If you walk through the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel, with it’s grand, museum-like quality, you may 
chance to encounter a living artist among the shades of yesteryear. In an air charged with the accomplishments of the giants of the past, perhap you will notice the tall, handsome Texan with the cowboy hat pulled down over his long brown hair, sweat beading upon his forehead as he hunches over his canvas in a corner of the room, oblivious to distraction as he immerses himself in his painstaking work. This is David Combs.
A journalist who was interviewing us about the blog came into the lobby recently and immediately felt the tingling creative energy of the Chelsea. He saw David toiling away and felt this as part and parcel of the Chelsea’s vibe. But at the same time he wondered how the painter could stay here and work with the energy level so high. He felt it would be a distraction. Telling us about it later, he said 
that when he approached David, the painter had his eyes closed as he worked at his canvas. “How does he do it?” the puzzled journalist asked us that day, pointing out that, “It wasn’t some kind of abstract mess either. It was very detailed.” He concluded that the Chelsea was a kind of a magic place, and we agreed with him wholeheartedly, of course.
And David, I might add, is certainly one of our resident magicians. He showed up in the Chelsea Lobby one day without warning, set up his easle, and began painting the lobby on a round canvas, sketching in the couches and chairs, the mantle piece and the front desk, and even the art that hung on the walls. We all speculated as to his motives, but after awhile it became clear that David was angling for a permanent room. (It’s very difficult to get one.) He took a long time on that painting, coming back day after day, peopling the canvas with familiar lobby-sitters, touching it up and 
retouching it, as if he was waiting for Stanley to give him a place and was not about to budge before he got one. As the weeks passed, the painting began to seem obviously complete, but yet David lingered, still attempting to will himself into the Chelsea. And then in the bottom right hand “corner” of the round painting he began sketching in a small easle and canvas--and then a tiny cowboy-hatted artist bending over the tiny canvas! David was literally painting himself into the Chelsea. As, in the final analysis, he did indeed score a room, I don’t know how any more proof of the magic of his art could possibly be required.
The infamous round canvas David was working on that day was on view at his show in Room 219 of the Chelsea last week. Entitled “The Angel of the Chelsea,” the painting portrays the woman in the hanging sculpture in the lobby as a sort of guardian angel watching over the denizens of the hotel—or perhaps haunting them, depending upon your perspective. At first I hadn’t cared for the painting, felt it too cheerful, too sunny and bright and yellow, the people a bit too happy. But as David worked on it over the days and weeks, the canvas seemed to take on depth almost like a patina of age and grime, reflecting the darkness that lurks beneath the surface of the Chelsea, somehow in the end fully capturing the mystery and the shadow world of enchantment that animates the Chelsea spirit.
David’s paintings radiate out from the canvas, pulsating with a weird energy. One painting was particularly striking in this regard, and I noticed several people commenting on its power. Looming behind the Chelsea, the fierce red skies of a lightning storm threaten to overwhelm, engulf, and sweep away the doomed hotel. Strangely, however, the storm seems alternately to be emanating from the Chelsea itself, it’s palate strangely in harmony with the red brick hues of the building’s façade. As reported—albeit somewhat faciciously--in no less august a publication than the New Yorker, the Chelsea is the entrance to hell; this was the first thing I thought of when I viewed this striking canvas. In any event, a storm is a brewin’ here at the Chelsea, and we have to ask ourselves: is it the artistic storm in the hearts and minds of the artists themselves, or is it the storm of gentrification that threatens to sweep us all away? David’s painting poses this question in a primal and intuitive way.
Though David’s painting is realistic, sometimes, as in the red painting, disturbingly so, he often adds a whimsical touch to lighten the proceedings. Another painting that proved quite popular was his “Chelsea Dogs” which portrayed the lobby populated by the various dogs living at the Chelsea, happily frolicking about, some of them even floating through. (This one sold right away, to an animal lover from outside the hotel—as did previous two paintings discussed.) One of the most memorable moments of the show was when two of the dogs in the painting, a couple of little docshunds, showed up to romp and frolic about the feet of the assembled throng. It was if the hotdogs knew they were the stars of the show and they weren’t about to be denied their 15 minutes of fame! I think they had the best time of anybody that evening. Only David could have conjured up such magic.
Included in the show were a few paintings from David’s earlier incarnation as a street artist—before Stanley brought him in from the cold—and at least one deserves special mention.
It’s a painting of the inside of the New York Public Library; but what makes it notable is that the famous lion statues have now been animated and brought indoors to roam the halls! Striking as well is the tree sprouting from the cracked marble tiles, having forced its way up through the floor. Reflecting on this painting I felt that it could be taken as an apt metaphor for David’s career, for his ambition to bring the gritty realism of the streets—together with the magical dynamism of New York—indoors (into the stolid, stuffy, self important gallerys) in the service of explaining to the world, and even to ourselves, this special indescribable something, this mystique that enlivens the Chelsea.
When told of the eyes-closed-painting incident, David himself expressed puzzlement. “Was I asleep?” he asked. “I must’ve been really tired that day.”
“No, the journalist said that you were actually painting,” I said, feeling that obviously this sorcerer of the art world, this man who can turn metaphor into reality, had been channeling the spirit of one of the old Chelsea masters: Larry Rivers or Willem de Kooning perhaps, or even (as I suppose would make more sense) Diego Rivera, in service to his art.
However, perhaps ill-advisedly, but in any event in search of a more rational explanation, I suggested, “Maybe you were just pretending so the journalist would go away and not ask you any questions.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that,” David assured me. “I don’t mind talking to people about my art.”
And so, the mystery remains. (Ed Hamilton)
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