but is definitely other-era, definitely pre-Reagan. It's like living in a 1950s movie—where a struggling actor gets the Broadway break and everyone cheers," he says. "Management is great—almost paternalistic toward us. They've even been patient when I've been short on rent. I think they truly like artists. They recently upgraded the lobby, very tastefully in a very craftsman-like way. There's an always-helpful concierge sitting behind a glass-enclosed desk, delivering mail from cubbyholes, giving us wake-up calls. It's perfect." o