You know that one youth centre that used to run T-shirt making workshops and open mics and had a fashion studio tucked in the basement? Gone. Or the one off the high street where every photographer in your postcode started out before they progressed to getting scouted by the likes of Nike or high fashion labels? Gone. Or that even the little community-run warehouse where you did your first pop-up? Long gone. Spaces that once fostered and nurtured creative careers are now pilates studios with rent touching £12,000 a month.
London’s creative youth spaces are disappearing, and it’s happening so quietly that most people don’t even realise until they show up to a boarded door. Or worse, a "Reimagined Urban Living Concept" billboard.
And it’s not just sad, it’s actually kind of terrifying. Because these weren’t just buildings. They were incubators. Not the tech-bro kind, but the DIY, someone’s-uncle-got-us-free-printing kind. They were where Gen Z creatives learned to be artists before they had portfolios, or brands before they had followers. They were where kids who couldn’t afford to intern for free at a design agency could still learn how to cut fabric or mix tracks or run a community magazine.
Now? Those same kids are told to "network on LinkedIn" and "build a personal brand." Cool. With what space? With what funding? From what postcode?
This isn’t a new conversation, but the pace of it has gone feral. Since 2020, at least 130 youth centres have closed across London alone. Add to that: the cuts to arts education, the rise in rent for rehearsal spaces, and the fact that even community-led venues are being priced out of the neighbourhoods they helped make culturally relevant in the first place.
It’s regeneration dressed up as innovation, but for who? The next big artist probably isn’t at Central Saint Martins. They’re at home in Tottenham, trying to remix tracks on a busted laptop because their local youth club lost funding. The future of British creativity doesn’t come out of Soho House. It comes from these now-shuttered rooms full of donated fabric, borrowed cameras, and too many opinions.
When people say “there’s no new talent coming up,” it’s not a talent problem. It’s a space problem. You can’t grow roots in concrete. You need a place to test, fail, rebuild, and collaborate without someone charging you £60 an hour or asking if your work is “brand safe.” Because even if you have nothing, back in the day, there was still the possibility to get things done and pay later.
And before anyone says, “Well there’s still online spaces,” let’s be real: Instagram lives don’t replace face-to-face mentorship. Discord can’t teach you how to screenprint. Zoom collabs don’t help when you need to physically be in a room to shoot your lookbook or build a set or cry mid-project and get talked off the ledge by someone who’s been there.
So what now? The optimistic part of me sees a resurgence of creative mutual aid, people opening up their bedrooms as mini studios, creatives squatting office spaces, or co-owning tiny units to run workshops and events. But that’s survival mode, not a long-term solution.
If institutions really care about “supporting diverse emerging talent,” then maybe it’s time they start investing in the actual ecosystems that make that talent possible. That means funding community infrastructure. Not another mentorship scheme where 200 people apply and one person gets a tote bag and one hour zoom session.
Because if we don’t protect the spaces, we lose the culture. Simple as that.