Short Cuts: Episode I 
Montrose Lives!
There's something for everyone in Houston's Montrose, the strangest neighborhood east of the Pecos.
(Page 4 of 5)
Folksinger Don Sanders agrees that "there's increasing interest in the Heights. I know some people have already moved up there. You can find better deals on houses there, $60 to $70 a month. Around here it's getting hard to find an apartment for under $100.
Some people foresee the development of an East Village-West Village relationship between the Heights and the Montrose, with one area providing cheap housing for those who can't afford the other, and considerable cultural interplay between the two.
Those with a Bohemian bent are not the only ones with an eye to the north: Willie Rometsch, in a move that's either far-sighed or precipitous, has optioned an entire block of Taft Street, north of West Gray and into the middle of the black Fourth Ward. He has already opened Zerk's, a delicatessen similar to the poor-boy-famous Antone's that is just down the street, and has plans to open a bakery, spaghetti house and high-kitsch hamburger joint (to be called the Great American Disaster, perhaps prophetically) in the near future. "The city is going to have to move in that direction," predicts Rometsch. "In four, maybe seven years, I see much development up there."
He is not, however, anxious to see the northward movement become an exodus of "the artists and young people who made the area as charming as it is. I sincerely hope they don't move out. If you lose them, you lose the whole idea. Fortunately, many of them own their own homes, and they don't give a hoot how much they're offered for them—I think this is great."
Artist Don Snell is one of those: "I've bought my house and I'm staying." Clovis Heimsath, who agrees that a mass emigration of the counter culture "would probably hurt the area as a whole," isn't worried: "High density residential areas are always going to have room for people like that, they'll always have diversity. There aren't enough wealthy people in all of Houston to fill up the Montrose."
Heimsath is one of several people who have their own notions of how the Montrose should develop. Working through the American Institute of Architects, he devised a "Blueprint for the Future" which envisions pedestrian malls, townhouses and high-rises, and massive investment.
Fellow architect John Zemanek has a more imaginative proposal: "The ideal thing would be if the Mayor and City Council would declare this part of Houston an historic area for conservation of the city's and Texas' early days and in sense subsidize it—give it a chance to survive. It would make Houston internationally attractive culturally. Artists, musicians, galleries, schools for art, design, crafts would move here in droves. They're being forced out of other cities."
Speculation would have it that a majority of Houston's crop of practicing artists already live in the area—at least the younger ones. Hundreds of young journalists, rock musicians, architecture students, college professors call the Montrose home. Plus consumers of macrobiotic foods, crazy anarchists, Jesus freaks, and devotees of mind-enhancing or destroying chemicals ranging from peyote to quaaludes to smack.
It is a confusing time now, as many of the external trappings of the counter culture have spread into the mainstream—from oil workers to advertising executives. Long hair and grass—which were, for the old-timers, merely symbols for a deeper ethic—have become, for many, ends in themselves. Lots of young kids come into the Montrose now, strung out on exotic drugs and with no semblance of vision—just looking for a way to survive. On the other hand, swingers move in from the suburbs, toying with group sex and psychedelics while tipping big at Boccaccio's.
Liberal organizer Ann Lower sums up how the Montrose counter culture bridges the gap: "The older bohemian types provide the basic leadership for the young kids—lots of whom don't have any skills. The bohemians want to live simply and are artistically inclined. They feel they can contribute something to the community at the same time as dropping out. They are generally the street philosophers."
Don Snell is a greying hippie elder statesman. His paintings are whimsical cartoons: bright, two-dimensional, skillful giggles. His eyes twinkle over a glass of brandy as he sinks back into the comfy-but-certainly-not-chic sofa. The room is saturated with sculpture (candle in crotch/tongue in cheek), his moody photographic studies and sprightly canvasses.
"I've got a strange feeling that the dope thing has started to take its toll in terms of productivity. It's easier to stay stoned than to produce."
Snell communicates a kind of wise cynicism, nourished by a half century of coping with the contradictions. Snell is a Montrose prototype, though there certainly isn't another like him. Right now he's discouraged about the direction of things in the neighborhood he's occupied some 15 years.
"It's harder to rent a house now. There are more freaks, but not necessarily more artists. A lot of people have left town. There doesn't seem to be any excitement about art now. I have a feeling this place is never going to make it as a Village, art-wise. Artists here are independent. They don't traffic much with each other, except at parties. They don't need each other."
Don Snell may be the Pearl Mesta of the Montrose. His parties draw hundreds of folks into his two-story frame house on Welch Street and are truly community events. Last Halloween his house was filled with weirdos disguised as weirdos: elaborately costumed local artists rubbing rears and denim-jacketed radical politicos and moddish uptown dilettantes. Pacifica radio considered it of sufficient interest to broadcast it live.
Pacifica also covered the block party held outside Anderson-Fair Restaurant on Grant Street last October. That event drew several hundred people who listened to rock bands and local liberal politicians touting the candidacy of George McGovern. This was the latest in a series of outdoor fiestas over the last several years: they've featured tap beer, street dancing and flea market booths hawking crafts, cakes and underground comics.
Anderson-Fair Proprietor Marvin Anderson is a former Texas Art Supply executive who dropped out, let his hair and beard grow and began running the marginal operation restaurant that features spaghetti and beer and down-home vibes. We peeked over our bottle of Shiner's as Marvin reinforced Snell's perceptions.
"I guess I measure the Montrose by the block parties," he said. "And this last one, I hardly saw anyone I knew. So I guess people must be leaving, or else they're in hiding."
Marvin's former partner, Gray Fair, was perhaps the most cynical of all. Gray, a man with massive physique and thick greying beard, was tagged the Mayor of Montrose for a time. He has now dug up his roots, bid his constituency adieu and packed off to Austin where he is doing promotional art work for Representative Ron Waters.
"This area is becoming less and less comfortable to live in," bemoaned the Hon. Mr. Fair. "There's paranoia about the police, the smog is so bad, housing is getting more expensive. There are too many crazies around here—real flipped out. They have no sense of direction. I can see no unity in the community. People are too tired to get something going.
"I watched the Flower Child era when I was first here. In the last year lots of serious people have moved on, moved up. Space City! (then Houston's underground paper) was going—it was damn radical. You felt the spirit of change, of revolution. It's gone from a mood of heavy social change to a directionless thing at this point."
Community activist Eileen Hatcher has a philosophical attitude about those changes. She feels that a lot of the older folks have just gotten burnt out, especially those who worked hard in community organizations such as Inlet Drug Crisis Center, the food cooperative and the Montrose Community Council, of which she was chairperson. And, according to Eileen, new people just haven't moved in to take their place.
"I just kinda ride with it," she told us. "I figure it goes through phases. People seem to be quietly more into their own thing: trying to live together, to cope with existence. More families are developing relationships, learning crafts, raising kids. People are saving energy, wanting to get themselves strong. Maybe it's just kind of a time to go inward."
But Eileen Hatcher is involved in an imaginative project that could tap some of that energy; she and a handful of others are organizing a community garden. The Houston Independent School District has leased them—at no charge—a city block bounded by Louisiana and Smith and Anita and Tuam. The block is being broken down into nearly 100 plots, 400 square feet each.
According to Eileen, "There are two stipulations for getting a plot: you must live within walking distance of the garden, and you cannot use chemical fertilizers or pesticides. So it will be ecologically sound and community oriented." University of Houston architecture students have helped design the garden. It will include a playground area and a covered meeting place, perhaps a gazebo.
Perhaps the most exciting media venture is Space City Video. The group is spearheaded by Bill Narum, whose experience has ranged from commercial art to the underground press to radio work. Bill and crew have pulled together $15,000 worth of half-inch video equipment which they have used to tape Italian filmmaker Roberto Rosellini, rock concerts and community events. Space City Video has taped cable TV hearings in Houston and plans to make a serious bid for public access when Houston gets wired.
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