"We had 27,000 square feet of raw space and it was knee-deep in garbage," said Moore. "It was a scary venture. There were no walls at all, and it was really interesting to see everyone just stacking stuff around the edges, defining territory."

Eventually, the artists formalized the makeshift boundaries into private spaces with drywall walls. As they carved 15 studios ranging from 900 to 1,400 square feet under 20-foot-high ceilings from the cavernous ground floor, they also shaped the irregular hallway that functions as the connective artery, exhibition space and community gathering place.

The group looked at two other warehouses downtown, but considered the rents of 30 to 50 cents a square foot a rip-off. Then they found the former Westinghouse motor manufacturing plant that had been abandoned for at least 10 years. Rent was about 7 cents a square foot plus utilities, Moore said, and the landlord paid $150,000 to repair the roof.

Rents now average around 21 cents per square foot, including utilities and things like light bulbs for the communal spaces. With four studios vacant, the rents due posted for July ranged from a high of $270 to $50, and "assessments" (utility and maintenance charges) ranged from $15 to $160.

The primary appeal of cooperative studios is cheap rent for ample space, but an equally powerful motivation, especially for recent art school graduates or young artists embarking on their careers, is the built-in support system the arrangement provides. The image of the lone artist working in seclusion is true, but artists, like anyone else, need a social life, and more than anyone else, they require an audience of friends and of critics (in the larger sense of the word).

And if maturity of focus and shared formal aesthetics are the strongest social glue among older or more experienced artists, the simple basic need for emotional support is the binder for those starting out on their own. Add to that the understanding that in this century especially, the zeitgeist - the cultural climate - of a group presence (even if not formally organized) has a better chance of notice than a solitary voice, and the result is a collaborative situation such as Commerce Street Arts.

The double-wide door with the numerals 2315 printed big and bold just above it is left open most of the time flooding the entrance with daylight. Just inside, an overstuffed chair and a table with a telephone are strategically ensconced in the elbow of the staircase. To the left, the hallway angles its way past the studios to the back of the old warehouse. Two rooms at the top of the stairs run the length of the facade, the only second-story section. Hicks rents them as personal space, one for sleeping and reading, the other currently serving as a general catchall closet gradually being fitted as a kitchen.

"Pearlie," a toothless black dog, and four other friendly mongrels - three black and one tan - replace the need for a doorbell, their barking alerting the residents of visitors both expected and not. Like Pearly, who nominally belongs to Moore, each has a master among the Commerce Street artists, but they really belong to everyone and have the run of the place.

"We were senior block painting students at Lawndale," Hicks said, referring to the art department annex of UH. "Lawndale was the model, but we wanted to expand on that. Kevin Cunningham and I wanted a place. We had read a lot of art history and understood how it all happend in zeitgeist. We felt alienated from the mainstream and as artists we are alienated from society as a whole. We wanted a place where other alienated people could relate and create a group to create a scene."

They tell about visits to gallery openings en masse, and riding in Nestor Topchy's pickup through downtown rush hour with Moore playing her accordion and the rest of the group clapping and singing. At other times there might be parties and impromptu performances. On the evening I visited, there was a video show in Moore's studio, one of only three with the blessing of air conditioning.

"Originally, we had wanted all kinds of artists, writers and musicians and all," Moore said. "But you'd be surprised how visual artists don't want bands or dancers or anything. Lots of people want space here to be `cool,' " she added, "so we have to be careful and only let the right kind of people in."

Right kind? Hicks said either he or Moore will interview the prospective tenant and ask questions such as where the artist went to school and whether he or she earned a degree. They also ask to see a resume. Both deny there's an aesthetic decision at all.

"If I can see quality, or a spark, even if I don't personally like it, I say yes," Hicks affirmed. The obvious but unspoken underlying criterion, though, is the individual's ability to function as part of the group.

Oral agreements are made for the sublet, and the renter has an option to sign a written lease or not, Hicks explained. Almost no one signs, and past-due or unpaid rents are a monthly occurrence.

But if being part of Commerce Street events is important, so is making it on the outside. Not one of the artists interviewed wants to be in a communal studio forever, and some, like Rick Lowe, who was represented in the Contemporary Arts Museum's Texas Triennial, and Nestor Topchy, included in the Blaffer Gallery's Houston Area Show, have moved on out. As Moore said, there are two reasons for leaving: because you can't pay the rent or because you move "up and out."

Although Moore and Hicks function as de facto administrators for the space, neither of them really wants to be in charge.

"It's really anarchistic," Hicks said. "Every problem is a new challenge. But we can't make the day-to-day decisions and also all the big ones."

"We had to pass rules about not having any rules," Moore said. "Nothing happens here unless everyone wants it. The parameters pop up when we get pushed to our limits. I mean, you can't let every single person have their way."

The biggest of the communal spaces is what the tenants refer to loosely as the "performance space." Four unobtrusive columns are the only interruption in the open 5,000-square-foot space at the back of the building. Robert Campbell, a physician and resident artist, created a sequence of three installations here last fall to help raise funds for a clinic in Belize. The space is also used on occasion by "outside" performers and art shows that are accepted by the resident group. Moore said none pays to use the place.

"We show artists who DiverseWorks wouldn't," Moore said, referring to the non-profit art center.

"But we don't just show anyone, like OnWaugh used to," Hicks said. "Content is very important to us." OnWaugh was a commercial gallery run by artists. It closed at the end of last year.

"We've had high school kids wanting to have parties here," Moore said. "One time, I came in and found one of them swinging from the sprinkler system. We got conned," she said. "The kids will get a college friend or something to try to get the space for them, but we've gotten wiser."

Moore is presently working with Texas Accountants and Lawyers for the Arts (TALA) to incorporate the "Performance Space" as an independent, non-profit entity. "It costs us about $300 a month (rent and maintenance)," Moore said. "If we can incorporate it, it'd be much better for us and more available for others."

A benefit has been scheduled for Saturday that Moore hopes will raise $2,500 to pay the uncollectible rents, cover the $300 she said is needed to incorporate the performance space as a non-profit organization, and leave a bit of leeway for other building expenses. The theme of the benefit is a "Devil's Disco." The admission is $5, and other details will be announced later.