Amanda Chemeche shares her memories of when the Chelsea Hotel was “a home to artists and outsiders alike who lived, tried, and beautifully failed.” Her reminisces are almost dreamlike, yet capture the essence of a special time in this hotel’s history.
There used to be a bookcase, half obscured by a large tropical plant, in the lobby. Looking at it evokes a haptic experience for me. On each shelf is a table setting: one all in blue, another in red, and so on. I remember my curious, child fingers nudging the objects in confusion, mistaking them for a glued-down Fisher-Price tea set. My hands came away coated with tacky dust and grime.
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