In June 1966 Truman Capote invited 500 people to a soiree at the Plaza Hotel. This event has come to be known as ‘the party of the century’. I was 14 at the time. Truman never sent me an invitation, but by the time I arrived in New York the city’s nightlife was no longer a playground for the rich. CBGBs, Max’s, and Studio 54 opened new frontiers to the second-tier of baby-boomers seeking escape from suburban conformity. The names from that era of errors are legend; Johnny Thunders, Klaus Nomi, Steve Rubell and a cast of thousands each glittering or flickering on the ladder of fame and fortune, yet for me the person who epitomized the New York night best was Arthur Weinstein.
Not for the stories about the the Jefferson or Continental or the World, because as much as Arthur liked making money, he loved the night, for his fun began when most other people’s fun ended to quote the group ART.
Art was welcome everywhere. Everyone knew his name. From the 1970s to now but sadly no longer since Arthurt Weinstein passed away this week at the Chelsea Hotel after a long illness.
I saw Art a month ago. He was in silk pajamas. His loving wife Coleen attended to his every need. We watched a movie. It could have been BLAZING SADDLES. He laughed without sound and wrote notes in a steady scrawl. He would not be silenced by sickness. Not his wit. Not his art. Not his spirit.
Arthur Weinstein will be missed by family and friends, especially Coleen and his daughter Dahlia and longtime friend Scottie Taylor.
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