Maryan) hung his spitting military man, a mockery of the Nazi Party. Pinchas Burstein, a Polish survivor of Auschwitz (later known as Maryan S. In a black-and-white photo from 1983, a painting with a series of repeating, upside-down rainbows hangs in the place of the papier-mâché “wound” sculpture. Had the resident fled in the night, having finally been threatened with eviction after years of not paying rent? Had he simply forgotten the work or, worse, died? Such was the enigmatic nature of the artists and their residencies at the hotel. And others occupied a liminal space: No one knew who they belonged to or why they were left behind. Some pieces were taken away by the resident artists once they moved out. The art was gifted to Stanley Bard, the managing shareholder of the building, or to the hotel collection itself, depending on whom you ask. Artists hung their work within the vicinity of the apartments-sometimes closet-size SROs-they rented in the Chelsea. The pieces were displayed in a reverse cascade that tumbled up the giant spiral staircase, unfurling into the hallways of each floor. Like a slow game of musical chairs, over time, they were rotated to various locations throughout. There was a temporality to the collection. The building was packed full of art -a strange aggregation of periods, mediums, and styles. Growing up in the Chelsea Hotel, I often saw ghosts. My Father's Ghost and the Chelsea Hotel Amanda Chemeche
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