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HIROYA (1965-2004)

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Hiroya, the crazy Japanese painter with wild black hair who used to stand in the lobby in paint splattered suits and accost tourists with boasts of his artistic prowess, left several paintings behind in the hotel when he died. Two of them, replete with crosses, caskets, and the symbolism of death, and heavy on Japanese text, have long intrigued us because they seemed to tell the story of Hiroya’s falling out with his friend, the punk rocker Dee Dee Ramone. We have been waiting for a Japanese person to happen by and translate them for us, and finally we found one in Yuko Shingyoji, a Japanese fashion designer. The yellow one that hangs in the stairwell of the CHELSEA HOTEL between the seventh and eighth floors is rather poetic and reads approximately as follows: From here it’s heaven, Heaven is a forest. Drink Rum in the morning, Everyone dance. Beyond Death: darkness, time, space, land of God. De De Land. The orange one that hangs in the stairwell on the first floor, though it touches on a similar theme, tells more of a story:De De Land. In heaven I meet De De and Barbara. De De always thinking something very deeply. The job of Barbara is reading “pustory” (“true story?”) to De De. De De makes blueberry jam. He writes a poem on the pink chalkboard. My job is after he finish writing a poem, put the poem into drawing. My girlfriend Marcia take picture of the drawing and record to De De Land’s diary. End of day at De De Land. De De Land is very good feeling (comfortable), mellow world.Yuko says Hiroya’s English is not very good, ungrammatical. Yeah, that’s Hiroya alright. The “De De” in question is the punk rocker Dee Dee Ramone of the Ramones. Barbara is Dee Dee’s wife. The story of the paintings is that Dee Dee paid Hiroya $500 to make two paintings of the Chelsea Hotel for the front and back cover of Dee Dee’s novel, Chelsea Horror Hotel. Hiroya took the money, but then started to have second thoughts about whoring himself like that, and so couldn’t bring himself to complete the paintings. This led to a falling out between Dee Dee and Hiroya, but in the end Dee Dee insisted that Hiroya at least owed him two paintings of some sort, and these are what Hiroya came up with. About a year after their falling out, Hiroya left the Chelsea Hotel to enter a rehab program. He attempted to move back into the Chelsea a couple of years later, but Stanley wouldn’t give him a room. On the very night he was rebuffed by Stanley, Hiroya checked into the Gershwin Hotel and died. Dee Dee proceeded him in death by a year. As often happens with such deaths, there was no way to know for certain whether it was an accident or suicide. (Ed Hamilton)
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A TIME TO EVERY PURPOSE Hiroya, the crazy Japanese painter, was hanging out in the chelsea hotel's lobby as usual, annoying tourists. I said Hi to him as I came in the door and walked by him to the elevator. The elevator was already there, so I got right on, but before the door could close, Hiroya decided he had to tell me something. He ran after me and stuck his hand in the elevator just as it was about to close, and stood there in the door jabbering away excitedly. “What?!” I said. “What is it?!” He didn’t speak very good English, and I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. It was then I noticed that Magda was standing behind him, trying to get on the elevator. A dancer in her prime, Magda was now a prim, white-haired old lady in an immaculate green suit. I saw her trying to get on, but I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. But it didn’t matter. Magda was not one to be intimidated by anybody, that’s for sure. “Excuse me!” she said loudly. “I’m trying to get on the elevator. Do you mind?” Hiroya jumped aside immediately. “Oh, sorry! Sorry!” As soon as the door shut and we were on our way up, the old lady asked, “What in the world did he want from you?” It seemed clear from her tone of voice that she despised Hiroya. Wanting to distance myself from him, I said, “I have no idea.” It was the truth, after all. “Hmmm. He probably wanted to show you his paintings.” “Yeah, that's probably it,” I said. At this point I didn’t dare admit that he lived on my floor and that I had already bought two of his paintings. Then all at once Magda seemed to soften toward Hiroya—a fellow artist after all. “Well, he's new around here,” she said. It’s an unspoken rule that you don’t bother the other residents with too much self-promotion. Everybody here has their own artistic irons in the fire. “I'm new around here too,” I said. “Well, at least you don't go hawking your wares in the lobby!” I laughed. “No, not yet I haven't.” “I suppose there's still plenty of time,” Magda said, rolling her eyes. Maybe. I never did find out what Hiroya was so excited about that day. Perhaps he had sold a painting, or accosted a celebrity who had come through the lobby. It was probably nothing, but whatever it was, he took it with him to the grave.Hiroya was found dead on 23rd street and 8Av on Febuary 29,2004 is was 38. He was on reab for about a year.... ( Ed Hamilton)..

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