A Chinatown Loft Party in the Spirit of Warhol’s Factory

The drums could be heard first, ricocheting down from a second-story window in Chinatown beneath the Manhattan Bridge.

An unmarked door and a condensation-slick staircase led to a bohemian fever dream: a huge loft with jazz musicians riffing as dozens of artists worked at communal tables cluttered with paint and cups of red wine. A kaleidoscopic jumble of their artwork covered every inch of the walls and ceiling.

“There’s nothing like this existing,” said Melvin Guzman, a young artist from Harlem who wore wraparound sunglasses and goes by the name Grave. He squeezed black paint on a sheet of paper and bludgeoned it with a pink paint stick.

“This reminds me of the ’70s and ’80s,” said Mr. Guzman, who was too young to have experienced either decade. “We’re the outlaws and true identity of what’s going on in New York.”

For about nine months, a Sunday night salon called Headz resurrected the spirit of Andy Warhol’s Factory, the art club Area and creative gatherings of yore in a gentrifying downtown where such avant-garde pockets are on the precipice of extinction.

The party was at 49 Market Street, a squat, two-story warehouse that once housed a reputed gambling den, and, until recently, the studio of Spencer Sweeney, the artist, D.J. and party ringleader. Last summer, Mr. Sweeney vacated the space and moved to a studio on West 18th Street; the lease was inherited by Brendan Dugan, the founder of the East Village gallery Karma.

Looking to fill a 2,400-square-foot void, Mr. Sweeney, Mr. Dugan and Urs Fischer, the Swiss-born artist and photographer, began inviting friends to the studio to make illustrations of human heads (hence the name) last October.

Before long, the word-of-mouth soiree blossomed into an ecosystem populated by contemporary artists including Kembra Pfahler, Joe Bradley and Alex Bag, improvisational jazz legends, night-life lurkers, skateboarders and Lower East Side teenagers.

Art supplies, drinks and food were provided for free. And guests were given a single task: “Create or vacate.”

“It’s so joyful,” said Ruth Fish, a 25-year-old artist who lives in Chinatown. “Nobody is watching each other. They’re just making things together.”

Headz was never promoted and rarely mentioned on social media, bestowing it with the clandestine air of an illicit art-school hide-out. But the open-door policy and complimentary alcohol also courted disruption; after a few incidents with thirsty skaters, a door person was installed, armed with a guest list and discretion.

“It’s a total miracle we’ve kept it as private and low key as it’s been,” said Alberto H. Arensberg, an artist and musician, who described himself as one of the “caretakers” of the space, a role that included scrubbing floors and hanging art during the day. “I’ve seen so many parties that get pushed until they’re diffused and tasteless and everybody hates it.”

The lease on the loft, however, came to end this summer. And Headz joined the muffled ranks of parties past.

The Last Dance

On a balmy night in July, Mr. Sweeney was downstairs on the Market Street sidewalk, framed by the red awning of a Chinese car service. He wore a striped polo shirt, a Caterpillar hat and the half-grin of someone who has pulled off a card trick.

“It was kind of an experiment to open up what can be a very solitary practice to something more community oriented,” Mr. Sweeney said. “The improvisational music feeds off the creative energy of the painting and drawing, and vice versa. One thing wouldn’t work without the other.”

From the beginning, certain artists gravitated to the collaborative, egalitarian atmosphere. “Headz has been a paradigm for a new way of behaving around making artwork,” said Ms. Pfahler, a musician, filmmaker and performance artist who has been featured in the Whitney Biennial and Deitch Projects. She had attended the Sunday sessions since winter, and collaborated on a giant reflective “disco penis.”

“It takes away the age dynamic and the classicism of who’s a more advanced artist,” she said.

Over time, artwork spread across the walls of the studio, the stairwell and even the bathroom like a Virginia creeper vine. All the art produced at Headz was professionally photographed for posterity and will be returned to its creators, who were told to write their names and email addresses on the back.

“The sum of it interests me, not the individuals,” said Mr. Fischer, who helped fund the party. “The idea was not to situate it in the art world with that exclusive thing. It has nothing to do with business. We did not want any of that energy.”

The final night of Headz was on July 22 and was more crowded and muggier than usual. Artists in ratty vintage T-shirts, five-panel hats and overalls hunched over paint and pastels.

Mingling along the periphery were El-P (a rapper from Run the Jewels), Venus X (a D.J. and founder of GHE20GOTH1K) and Alex Olson (a skateboarder and street wear designer). Cans of Tecate bobbed in a slush-filled plastic basin.

One table groaned with Asian noodles and beef stew, a home-cooked meal that was gobbled off paper plates. “It takes pressure off people who are struggling with money and status,” said Nelleke McCowan, a D.J. who put together weekly menus that included chili and blueberry cakes. “They don’t have to worry about spending money or shelling out $20 for a bottle of wine.”

Near the door, a septet of musicians jammed beneath the arc of an illuminated rainbow. There were haunting organs, a flute solo and crooning of “I’ll suck your toe, nobody has to know” from Craig Harris, the bandleader.

During an intermission, Mr. Harris, a 64-year old composer and trombonist who was in the Sun Ra Arkestra band, said the environment conjured New York’s bygone loft scene. “They talk about sanctuary cities,” he said. “We talk about sanctuary settings.”

As midnight approached, lights over the tables were turned off. Disco music played, and guests danced or clustered around couches. A handful of phone flashlights popped up like fireflies as artists worked in the dark.

The bittersweet realization that something sacred was drawing to a close began to sink in. “I’m so depressed and sad,” said Adam Zhu, a 21-year-old artist who lives in an apartment across the street. “This has been special beyond articulation. I didn’t start taking illustration seriously until after this experience. On Sunday, I don’t call or text anybody. I’m here.”

Others were optimistic that the evening was not an endpoint. “I know how this space operates and how absolutely insane it is,” said Josh Diamond, a musician from the band Gang Gang Dance, who also worked in the studio. “Hopefully all these young people take the spirit of it and understand it took a lot of resources and everything that went into it.”

There are plans for a book that will document every artwork created in the studio, a jazz album culled from music recorded during the sessions and a pop-up Headz in Berlin next spring. But, according to those who produced it, the project was never intended to be permanent.

“We kind of wanted it to have a finite amount of time where it existed,” Mr. Sweeney said.

By 3 a.m., the crowd winnowed down to a dozen or so die-hards. Pete Drungle, a composer who handled music programming at Headz, was still playing his keyboard; a guest mournfully sang “My Funny Valentine.” The last bottles of wine were uncorked.

Downstairs, a few exiting attendees melted into the night as a police car pulled up and officers climbed out. The policemen rapped on the door and no one answered.