I was walking through the Chelsea lobby one day. The owner, Stanley Bard, a small, dapper older man in a suit and tie, was standing up by the desk talking to a younger man with a beard and paint-stained overalls--a common type at the hotel. The man had obviously come to inquire about getting a room. “So what do you do?” Stanley inquired.
“I'm a paintah,” the bearded man said, in a heavy Brooklyn accent.
“That's great,” Stanley said, visibly excited.
Stanley was always happiest when given an opportunity to speak of the glory of the hotel. “This is just the place for you. We have lots of painters living here. Famous painters. You’ll get along fine. What kind of stuff do you paint?”
The man gave Stanley a quizzical look. “I paint houses, whadaya think?”
“Oh,” Stanley said, obviously disappointed. “What I meant was, abstract or figurative? I thought maybe you painted pictures.”
“Nah, I said I was a paintah, not an ahtist.”
Ed Hamilton
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