The Paintah

I was walking through the Chelsea Hotel lobby one day. Stanley Bard 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 loves the arts. And he is always happiest when given an opportunity to speak of the glory of the hotel. “This is just the place for you,” he said. “We have lots of painters living here. Famous painters. Philip Taaffe has a studio here, and Julian Schnabel. Larry Rivers used to live here. 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. “Uh, what I meant was, abstract or figurative?” he stammered. “I thought maybe you painted pictures.”

“Nah,” the guy said. “I said I was a paintah, not an ahtist.”