ジョシュ・ブローリンのインスタグラム(joshbrolin) - 4月9日 12時02分

I knew that was the room where Sid Vicious had stabbed Nancy Spungen as I passed it, or where Jackson Pollack stayed, or Dylan Thomas even. I always walked up the stairs. Well, not always, sometimes I’d get in that little elevator with a few fleabags, nobody ever saying anything as the clanking cage ascended: the smell, the unwashed romanticism, the pulling along of a pastime that doesn’t really exist anymore: I always loved the idea of being afraid for my life on an elevator. Anyway, I had stayed there in the 80’s because that’s what you did if you were interested in connecting yourself to some NY boho lost soul history, but this time was for “American Gangster”. It just felt like the place to stay. I’d drink at Jake’s down the street, talk to Jimmy the manager, watch hockey on the TV and eat Shepard’s Pie every night. The idea before I got to NY was to be lithe and speedy looking but, instead, I went for thick and full of potatoes and Johnny blue labeled. One rainy morning I went to brush my teeth, turned on the water, looked down for my toothbrush and saw that the bristles had a new brown tint to them. Brown. The bristles were browned. There’re so many artists who have stayed here at The Chelsea Hotel, all self entombed destructive, paint in mouth reactive, creating their shit, making their mark, and someone in the hotel is obviously resentful of it, or of me for some reason. I stood there barefoot in that room looking down at those browned bristles for a long time, imagining what had happened, and I’ve spent years since trying to erase it from my hot, molten memory.

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