And A Little Later On Maybe We Can Grab Some Breakfast At Tiffany’s?

I know it’s a good deal, but you never want to get to the point where you become “that guy”:

For twenty-two years, the photographer Josef Astor (no relation) has had a studio above the stage at Carnegie Hall. It’s on the eighth floor, although technically the eighth is below the seventh; to get to it you take an elevator to six and walk up half a flight of stairs. The Carnegie Hall Studio Towers, as these quarters over the concert hall are known, contain many such oddities, but they also harbor one Manhattan commonplace: a band of artist-occupants whose tenancy is venerable, tenuous, and probably doomed.

Astor is one of the leaders of the tenants’ association, which is fighting the landlord, the Carnegie Hall Corporation, which wants them all out. It intends to gut the building and make space for its own offices and programs. It has recently commenced eviction proceedings. The fifty or so artists who occupy the studios — most of them have been here for decades — contend that a provision in the lease between the corporation and the city, which owns the property, guarantees their right to stay.

Astor’s studio, with creaky wood floors, faces north; the indirect light, from a giant skylight, twenty feet overhead, is ideal for photography and painting. There is a balcony, with room for a bed, and a kitchenette. Last Wednesday, he’d arranged a dozen chairs—no one like the other — in a circle, in anticipation of a meeting, that evening, between some tenants, their lawyer (a woman named Ms. Boop), and local politicians, whose vaguely articulated sympathies they hoped to convert into tactical support. A Senegal parrot named Zoltan flew freely about the place. Astor ticked off the names of some of the studios’ former residents (Isadora Duncan, Agnes de Mille, Leonard Bernstein, Marlon Brando, Norman Mailer) and current ones (such as the ninety-five-year-old photographer Editta Sherman, known as the Duchess of Carnegie Hall, and the Times photographer Bill Cunningham, seen occasionally in the hall on his way to the showers) and evoked the days when the corridors were filled with the sounds of piano and clarinet.

. . .

Astor led the way up some stairs to the fourteenth floor, then across the building and down some more stairs to the eleventh, to a studio occupied by the writer and radio host Jonathan Schwartz, who was eating an avocado, under a framed print that read “AVOCADO.” He’d been in the space since 1970, having inherited it from his father, the composer Arthur Schwartz. “I represent Carnegie Hall when I’m out in the world,” he said. “I hope that’s not presumptuous.”

He lives here with his cat, Nelson (named after Nelson Riddle), and occasionally with his wife, whom he married in the building in 1984. The wedding was in Studio 906, which had belonged to Joe Raposo, who wrote music for “Sesame Street.” Wilfrid Sheed and Jerzy Kosinski had been there. “The party spilled out onto the landing,” he said. “We had a big glass bowl of caviar.”

The studio, full of books, CDs, and not much else, gave rise to that old misguided desire for a prison sentence that would afford a man the time to catch up on his reading. “That’s one of the points here,” Schwartz said. “There are dozens of studios like this in the building that have, if not this essence, then another like it. It’s not a conceit — it’s a feeling. To dislodge us is insulting.”

(Exit question: should a rent-control parasite admit that he’s also a “die hard Red Sox fan”? We’re coming for that songbook, Schwartz!)