Eleanor is the last person who should be living in the tough low echelons of the New York City art world in the 1980s. She describes herself: "I'm a normal person. I'm trying to achieve the middle class." And: "I find fun very traumatizing. To me, having fun is almost identical to feeling anxious." The very first scene shows her walking home with two big grocery bags and a big Dalmatian dog. She finally makes it, but barely. That's her situation. She is out of her depth, but bravely - or mindlessly - soldiers on.

Eleanor lives in the apartment of the rude small-time artist Stash. She says she loves him and he most of the time kind of tolerates her. In her daily life she is surrounded by crazy people, by wanna-be artists and their entourages. In a noisy crowded nightclub her body just gives up and she collapses. She is diagnosed with vasovagal syncope, something typically triggered by emotional stress.

Eleanor is enslaved by the idea that she has to live in an environment that for a normal and anxious person like herself must most of the time feel like hell. She is even dabbling in art herself, making grandiose, grotesque hats. If the devil is really out to get her, they will somehow become a success, the novelty of a day, binding her even harder to a place that - as her body knows - is very detrimental to her health.

"Slaves of New York" tells a sad story and it's not an entertaining one. The art scene is bleak and unappealing. All the relationships are tainted. Most of the people are terrible. The Dalmatian is kind of okay, though. Will the cute little puppy Eleanor find an exit? If not herself, will somebody else learn from her mistakes?