Hotel Neon: The Keller Hotel

Each time I pass by the old relic sign of the Keller Hotel, I almost have to convince myself it's the real thing.  That anything so ephemeral could survive on the radically transformed West Village waterfront seems incredible.  Where the once-bustling dockfronts degenerated into a post-industrial fantasy of seedy bars and abandoned piers backdropped by the rusting hulk of the West Side Highway, there are now luxury apartments girdled by the lush plantings of the Hudson River Park.  The change has been seismic, but this fragile relic remains. 

The Keller Hotel. (T. Rinaldi)

For me, the Keller's old sign is perhaps the single most evocative remnant of the waterfront's past life.  Its painted sheet metal has taken on an especially vivid patina, with faded hues of brown and beige that complement the old brick hotel from which it hangs.  Records at the Buildings Department indicate that the sign appeared here in 1933, the work of the Beacon Neon Sign Co of West Houston Street.  Its streamlined silhouette looks like an upside-down thermometer.  An angled neon arrow, gone now, once hung beneath it, pointing toward the hotel's entrance.

The Keller's sign may be the last surviving work of the Beacon Neon Sign Corp. (Manhattan Classified Telephone Directory, Fall-Winter 1931 / NYPL)

The building itself predates the sign, having begun life as the Hotel Knickerbocker in 1898.  When it opened, the Knickerbocker must have stood out as one of the more reputable hotels on this perennially gritty waterfront.  A modern, six-story building designed by the noted architect Julius Munkwitz, it contrasted sharply with the smaller, dingy flops that stood beside it.  

The Keller seen in 1929, at which time it operated as the Keller Abington.  (P.L. Sperr / NYPL)

Even in its heyday, the New York waterfront was a place most respectable people avoided except to board ferries or steamships.  This left a wide berth for bars, brothels and bawdy houses that catered to sailors and dock laborers, mostly single men.  One gets a sense for the scene in the 1928 film "The Docks of New York" (viewable in its entirety at YouTube). Set in the 1890s, the film partly takes place at a seedy saloon called the "Sand Bar", which had since been "wiped out by commerce and reform." 

Intertitle from the 1928 film "The Docks of New York".
 
The Sand Bar may have yielded to commerce and reform, but the waterfront generally resisted most attempts to clean it up.  As port traffic declined in the middle decades of the twentieth century, the once respectable Keller soon came to blend with the infamously disreputable hotels around it, eventually providing SRO housing for very low income persons.
  

(T. Rinaldi)

With the piers increasingly disused after World War II, the waterfront became even better suited as a refuge for various subcultures, particularly the city's emerging gay community.  The Keller's ground floor saloon is said to have become a gay bar as early as the late 1950s, anticipating many others that opened nearby in the ensuing decades.  In an age when homosexuality was considered about as far as one could get from mainstream mores, the Keller's old neon sign marked a portal into a world of "gross indecency".

1970s advertising for Keller's. (colorsofleather.com) 

The sign was still there in the '70s, by which time Keller's (as the bar became known) figured among a growing number of gay bars that clustered along the old waterfront.  Though more aboveboard than in previous decades, these establishments were typically somewhat less polished than the sashay-away gay bars of recent times.  A 1971 guidebook called "The Gay Insider: A Hunter's Guide to New York and a Thesaurus of Phallic Lore" described Keller's as "the oldest gay leather bar in town."   The internet provides a few spirited accounts of Keller's in the libertine years between Stonewall and the AIDS crisis (links below).  "When it was not so fashionable to be an out-of-the-closet homo-thug," recounts one, "Keller's was a place where men from the projects and their admirers could hang out on the 'down-low'."

The Keller sign, seen on May 7, 1940 (above) and on Sept. 19, 2009. (P.L. Sperr / NYPL; T. Rinaldi)

Keller's is empty now, "commerce and reform" having finally triumphed over the wayward ways of the waterfront.  The hotel shuttered around 1990, according to a 2006 story in the New York Times.  Work began on a (presumably luxury) residential conversion in 2004, but stalled soon after, leaving the hotel's old sign to linger on over the foot of Barrow Street. The place is now protected by the city's Landmarks Commission, which will hopefully help ensure that something good happens here, sign-wise at least. 

THIS IS THE FOURTH in a series of stories entitled "Hotel Neon," exploring the unique resonance of neon hotel signs in the American psyche. See also: 

• Hotel Neon, Part 3: The Cavalier Hotel

• Hotel Neon, Part 2: Hotel Neon
• Hotel Neon, Part 1: The Chelsea Hotel

MORE ON THE KELLER:

• The Landmarks Commission's incredibly thorough designation report on the Keller Hotel.
• NYT coverage of the Keller's recent suspended animation make-over: two stories, one from '06 and one from '08.  "The ghosts of the past breathe deeply here."
• Reminescences of fast times at Keller's, here, here, here, here, and here.

IN OTHER NEON NEWS:

• Check out the new book Signs, Streets and Storefronts: A History of Architecture and Graphics Along America's Commercial Corridors, by Martin Treu.
• Via Project Neon - help save a landmark Roanoke, VA sign.

Allen and The White Horse

One of the most recognizable signs in New York is the work of a particularly obscure sign company.  The modest neon sign of the White Horse Tavern on Hudson Street seems to be the lone surviving installation of the Allen Sign Company of Manhattan.  

The White Horse Tavern, at 567 Hudson Street, Manhattan. January 7, 2007. (T. Rinaldi)

Detail showing the mark of the Allen Sign Co., emblazoned on the sign's porcelain enamel faces.  (T. Rinaldi)

I know of no other surviving works by Allen, and have come across no other details on the firm - almost.  By some good fortune, I ran across a passing reference to the company in the December 1946 issue of Signs of the Times magazine, which names the firm's proprietors as Al (Allen?) and Sidney Rosenbloom, "both formerly with Claude Neon Lights in New York."  Claude, of course, was the veritable mothership of neon shops, having launched the commercial neon trade first in Paris before World War I and then in New York in 1924.  The blurb mentions another of Allen's works, a long-vanished vertical sign for the Manhattan Towers Hotel on the Upper West Side, which at 67 feet high was said to be the "tallest sign north of Times Square." 

Display ad from the 1950 Manhattan Classified Telephone Directory. (NYPL)

With the owner's names in hand, I then consulted the 1930 U.S. Census to see what I could turn up on the Rosenblooms.  Al Rosenbloom proves elusive: of several persons by that name, none can be clearly identified as the future proprietor of the Allen Sign Co.  Sidney, however, turns up living in Laurelton, Queens, age 34, his occupation listed as "Salesman – Sign" some fifteen years before the Signs of the Times blurb.  The Allen Sign Company appears in the Manhattan yellow pages from about 1945 through the mid-1970s, then vanishes.

  

Signs of the Times, December 1946.  (Signs of the Times, used with permission)

Today, the last surviving work of the Allen Sign Company may be this solitary sign that has hung over the door of the famed White Horse Tavern since 1946.  According to Jef Klein's History and Stories of the Best Bars of New York, the tavern itself began life in 1880 - it had already been around 64 years when its owners decided to go neon.  In the 1950s, the White Horse became known as a haunt for some of Greenwich Village's better known bohemians, lending the place the legendary status it enjoys to this day.

White Horse aglow, November 19, 2010. (T. Rinaldi)

The bohemians are mostly gone now, but the sign that beckoned them remains.  Its blackletter script and little white horse head reference the ye-old-pub signs of Great Britain.  For the color scheme, the Rosenblooms went for porcelain enamel sign faces with white lettering and border trim over a solid blue background, a standard palette more commonly used for wayfinding signs of the porcelain enamel era than for neon storefront displays.  The lettering glows in simple red neon, with fluorescent white for the horse (of course).

White Horse in the window, November 19, 2010. (T. Rinaldi)

As fine a work as it indubitably is, the White Horse sign likely owes its prominence to the notoriety of the tavern beneath it as much as to its own charm.  Even so, if the winds of attrition have carried off all but this one example of the Rosenbloom's handiwork, the Allen Sign Company can still lay claim to one of New York's finest old signs.  The Rosenbloom boys did good.

Outtakes from evening photoshoots at the White Horse on November 19 and December 21, 2010.  (T. Rinaldi)

Please drop me a line if you know anything more about the Allen Sign Company.

IN OTHER NEON NEWS:

• An exciting update on the Beatrice Inn sign restoration, at JVNY.

Greenwich Village Neon Revisited

The blogosphere lit up like a neon Christmas tree with last week's release of a new online archive of historic photographs from New York University.  The collection, whose formal name is the "Washington Square Park (New York, N.Y.), Washington Square Area, and Campus Buildings Image Collection," reveals a treasury of midcentury New York neon that once lit the streets around NYU's Greenwich Village campus. 

In my book, I assert that neon signs characterized the streetscapes of the midcentury city.  Especially in Greenwich Village, the signs were such a characteristic part of the cityscape that almost any  assemblage of photographs from the period will be rife with classic neon.  Dozens of neon signs appear in the NYU photos.  One or two are still in place - keep an eye out for the Back Fence and Monte's Restaurant.  But most are long vanished.  Enjoy a few cropped samples here below and be sure to check out the full collection at dlib.nyu.edu.  

The Greenwich Hotel, Bleecker Street, looking west toward Sullivan. (NYU)

Renaissance Liquors, Bleecker Street between Sullivan and MacDougal. (NYU)

The Art Theatre and Sea Village, Eighth Street, looking west from Greene St. (NYU)

Cinderella, on West 3rd Street between Thompson and Sullivan. (NYU)

West 8th Street, view east from Sixth Ave. (NYU)

The Griddle, Eighth St. Play House and Village Barn. West 8th Street, south side, looking west from MacDougal. (NYU)

The Back Fence, at Thompson and Bleecker. The lettering RESTAURANT now reads BACK FENCE. (NYU)

The Captain's Table, on Sixth Avenue South right next to Bigelow's. (NYU)

The Captain's Table, close-up revealing this as the work of the Globe Neon Sign Co (see tag next to the letter E). (NYU)

Pinto's and Ernie's, Thompson at West 3rd. (NYU)

The McDougal Tavern, on MacDougal just below Washington Square.  What's with the spelling? (NYU)

Tilli's Luncheonette, at Mercer and West 4th, 1965. (NYU)

Googie's Bar, opposite Vanderbilt Hall, 1981. (NYU)

IN OTHER NEON NEWS:

- A nice collection of old signs - neon and other - at Forgotten New York. 

- At nyneon.org, maker identified for the ailing Playland Arcade sign at Coney Island

- Two additions to the database at nyneon.org: the Towne Cafe and Alik Liquors, both in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn

Ol' Number 98

Greenwich Village has seen a number of great old signs disappear in recent years to make way for facsimiles.  Fedora, the Village Vanguard, the Waverly Restaurant... some of the replacement signs are better than others.  But the lovely old swing sign at Casa Oliveira Liquors, at 98 Seventh Avenue South, seems likely to be with us for some time to come, thanks to a new coat of paint applied over its old sheet metal work.

Ol' Number 98, before and after.  (T. Rinaldi)

  

The sign appeared here in 1935, just two years after the repeal of prohibition, to mark the spot of a liquor store run by one A. Rossano.  (It never ceases to amaze me how many New York liquor stores can trace their roots to the 21st Amendment.)  The store's porcelain enamel fascia sign came later, probably around 1950, when the business was taken over by a certain Mr. Oliveira.  The shop later changed hands again, but the new owners retained its old name, and, thankfully, its great pair of neon signs, which have been Greenwich Village landmarks for generations. (Check out Project Neon to admire the flashing fascia sign in action.)

The swing sign's new paint job glossed over the white border around the perimeter, which is too bad.  And of course, we can no longer admire the beautiful weathered patina the sign had with its old coat of paint faded and peeling.

Old sign, new paint. (T. Rinaldi)

But left unpainted, the sign's delicate sheet metal would have gone the way of all flesh, hastening its demise.  And, because the sign has been freshened up using the same materials and methods that went into its original fabrication, we can rest easy knowing it may one day don the handsome patina it had before the paintjob. The painted border detail can always come back the next time around.  So this New Year's, stop into Casa Oliveira and pick up a bottle to ring in ol' number 98's 77th year of service.  

IN OTHER NEON NEWS:

• Speaking of facsimile signs in the Village - the Waverly Restaurant is back in business.

• Lost City blog spots one I've never seen: Willie's Liquor in Brooklyn.

 

G. Cardarelli, Fine Furniture

On West Houston Street, one of my favorite neon relics goes largely un-noticed in the shadow of the great neon marquee of the Film Forum.  At first glance, it’s not much to look at.  Give it another look and your keen eye will pick out the sign’s telltale streamlined silhouette and sheet metal box construction that give away its neon origins. 



 

Neon archeology on Houston Street. (T. Rinaldi)



Somewhere along the way someone removed its neon tubes and installed crudely re-lettered panels over the sign’s original faces.  Intrigued, I decided to look into the matter on one of my visits to the Municipal Archives down on Chambers Street.   Sign sleuthing in the city records is a hit-or-miss affair.  Lucky for me, the microfilm gods must have been smiling the day I went to look up this bit of commercial archeology.  

Distinctive silhouette, sculpted in sheet metal. (T. Rinaldi)

 

The city’s circa-1940 tax photo shows this sign in its original livery, advertising the wares of G. Cardarelli & Co., purveyors of “fine furniture”.  The sign went up a few years earlier, in 1936.  There the trail goes cold:  the old DOB (Department of Buildings) docket book reveals the year the sign went up, but sheds no light on its fabricator.  For the time being, its design remains unattributed.

The G. Cardarelli sign as it appeared c. 1940. (Municipal Archives)

As for Cardarelli, a Google search turns up a 1991 blurb in New York Magazine that dates the store’s genesis to 1900.  A piece in the New York Times from around the same time identifies the company’s founder as a certain Gaetano Cardarelli.  In 1936, when the sign went up, the business was under the direction of one Henry Cardarelli, perhaps the founder’s son. 

Shades of the old Cardarelli sign can be seen today at C.O. Bigelow on 6th Avenue, installed c. 1938.  Could they have been the work of the same sign shop?  (Municipal Archives; T. Rinaldi)

By 1994, they were gone.  Today 205 West Houston Street is home to United Protective Alarm Systems, whose services this 75-year old sign advertises now.  Maybe one day United will give the old girl a nice refurbishment, with letters better tailored for the sign’s handsome shape – and some neon tubes to boot.

A sketch showing how the old Cardarelli sign might look like restored.  (T. Rinaldi)