Shiau Jonjen in his 696 studio

SHANGHAI— A little patch of Bohemia that has improbably flourished in Shanghai's commercial heartland for the last five years will this month be no more. On May 31 the last of the artist residents of 696 Weihai Lu will move out as the developers arrive to turn this artistic haven, which was once an abandoned state factory, into commercial spaces.

It was back in the summer of 2006 when a photographer first discovered this rundown warren of an industrial complex just a block from Shanghai's main drag, Nanjing Road, and set up his studio. Within months the place was humming with artists from around China and from overseas who colonized its winding stairs and dark corridors, investing it with a quiet, purposeful buzz. In a city better known for making money than art, 696 Weihai Lu took on a kind of mythic status.

For the Jing'an District government, the ultimate owner of the complex, the artists were more than welcome at first. Prepared to pay rent for abandoned and un-renovated spaces and refurbish them up at their own expense, artists have been similarly welcomed in rundown areas of cities around China, most famously in the 798 Art District in Beijing, which is the template for such enclaves.

But it turned out to be the old artist-meets-real estate-story: once the studios were up and running, the area revived and thrived. Developers sniffed the wind, recognizing the unmistakable odor of chic, and the landlords decided they could do better. So it was out with the artists and in with a more desirable brand of tenant.

Where the artists will end up is still unclear. Shanghai has designated a number of so-called "creative clusters" around the city, but these are designed for upscale galleries and shops, not scruffy artists. There is word that another district government in Shanghai is interested in turning over an abandoned space to the artists, but that is yet to be confirmed.

Last year ARTINFO China'sSylvia Bai visited 696 in what was in retrospect its heyday, when Shanghai was animated by its year in the spotlight courtesy of World Expo. As 696 enters its final weeks, she checked in with some of the artists that she met at that time to see how they were coping with moving on. Here, in her words, is what she found.

ZHANG PING

Talking to me in her three story studio and exhibition space, then crowded with visitors, Ping seemed calm. "We were told at the beginning of 2011 about moving, and end of May will be the last day," she said. "We have tried to negotiate but to no avail. Now a possible alternative has come up — an industrial warehouse in another district of Shanghai, where affordable rent will be available."

When I asked whether the decision by the Jing'an District government to move them out might have something to do with political concerns about the content of their art, Ping was dismissive. "Definitely not," she said. "None of us or our art is against the government. The decision was purely commercially driven." I reflected that in China one tends to read controversies around contemporary art as a political event, but that in this case Ping was probably right. Sometimes, just like anywhere else in the world, commercial interest take priority over everything else.

JIANG XUEMAN

Xueman has been closely involved in looking for a new home for the 696 community. "It's been very challenging to find a suitable space of a few thousand square meters for us,' he said. "We wanted to find something like 696 — an un-renovated industrial warehouse where the marks of history are still intact. But the rent they want is simply unimaginable for artists. Only commercial setups like photography or design shops can pay it."

However, Xueman, like Ping, also believes that they had found another district government interested in providing a space and so seemed relaxed. I couldn't help but wonder how they would they feel if they didn’t have such a prospect. But then, in fact, it's not just artists, but many people in contemporary China who have learned to live with uncertainty, adopting a happy-go-lucky attitude towards rapidly changing, uncontrollable circumstances.

It did seem a bit ironic, I said, that in the same city one arm of the government seems to appreciate the need to preserve grassroots community art while another arm seems to give priority to commercial interest. "They must know if they genuinely want to foster a grassroots art community," argued Xueman. "There are dozens of modernized creative clusters with empty office spaces looking for tenants. Shanghai doesn't need another creative cluster, but it needs another 696."

SHIAU JONJEN

I located Jonjen by phone in remote Guangxi Province, working on a commission. "I'm very glad that most of us at 696 had a rational and calm reaction when we were told at the start of the year we had to move out," he said. "I was not surprised to hear the news, since when we first moved in we were told that at some point we might be forced to leave."

Informally regarded as an big-brother figure in the community, Jonjen was closely involved in negotiations with the landlords. "We all behaved reasonably well after trying to negotiate with Jing'an District government — we decided it would be pointless attempting to be a 'nail household,

'" he said, using the term, dingzi hu, for a person who refuses to move out of an area slated for development even in the face of bulldozers. (It was coined during such a dispute in Chongqing in 2007.) "This non-collaborative approach is not sustainable in the long run."

Jonjen, however, also insists that "art creation and art commerce are completely different territories. Without solid art creation, a building is nothing but an empty shell, which cannot be capitalized for business." To him, 696 was like an "oasis" in the heart of buzzing Shanghai. "Most of us are very pure and kind of up to nothing but creating art and hanging around all day," he said. "We have no direct interaction with commerce." Jonjen believes that artists should enjoy preferential rents.

Asked who from 696 will move into their new home should it actually materialize, he replied: "Whoever is up for it and committed to art creation of course! We will just go with the flow. It is actually not a bad thing to reshuffle a bit."

ANTONIO SEVILLA

Not all of the artists I met last year still remain at 696. During an email exchange, I learned that Sevilla, one of several foreign artists who had made their home there, had already left last year. In his final months he had found that the landlord would do nothing to correct the leaks in his studio that led to 15 of his drawings and two paintings being destroyed in a sudden downpour. In retrospect, he said, it's clear that the management were not interested in such issues, as their plans to sell 696 were then probably already far advanced.

Sevilla has since then been on the hunt for studio space without success.

I managed to catch him on the phone and found him sounding disillusioned with the Chinese art scene and China itself. "Western art is not appreciated here unless you are a big name," he said. "We are simply not well supported. The market here is not interested in the kind of subjects I am working with — the problems of pollution and living conditions — they prefer easier subjects without deep meanings." It was upsetting to hear this, as Sevilla had been such an enthusiast for the city when I met him last year.

"People sometimes only use me to look international," he continued. "They bring me to meetings but there is no followup. They are quite pragmatic. I am probably wasting my time in China, especially under the stringent visa requirements." Sevilla is not the only one to face this difficult choice. Since he first came to China in 2000, many of his western artist friends have left. Those left tend to be mostly architects or designers, rather than artists.

But Sevilla suddenly switched to a different tone. "Guess what?" he said. "As we speak now, I am cycling on the street with one hand holding the phone, in a mad crowd of people on the street of Shanghai!" As I hang up I am not convinced his days in Shanghai are over.

The residents of 696 may have decided to move out without a fight, but they were resolved not to go out with a whimper. Zhang Ping is presently putting together a book about their experience in Weihai Lu, and on May Day weekend they staged a four-day-long final party and exhibition. Themed around the "Wizard of Oz," each studio put on a masquerade inspired by the film. According to the curatorXiang Liping, they chose the theme because of its "many parallels" with their situation.

"Dorothy's biggest wish was to return home, while the artist community at 696 is forced to leave their home, in search for a new one," the curator explained. "Scarecrow's biggest wish was to have a brain, while true art provokes one to think; the Tin Man's biggest wish was to have a heart, and true art enriches one's soul."

Let's hope that somewhere over the rainbow there is indeed another space for this band of artists.