Living with Legends: Hotel Chelsea Blog

Cobblers Conspire to Thwart Literacy

       Addled by glue fumes from a nearby cobbler, former Chelsea Hotel resident and Whitbread Prize Winner Joan Brady was forced to abandon work on her highfalutin novel, Cool Wind from the Future, and turn instead to a less demanding thriller, Hot Blast from the Past (The Times, 1/24/08).
            Actually, she calls it Bleedout.  And yes, the title does make the book sound rather outhouse-worthy.  But the real story is that Joan won 115,000 pounds from the cobbler, a factory called Conker, for compromising her intellectual powers!  And this despite the fact that Bleedout sold 10,000 copies.
     Which makes me wonder, where’s the monetary damage?  If her impairment continues she’ll probably make more money writing thrillers than she would have with the highbrow stuff.  She should have told them to gas her a bit more, and then maybe she could have landed a real job, like used car salesman or shoe factory owner, and then she would really be pulling in the bucks.
            Or maybe she could become a lawyer.  Despite getting Joan a decent settlement, the lawyers in England must have been sniffing the fumes themselves, since they only made 30,000 pounds for themselves.  I just read an account of a woman who sued Bed Bath and Beyond for misstating the thread count on its sheets, and while she only got $1500 or so, the lawyers collected over $250,000!  If those English lawyers (what do they call themselves, barristers, solicitors, something highfalutin like that?) had any sense, they’d all move to America.
            And what about her son?  The poor guy wrote a book ass-backwards! (Stuart, a Life Backwards, by Alexander Masters, who also stayed at the Chelsea for a time.)  What’s he been sniffing?  Who’s he going to sue?
     Actually, all kidding aside, The Times seems to be poking a bit of fun at Joan and trivializing her claim—at least to some extent--which is that she suffered nerve damage as a result of the fumes.  She seems to have had plenty of evidence too, since she had to go up against her town’s District Council as well, which took the side of the cobbler.  The real shame is that she had to waste her time and talent going after these scumbags, and now she even had to move for fear that they would retaliate against her.
     Her struggle reminds me of what we’re going through in New York with the developers who are wrecking the city and throwing people out in the street.  It’s the same thing: people apparently devoid of shame or conscience who will do or say anything for money.  The council’s health department inspector apparently denied being able to smell the fumes, and then lied and said no test was available.  And listen to this pathetic appeal from one of the factory’s co-owners:  “My two children worked at the factory for six years each.  There’s no way we would have subjected ourselves, let alone our children, to toxic fumes.” 
     Gee, maybe it was the elves who work in the factory at night who released the fumes.  Silly cobblers, go make a boy out of wood. -- Ed Hamilton

Joe Ambrose "Deep Blue Sea"

According to Joe Ambrose, his book, "Chelsea Hotel Manhattan" includes "...abstract musings on what brought me to nyc and the hotel of which the piece in the video is one. Three very important people in my life died in the 12 months before I went there, and a very important relationship was also terminated on me. So that's why  i was down in the depths of the deep blue sea."

The New Lost Generation in New York

A life-long New Yorker writes in to lament the current state of things at the Chelsea, and in New York.  Unlike some of us, however, he believes he's found a silver lining.

Ed,

Somewhere between the many letters you must recieve from those abroad that are concerned with the current conditions and the uncomfortable chatter of permanent residents you must recieve letters from that "energetic new blood" you speak about. If you haven't, this is one. And it is a concerned one yet a hopeful one.

While I haven't been a resident in my 25 years I have been a lifelong New Yorker (which ironically makes it easier now to play with the outsider aesthetic in this city). I first realized things were going all wrong last month when I stopped in the hotel to have a recorded chat with Mr. Bockris. While waiting for the elevator I couldn't help but hear two guests ask the front desk if there was "any decent food on this block". The elevator door opened. The front desk started calling off names of fancy five star restaurants in midtown. The elevator door closed just in time.

I'm not surprised to hear about what is going on in regards to management. There's a certain sadness in knowing the doors won't be open to new residents and that great change has plagued the air used by the ones already there. Living at the Chelsea is a pontification not a circumstance. Am I wrong to be romantic about this?

I could only hope that this city's gentrification will be a new kind of challenge to the artist and a new kind of work will be produced by the threat. As artists we reserve the right to rewrite things. Well let's rewrite Hem's history and call his era something else. This is the Lost Generation. Unfortunately we're lost in our own backyards. But like any lucky kid we could say we've got the biggest backyard on the block.

Regards,

Julian Stockdale, New York Poet

Thanks Julian.  That's just like BD: they are complete outsiders, out of touch with whats going on in the hotel and the Chelsea neighborhood.  Author Victor Bockris by the way, a long-time Chelsea resident is no longer with us.  Bockris, a fixture of the Warhol Factory who penned biographies of such counterculture figures as Patti Smith and Lou Reed, is a recent causalty of BDs ongoing campaign to gentrify and homogenize the Chelsea.

Piri Thomas Update

Poet and author Piri Thomas said on Tuesday that there have been no decisions made either way in the 1.2 million dollar struggle between himself and his stepson David Elder.  Thomas would only say, "I don't know what happened to justice."  So far, calls to Elder's attorney have gone unanswered.  According to the calendar posted at the LA Courthouse another hearing is scheduled for 9/10/2007. -- Sherry Mazzocchi

Holy Smokes, A Real Live Bohemian Sneaks In on BD!

Its taken two months of close scrutiny but we finally spotted a guest who must have booked his room while Stanley was still in charge. I’m sure that many of you who live here have noticed the tall skinny guy dressed in hippy garb sitting in the lobby for the past couple of weeks.  Well, it’s none other than legendary Chicago poet and Guinness Book of World Records holder Lee Groban.  When I spoke with him Saturday evening, Lee told me that incredibly enough, this was the first time he had ever been to the Chelsea.  He was off to spend the evening at an underground poetry gathering on Bleeker and the Bowery and after the reading over to hang out with a couple of artist friends in the East Village. Just like the old days!

Lee gave me copies of a couple of his poems before he headed out into the night.  As you can see, Lee figures if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. It seems he’s still using the same typewriter that he used in 1981. Below is an excerpt from The Cure for Insomnia.

The Akashic within the realm of biochemistry:A photographer’s encounter with visionary biologist Rupert Sheldrake

Imagine a microcosmic landscape crackling with pigments of green and gold with electric frequencies of saffron-orange cradling circular pulsating “beings”. 

Rupert Sheldrake has such a painting hanging in his study in Hampstead, London. It was this unexpected gift, given a few years back from Swedish artist Hawk Alfredson (who resides at the Hotel Chelsea) that beckoned the distinguished Prof. Sheldrake to the Hotel Chelsea this spring, 2007.  It was the painting, and of course, an invitation to lecture at New York’s Open Center.   

Sheldrake’s material for “The Extended Mind” focused on his recent double-blind experiments regarding the presence of telepathic communication among conscious beings. As we exist among many different types of non-visible fields (electromagnetic and gravitational, for instance) Sheldrake believes that the natural selection of evolutionary habits working among these fields will one day be proved to play an essential part in any evolutionary theory, including that of physical, cosmic, mental as well as biological evolution. Communication delivered via telepathic means were the basis for two of Sheldrake’s best-selling books in recent years, A Sense of Being Stared At and Dogs that Know When Their Owners are Coming Home. 

It was the beginning of springtime in N.Y. when the tulips around Washington Square Park were opening, thought to be whispering the name “Sheldrake” if one only chose to believe.  A week before meeting Rupert in the hotel lobby I had come face to face with Deepak Chopra (talking business on his mobile) just in front of the Museum of Modern Art.

Both Chopra’s ayurvedic medical practices and Sheldrake’s important theory of “formative causation” have been influenced by Hindu spirituality, Quantum Mechanics and the Kabbalah.  I quickly considered my near-collision with Chopra as a sign to look more closely toward the meaningful coincidences that were happening in my life and to consider myself ready for anything that (John C. Lilly’s) cosmic E.C.C.O. might be lying in wait to reveal.

  I was preparing a four-day visit to Charlottesville, Virginia, with my husband that week to connect with a gallery that would be exhibiting my photographic work.  Immediately, I came to realize that all plans were to be suspended when a tall man with a lanky gait quickly moved through the hotel lobby, heading full force to the elevator.   He was familiar in a way that might be similar to a shape-shifter from a past life.

“Excuse me, might your name be Rupert Sheldrake?” I asked.

“Why, yes.”  Rupert replied quite simply. 

It didn’t take long before we connected over the painting of mystical “circlings”.  He remembered my letter which accompanied my husband’s painting and agreed to be photographed early the next morning, just before his scheduled radio interview.  The photograph was taken in room #1024, known for it’s warm red walls, Edwardian furniture and lovely morning indirect light from the south. 

I’ll always remember this picture of Rupert and think: “What if I had not been unusually aware of the power of synchronicity that week, set off by a mere collision at MOMA?”

One thing that Rupert doesn’t know (yet) is that for several weeks before we met I thought to myself that I wished to contact him in some way, just didn’t know the right way to approach the subject at that time since a couple years had passed without communication. The thought came to my mind several times regarding just what I might write as a friendly greeting, but my mind would encourage me to relax on following through. Somehow, my intuition understood that sometimes one must be patient and just wait for the right moment to arrive.  (Happy Birthday Rupert)

Mia Hanson
Hotel Chelsea
New York
June 2007

British Author Julia Bell Wrote a Novel About Sex Trafficking: (and We Forgot to Ask Her About It)

In a sporty rhinestone t-shirt, bandana and black jacket, author Julia Bell betrayed her punk rock roots.  Her first two novels were marketed as YA (Young Adult), and dealt with, respectively, eating disorders and sex trafficking, but the one she’s working on now will break that mold: it’s about creative writing and literary snobbery.  Julia teaches at Birkbeck College of the University of London which was originally founded as a working man’s college.  She’s visiting America on a sabbatical, earned after 10 years of teaching and 3 years of tenure.  But even after such unexampled drudgery she appears to be enjoying herself in America, spending most of her vacation sabbatical in the mellower climes of San Francisco, but coming east to meet the American publishers of her second novel, Dirty Work, the one about sex trafficking.  They are “correcting” the English spelling to accord with American usage, so that we TV-watching Yanks can read it without fear of befuddlement.  Over dinner at the El Quijote, we didn’t get a chance to ask Julia that many questions, but she told us a lot of stories.  I guess that’s why she became a writer: lots of stories to tell. (Photo: Ed immediately becomes attached to Julia's book.)
What was your biggest surprise about New York? The size of it. I knew it was big, but the physical reality of it is another story. It’s much bigger than I expected.  But the vibe of New York is much the same as London. The last time I came to America, they didn’t even tell me my novel had been published here. I saw it in City Lights in San Francisco. They had done the deal a year earlier, and my agent had lost it under the couch or something. Now I’ve got a new agent and it’s a better experience. This time I’m doing it up right, meeting people, shaking hands. It was a real treat to meet my publishers on Fifth Avenue I took a boat tour around the city today.  The gap in the skyline where the twin towers stood was very noticeable.  It made me very emotional, though I didn’t think it would.  I think it was the experience of actually seeing the site that did it.  Seeing it on TV is just not quite the same.

I also visited Harlem, with all its amazing old brownstones, some blocks neglected, and others gentrified.  The same thing is happening in London, with the gentrification.  Starbucks will open two stores, one on each end of the block, and run an Italian café out of business.  That’s what we have instead of diner in London.  All the cafés are run by Italians.

My visit coincided with Queen Elizabeth’s. So another surprising thing was watching on TV as George Bush winked at her. It was absurd! You don’t wink at the Queen!

How did you learn about the Chelsea? I knew about Dylan Thomas since I’m Welsh. I had also heard about it through punk rock: Sid and the Ramones. I thought at least it would be unlike a Holiday Inn.  I had also heard about Stanley, but when I got here I was pleasantly surprised to see him working the desk.  I told him I was an author and showed him my book.  He was very friendly.  I also told him I was going to interview with you guys for the blog.  When I showed him my reservation he said, “Oh, you booked a room through the web, so you got a bad one.  I’ll give you a better deal, but the next time call and talk to somebody in person.”  [Ed. Note: she booked through Travelocity.  Stanley did indeed give her a pretty good room, so be sure to mention the blog when checking in!]  He showed me the London Times article, and seemed very proud of it, but he wouldn’t let me hold the magazine.  Some body stole his other copy, he said, and this was his last one.  I also met the other guy, Jerry, and he said, “I talked to your publishers and they said your book was going to sell well.”  That’s what I like about New Yorkers, they have a good sense of humor.  Not like the people in San Francisco, who are sometimes rather slow on the uptake when you make a joke.  Which reminds me, I’ve been in San Franciscoso long that when Stanley gave me my key, I said, “Thanks, dude.”  He gave me quite a priceless look.  I don’t imagine he’s used to being called dude very much.  Kind of like winking at the Queen, now that I think of it!

You’ve been in America too long.  But don’t worry, Stanley has been called worse than that. 

But what about your views on literature?  Do you think creative writing can be taught? Yes, I think it can be, but only if you concern yourself with the mechanics, and don’t focus so much on the subject matter.  You have to provide a non-competitive, non-judgmental, cooperative environment.  If you do that, you can give people a vehicle to express whatever they want.  When I did my MA at East Anglia, I learned nothing, since it was too competitive.  The instructors were unhelpful.  I remember a course I took with the famous poet Andrew Motian: he would read your paper and hardly even comment on it, and when he did it would be something trivial, like, “don’t use a comma here.”  It was a nasty, bitter environment.  Everyone thought they were going to get the booker prize, and then the reality set in that not everyone was going to publish. It was a prime example of how not to run a writing program.  I keep it in mind, so I can be sure to provide a more open, accepting environment where I teach at Birkbeck.

Oh, I might mention that my offices are at Bloomsbury, in the same place that Leonard and Virginia Wolfe and Lyton Strachey lived.  It’s no longer housing; it’s now university rooms, but we have the same view as they did.  I’m attracted to places such as this, with a literary history.  The Chelsea is the same sort of place.

Do you think the Chelsea has a special creative energy? Certainly there’s an atmosphere unlike anywhere else. There are an extraordinary number of people walking through the lobby that I feel I’d like to know, or at least talk to.  Another strange thing about the Chelsea is that I lose my sense of direction every time I step out of the hotel.  I always get the idea it faces downtown, so I’ll walk the wrong way.  I think it must be some kind of vortex in the space/time continuum.

That’s what we always say! Hey, have you been reading the blog? Yes, I must confess, I have. Well, that doesn’t change the paranormal reality of the situation.  

What do you think of the Star Lounge in the basement of the Chelsea? I read your review, and I’m sure their “stars” are just the little dweebs from the latest crap Indie band that no one will remember in two months.

We forgot to ask Julia if she witnessed any sex trafficking during her stay at the Chelsea.  And actually, now that I think about it, it would have been interesting to discuss her new novel!  That shows you how swift we are.  After our dinner at El Quijote, Julia sat in the lobby for awhile and ran into one of our resident celebrities, Stormé DeLarverié, and together they stood outside and made fun of the costumes of the dweebs entering the Star Lounge.

Australian Novelist Bruce Russell Recalls The Chelsea

Being There, Being Here

“Foreign Correspondent” Segment, May 15, 2007 (The segment is now available for viewing online.  Click through and scroll to the bottom of the page for the link.)

As I followed the camera into the lobby and fixed on the familiar features of Stanley Bard, I tried to resist the inevitable nostalgia -- after all, nostalgia’s not what it used to be -- and to simply enjoy the show. Fred Guilhaus, another novelist, was visiting from Adelaide. He’d once sent me the words of Leonard Cohen’s song and we’d laughed at the typical Cohen rhyme: giving me head/unmade bed.   

For a long time after Robyn and I returned to Australia we couldn’t talk about New York. The feeling of being away from everything -- reflected in the yearning voice of your Sydney correspondent -- was too painful.

            What do I think now? I’ve just finished my fourth novel, called “The Museum of the Self,” in which the protagonist cleans up his shed, mourns his losses and begins to construct a museum of his life. He’s a bit like me. I still have my membership card of the McBurney YMCA, member since 11/11/1999. Before that, I have a memory of staying there in 1969, when I had taken a train down from Toronto to pick up a battered VW, shipped to Elizabeth, New Jersey from Germany. At the McBurney that first time, I witnessed a brutal inter-racial punch-up between a redneck New Yorker and a much larger African American. It was like everything else in America: too sudden, too loud, seductively dangerous.

            Now, nostalgia’s a luxury I can’t afford. I can live at the Chelsea any time I like, go there in my head, read the thousands of words I’ve written about the place, imagine you two writing and publishing your wonderful blog, wonder what Tony Nota is up to, all without leaving home. And pray that Stanley resists the inevitable pressure to condominimize. As for the queen in her penthouse across the road, she needs a personal taste trainer.

            At the end of the show, the kids recalled for our visitor some New York adventures: how we turned the couch against the wall in Tony’s apartment so Clare wouldn’t fall out of bed; how we watched a dramatic fire across 23^rd Street from our apartment window, the Chelsea sign reflecting in the floods of water the engine were pumping into the street; how we somehow all crammed into one room for our two month stay at the old palace; how a mix-up about the rent left us facing eviction; how at the end of our stay we packed all our belongings into a taxi and left for our next digs with barely a whimper.

            But I don’t miss it, oh no. Not a bit. Not much.

Bruce Russell

READING IN DANGEROUS NEIGHBORHOOD—YIKES!

Sometimes life intervenes and we have to get to leave the Chelsea for a while.  Last week, we were in San Francisco.  Since we’re bookworms at heart we were able to hook up with some like minded folks Thursday night.  Coincidentally, Kemble Scott, editor of SoMA Literary Review, which published a story by Ed a few years ago, was reading to promote his new book, SoMa.  So we headed out to The Rickshaw Shop, a venue primarily known for punk shows.  On our way down Market Street—past all the homeless people and crack addicts (reminiscent of the bad ol’ days in New York)--we walked by a crowd of people waiting for tickets to see Iggy Pop & The Stooges.  We stopped and debated: should we try to get tickets or not?  But God only knows how much they would be—a lot, for sure.  Ultimately, we decided to go with the less expensive entertainment option. 

While we were trying to figure out which way to turn on Fell Street to get to the bar, we ran into a social worker originally from Philadelphia and she helped us out.  When we gave her the address she asked “Are you going to a punk show?”  “Do we look like people who go to punk shows?” “No, not really, she replied.”  She also warned us that we were not in a safe neighborhood and if the show went too late we should go directly to Market Street and get a cab.  Well, we’re from NYC and don’t scare easily.

Once we got to the bar we were surprised to run into Todd Zuniga, editor of Opium Magazine, whom we know from the New York literary scene.  Todd told us that he stayed at the Chelsea last fall and he and his friends shot a crazy video here.  It's somewhere in the bowels of youtube.com.  We also met a young woman, whose parents almost moved into the Chelsea in the mid-1980s, but decided that they could do better.  She remembers staying at the Chelsea briefly when she was 9 years old, in a rundown room with an old refrigerator and a hot plate.  She likened the experience to something out of “The Shining.” 

The readers that night represented an all star line up of the alternative literary scene.  Jennifer Blowdryer told about spending the day at the Crematorium, where, apparently, you can rent a little space to display your urn along with mementoes from your life.  In choosing a space one must be careful not to get stuck next to the spaces displaying tasteless tchokes (sp) such as porcelain pigs. 

Beth Lisick read a story from her book from Manic D Press: back in the 90s, when she lived in a warehouse in the mission district she arrived home from vacation to find that the pipes in the SRO above her had broken and sewage was spilling from above all over her possessions.  She freaked out thinking that all of that shit from was from the junkies, etc. living in the SRO—though really, it would have been bad enough if it was Vanderbilt or Whitney shit.

            Manuel Jimenez read a story about surfing and getting buffeted around by the waves.  To preface his reading he announced that he was the worst reader in the world—generally a mistake to say so even if it’s true—and then self-fulfilled his prophecy by chewing gum as he read, loudly smacking it in the microphone! 

Kemble Scott read a story from his book which was about a guy getting his body waxed and trimmed.  To illustrate the sound of hair ripping from a body he ripped a file folder in half.  Very effective sound effect!  We bought Scott’s book so we’d have something read on the plane back to New York.  It’s about life among the down and out in San Francisco’s infamous South of Market district, and should be of interest to anyone who is drawn to such sketchy places as the Chelsea Hotel.  I was flipping through it and came upon a cool part about a place called the Argent Hotel, with floor-to-ceiling windows to provide the ultimate in voyeuristic pleasure.  (Readers of this blog are of course aware of our fascination with the concept of the Peek-a-boo bath, but it seems in this regard the Argent may have us beat!  Has anybody else stayed there?  Let us know.)

Oh, by the way, as it ended up, we didn’t have to brave the bad neighborhood on the way back to our hotel, as Scott and his friends were nice enough to give us a ride—saving us from death, or a worse fate.  Thanks Scott.

Who Can Help?

Here's another e-mail we received this week from a gentleman who wants the Chelsea experience, but doesn't want to pay an arm and a leg.

Southern writer looking for information on living in Chelsea for a couple of months.  I am wrapping up a year in the Quarter in New Orleans and will be sidelined in Summitt County Colorado till April.

How would one garner a room at Chelsea for several months to work on my New Orleans project without having to spend thirty days times $195 or about $6,000 a month.  I would like to work from the Chelsea.

What advice can you give me?

Thanks