Fruit Camp, atattoo and art studio in the Remington neighborhood of Baltimore, opened with a bang in February of 2020. We had a big opening party. It was really fun. Everybody came, says Geo Mccandlish, one of the co-founders. It was the last rager I went to, they said.The pandemic shut down their shopalongside the worldfor months, but the shop survived. We just put our stimulus checks into keeping the rent paid, says Emi Lynn Holler, the other co-founder.They had built the space without loans, on a low-budget, do-it-yourself ethos with hands-on help from their community. The deeply punk shoestring budget background worked really to our advantage, says Mccandlish.While it wasnt ideal, it was fitting. Mccandlish and Hollers artistic partnership has almost always lived at the crossroads of community, DIY, and extraordinary circumstances. A decade ago they met as residents of theBell Foundry, an arts co-op and co-living space, where sharing knowledge, making community, and living cheaply were key to getting by.It was there that Holler gifted Mccandlish their first tattooing machine and taught them how to use it. And it was where the two of themwho also do printmaking, fiber arts, and other creative activitiesstarted imagining co-founding a space of their own. That dream felt more urgent in 2016 when Baltimore condemned the Bell Foundry and evicted the residents, including Mccandlish, during a nationwide crackdown on artist co-ops after the Ghost Ship fire in Oakland.Holler had by then moved to Massachusetts to pursue formal tattoo education and certifications.Living inside that level of precarity, Mccandlish explains, made us want to figure out a hybrid, between the unique, collaborative Bell Foundry and a licensed, commercial space. We wanted to find a way to create more safety, says Holler.But they didnt just want to create safety for the two of them. When looking at spaces, they opted to lease a bigger studioa two-story, double-row house with room for tattooing on the first floor and small studios on the second. Mccandlish said the prospect of a larger project felt tantalizing and precious because they felt if you have access to something, you try to make sure that every resource that is a part of it is also shared.Today, in addition to tattoos, Fruit Camp holds studios for musicians, fiber artists, an herbalist, a massage therapist, and a doula. Were able to incubate and hold nontraditional pathways to different kinds of creative practices, says Mccandlish.A tattoo artist prepares to work at Fruit Camp. Photo: Emi Lynn Holler/courtesy Fruit Camp StudioYou can considerFruit Camp a queer business by several definitions. For one, every member of the studio identifies as queer, in some way. It also looks queer. Its campy and its pink, and we have a lot of gay art hanging around, explains Mccandlish.Holler says sometimes they get asked about losing potential patrons by being openly queer, but that isnt a worry. I think it only strengthens us, they say. It brings people to us who also want to find each other in that world. They pause, I feel like it boils down to we keep us safe and we take care of ourselves.Mccandlish emphasizes that queer is the political meaning and the orientation to which they do their work as a community space and business. Their shop practices are explicitly queer and trans-friendlyin addition to being anti-racist, anti-sexist, liberation-oriented, and accessible. For example, the shop requires masking and has consent-forward and trauma-informed practices in place. They also use cost-sharing instead of a traditional profit model with those who work in their space. The point is not to make as much money as everybody can, the point is to work enough with a low enough cost overhead that everyone can survive without overworking.That is a continued goal, not a static place, they explain. Some of our goals, we havent reached yet, like turning into a true worker co-op.But they are already making big strides in the community. For example, some patrons tell them that they are the only tattoo studio they feel safe using, due to the universal masking policies. To their knowledge, they are the only shop in Baltimore that has the policy.Fruit Camp also has a big community name. One day Mccandlish logged onto a community Facebook group and saw an anonymous post asking about queer-friendly tattooers or tattooers who would tattoo someone who has HIV. The post said, Ive been turned away from five different shops.Immediately Mccandlish went to the comments to write that Fruit Camp would be happy to tattoo them, but instead, they found the comment section full of that recommendation already. It warmed their heart. That feels like a very minor way that [our work] is so important.This story is part of the Digital Equity Local Voices Fellowship lab through News is Out. The lab initiative is made possible with support from Comcast NBCUniversal.The post How queer Baltimore tattoo artists are building strong community spaces appeared first on News Is Out.