Nick and Nina have no grand visions of saving the world through a DIY art project in Louisville, Kentucky. Their space Snide Hotel, which includes artist studios, their Late Lounge Recording Studios, and a gallery, is in a downtown neighborhood that has withstood the barrage of breweries, boutique hotels, and loft apartments rumored to be on their way for years. The name, they tell me, is a cheeky nod to this inevitably, saying, “If we’re occupying a space that otherwise would be used for a commercial aspect, and we're obviously non-commercial, let’s call it a hotel. Because this will probably be a hotel one day. The Snide part was just funny.” And while they'll let you know without pause that “the original goal was not altruism by any means,” they are also clear that they refuse to accept profit beyond a studio space to work in. Their hope is just to break even, but say even that can be a challenge.
Walking in through the back door off an alley, I enter into a maze of fiber insulation that Nina tells me Nick is using for soundproofing their recording studio. Snide is typical in the way of studios, unfinished, without AC, and with bare wood floors. The ceilings are tall with large skylights and paneled with what looks like decorative tin squares. Walking in from the back, the studios hug the right side of the building and are demarcated on two sides by 8-foot wood dividers Nick built himself. Facing the main street is the gallery, and above on either end of the building are open rooms that look over the downstairs studios. Nick and Nina are in one and that’s where we’re headed. We pass Peter Price’s studio and he’s there. I wave hello and notice saloon-style doors added since my last visit.
Snide is down the road from what once was a popular music venue Skull Alley, and is now a vacant building. Like many Louisvillians, I spent younger years at venues from Skull Alley to some guy’s basement but hadn’t yet realized that a steady stream of DIY music is somewhat particular to here, a stream that the Louisville Underground Music Archives (LUMA) and book White Glove Test have worked to document through visual artifacts like zines and show posters. Maybe uncoincidentally, zines are how I became connected with Nick and Nina. In 2020 I co-founded Printed, a community zine, and one of the first places we connected with through this project was Snide Hotel. When we met up they were busy putting in a lot of free muscle to get the first version of their gallery up and running, the final result being two open rooms painted back with a large street-facing window. With almost no marketing, openings were packed from the beginning and through 2022 they kept pace, showing artists from Louisville and elsewhere, until they received notice that their building had been sold and they’d be forced to move next door.
The studios in the new building stay full, currently with ten or more artists working across mediums and they’re on the verge of reopening the gallery. When I ask what their goals are for the fresh start, they say community is at the forefront, as they attempt to balance accessibility with high standards. The current plan includes an open call show and an exhibition of photography by Angie Willcutt, another artist who splits their time between their band, ROD, and their visual practice. We’ve been talking for well over two hours, and more than half of the interview veers off into mutual friends and memories, but it reminds me that in this space it really is about people.
It’s been a tough few years for independent spaces in Louisville, with almost all of our project venues closing doors (Sheherzade, Carbon Copy, Houseguest). For me, Snide remains a last bastion of hope for an art scene that equally prioritizes critical work with those involved, over sleek floors, white walls, and a revenue scheme. I’m finally on my way out, only because it’s time for their band Plastics to practice and members have started arriving. Nina walks me out. They’re somewhat forced to let people out because the lock on their back door is broken, and I think to myself that there’s something about their shitty lock that’s endearing.