“Still” is a word that belongs at the Carlyle. The black-and-white marble that once reflected Jackie and John Kennedy’s elegant forms, that reverberated with the echoes of Bobby Short’s mellifluous voice, still welcomes the sharp click of high heels into Bemelman’s bar, still provides the noiseless surface on which silent bellmen glide, still looks fresh and new even as it near its eightieth year. The Carlyle is a New York hotel, a New York kind of place. It’s big on the outside, an imposing limestone façade, but small on the inside, in the way of old buildings; walls that used to be some other room, used to contain some other life. It’s expensive; always has been. It’s a place of its own rhythms, its own courtesies, its own friends and rituals. The keys are electronic now, but uniformed elevator operators are still the only way to get to your room. These days it’s The Carlyle, A Rosewood Hotel, but the hotel has lost none of its individual personality. Its relationship with the neighborhood, earned over years of service to New York society, remains the same.
The Carlyle was a New York story right from its birth. The proud parents: an immigrant businessman, investing his fortune in a dream tower in the face of the Great Depression, and a fallen society matron, determined to rise from the ashes of her recent divorce. The hotel launched her career and nearly ruined his. The man was Moses Ginsberg, whose faith in Madison Avenue forever changed the landscape of that street. The woman was Dorothy Draper, whose daring aesthetic and unassailable confidence combined to create a vision of antiquity that would redefine the idea of “classic” design. From the beginning, the strong graphics of the lobby, Greek key motifs, layered antiques, and richly colored accent fabrics, were (and are) the building’s calling card….
Isn’t it Romantic?
Isn’t it Romantic? The Carlyle, A Rosewood Hotel…
by Kate Winick
“Still” is a word that belongs at the Carlyle. The black-and-white marble that once reflected Jackie and John Kennedy’s elegant forms, that reverberated with the echoes of Bobby Short’s mellifluous voice, still welcomes the sharp click of high heels into Bemelman’s bar, still provides the noiseless surface on which silent bellmen glide, still looks fresh and new even as it near its eightieth year. The Carlyle is a New York hotel, a New York kind of place. It’s big on the outside, an imposing limestone façade, but small on the inside, in the way of old buildings; walls that used to be some other room, used to contain some other life. It’s expensive; always has been. It’s a place of its own rhythms, its own courtesies, its own friends and rituals. The keys are electronic now, but uniformed elevator operators are still the only way to get to your room. These days it’s The Carlyle, A Rosewood Hotel, but the hotel has lost none of its individual personality. Its relationship with the neighborhood, earned over years of service to New York society, remains the same.
The Carlyle was a New York story right from its birth. The proud parents: an immigrant businessman, investing his fortune in a dream tower in the face of the Great Depression, and a fallen society matron, determined to rise from the ashes of her recent divorce. The hotel launched her career and nearly ruined his. The man was Moses Ginsberg, whose faith in Madison Avenue forever changed the landscape of that street. The woman was Dorothy Draper, whose daring aesthetic and unassailable confidence combined to create a vision of antiquity that would redefine the idea of “classic” design. From the beginning, the strong graphics of the lobby, Greek key motifs, layered antiques, and richly colored accent fabrics, were (and are) the building’s calling card….