Gentrification in JP

I am a mixed-media artist and visual art educator living and working in Jamaica Plain. For many years, I taught at the Curley K–8 School on Centre Street, right in the heart of the neighborhood. My work as both an artist and a teacher has always been shaped by place—by the communities I’ve lived in, the students I’ve taught, and the evolving landscape of Boston’s creative scene.

I began my early artistic life in the South End during the 1980s, back when it was the center of Boston’s artist community. The neighborhood was filled with old factory buildings, sprawling loft spaces on Harrison Avenue, and affordable apartments that let artists actually live where they worked. The Orange Line was still above ground, the galleries were clustered on Newbury Street, and the South End had a raw creative energy that drew people in.

As the area gained attention, everything shifted. Galleries left Newbury Street and moved into larger South End spaces, restaurants arrived, brownstones were renovated, and the neighborhood was rebranded—with names like “SOWA” mirroring New York’s “SOHO.” With popularity came gentrification. Rents rose, longtime residents were priced out, and eventually I was too. That’s when I moved to Jamaica Plain to work at a school serving high-risk, inner-city students.

At the time, JP felt almost like the suburbs to me—still on the Orange Line, but quieter, greener, and far more livable. I remember crying the day I moved, worried I was leaving the city behind. But in truth, I found the best of both worlds: real community, actual parking, parks and green space all around, and the city still minutes away. I fell in love with the neighborhood. Artists were already here, and more continued to arrive. Leaving the newly gentrified South End didn’t turn out to be a loss—it opened a new chapter.

Fifteen years later, JP began to experience its own wave of transformation. Longstanding institutions like Hi-Lo were replaced, Whole Foods arrived, and neighborhood nicknames started to emerge. Census numbers shifted. Gentrification became the word everyone used. This time, I was fortunate enough to own my home—I wasn’t going anywhere—but I felt the familiar tension of watching a diverse community change under economic pressure.

In many ways, JP reflects what cities do: grow, shift, reinvent themselves. The neighborhood has thriving Open Studios, community-supported agriculture, independent galleries, cafes, and creative spaces. As an artist, I appreciate the vitality and investment. As a longtime resident, I also value the cultural diversity that has always made JP exceptional. I hope that balance remains.

Gentrification is complex, and while it can be painful, it’s also part of a larger urban pattern. When I lived in Brooklyn after graduating from MassArt, I rented a loft in an old pepper factory in a completely industrial, nearly empty area. We passed one key on a string through the third-floor window, and paint flakes would fall from the ceiling as I slept. Today, that same neighborhood is known as DUMBO—trendy, expensive, and unrecognizable. Cities evolve; artists often arrive early, shape the character, and are later pushed out. It’s a cycle I’ve lived through more than once.

Through it all, what remains constant is my commitment to art, community, and teaching. Jamaica Plain has been my creative home for decades, and its spirit continues to influence everything I make and everything I teach.

---