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Otis Mass, who directed a documentary about her in 2016, called her “incomporable.” Asher Edelman, whose gallery in his ever-ascending East 70th Street townhouse is now exhibiting her work, dubbed her “infamous.” But what adjective would Rose Hartman use to describe herself?
It was 11 p.m. on a glacially cold Wednesday in November, but the modish twentysomethings on Chrystie Street were undeterred. Teeth chattering around cigarettes, vintage fur coats drawn in tight, the crowd transcended passé categories of sex, race, sexuality, sublimating directly into looks. The moodily lit courtyard of the Public Hotel hosted a parade of velvet boots, tattered jeans, kilts, fishnets, oversize trenches, football jerseys, and graphic tees.
The late, great music mogul Ahmet Ertegun, co-founder and longtime chairman of Atlantic Records, called Studio 54 “the greatest club of all time.” And this from a man who had spent thousands of hours over several decades at El Morocco and the Copacabana, Annabel’s in London, and Régine’s in Paris. In retrospect, 54 has become the stuff of legend and myth: the Valhalla of Hedonism, the Taj Mahal of Free Love, the Camelot of Nightlife.
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