Inside Some Of The Last Bohemian Apartments In The Hotel Chelsea

If you walk through the Hotel Chelsea today, should you get past the makeshift front desk in an area just left of where the famed, art-filled lobby used to be, you will feel like you are in a construction zone. The idea that anyone lives behind one of the doors you'll pass by is almost unfathomable—there is dust everywhere, exposed wires hanging haphazardly, and holes appear in the creaky floors.

The hotel is wrapped in plastic, and quiet—not in an eerie way, but in a way that makes you sad. No humans, just machines making construction noises. Or destruction noises, depending on which side of the door you're on. The rowdy ghosts of the past that defined this place and built its legend are now all muted by a luxury takeover that's nearly a decade in the making. But there are signs of life, like at Room 111, which has a "tenant occupied" sign on its aged wooden door—it gives you the feeling that there's been an "event" that's wiped out most of the population, and those who remain must make themselves known.

Another sign to the right reads: "Be Nice To Each Other." The words are likely for the hotel's overlords, more than fellow residents.

In its glory days, under the management of Stanley Bard (beloved by tenants, and son to David, one of the original 1939 owners), the Hotel Chelsea was a hub of activity, a bohemian palace for the city's creatives, wanderers, and anyone who found themselves here in search of a New York City they saw through the works of Andy Warhol, Robert Mapplethorpe, William S. Burroughs, and Patti Smith. Bard, who was ousted in 2007 and died in 2017, fostered a community in the building, something he once told Gothamist he regarded as a "Mutual Appreciation Society." He preserved this and protected it fiercely while the place was under his stewardship, but it quickly diminished once he was gone.

These days, only about 50 residents remain, all protected by rent stabilization laws, and some of whom were originally assigned their room by Bard himself. Some of these last remaining holdouts are now the subject of a new coffee table book from Ray Mock and photographer Colin Miller, called Hotel Chelsea: Living in the Last Bohemian Haven (click through the above photos for a look).

One long timer on the top floor described Bard's tenant-unit matchmaking process: "You spoke to Stanley and if he liked you, he showed you apartments. He'd always start by showing you his worst apartments and you'd say, No no no! Slowly you'd get to one that was acceptable." And if he really liked your vibe, he'd direct you to some of the best units. Some of those best units were on the roof, and as of our visit there last year some still remain, but sadly did not make it into this book.

The book beautifully captures around half of the remaining residents and their apartments, many of which feature layers of fabrics, art, wallpaper, textures, and a life lived—a maximalist aesthetic you might expect to find there, and a storied tapestry you would never find at a regular hotel. These are the apartments of New Yorkers—collectors of life, eccentric devotees of the city, haters of a cookie cutter. Their homes will soon live in stark contrast to the hotel rooms being built around them for tourists.

One of the residents featured in the book, Suzanne Lipschutz, moved to the hotel in the early '90s after moving out of her longtime Greenwich Village apartment. A downsize in space, but an upgrade in experience—"It was her scene," the book states, "Stanley Bard gave her Room 311, a one-bedroom toward the front of the building with a small kitchen and a balcony." She made her home there for twenty years, until she was offered a larger apartment "built out to her exact requirements" by hotelier Ed Scheetz, when he had taken over things there. (He left in 2016, when hotelier Richard Born took over—he currently runs BD Hotels, and in turn the Hotel Chelsea, with Ira Drukier.)

Another resident, Zev Greenfield, lives in one of the rare minimalist apartments on the top floor of the place, which he inherited from his mother; he was 15 when he first walked through the hotel doors and saw William S. Burroughs in the lobby with Allen Ginsberg. Residents like Greenfield have become important storytellers, guarding what is cherished about the legendary Chelsea, keeping it alive as developers bury its past.

The Hotel Chelsea is about to enter its 9th year of renovations and construction, and will eventually reopen as a luxury hotel, but at least these residents will remain, alongside what will undoubtedly be the bastardization of an authentic world they helped create.