As
 the long, slow death of the fractious, former bohemian enclave known as
 the Chelsea Hotel continues, Suzanne Lipschutz isn’t mourning much. 
She’s moving on.
One
 recent snowy morning, a reporter picked her way through the 
construction that has been ongoing for years at the hotel to the 
third-floor apartment that has been Ms. Lipschutz’s home for more than 
two decades.
Not
 that it looked that way. Chock-a-block with Persian furniture, Austrian
 pottery, Tibetan nesting tables, swags of tasseled damask and brocade, 
Tiffany lamps and pierced brass lamps and lamps made from armadillos 
(yes, armadillos) and more antique wallpaper, wainscoting and paneling 
than you’d think a two-room apartment could hold, the place appeared to 
have been put together back in the 1880s, around the time the Chelsea 
was built.
You
 can see why Ms. Lipschutz — whose store, 
Secondhand Rose, famous for 
its vintage wallpapers and once as much of a Manhattan icon as the 
Chelsea — would be reluctant, even fearful, to dismantle her distinctive
 habitat. She is among the rent-stabilized tenants, she said, whom the 
new owner has asked to relocate to another floor.
Before
 moving to the Chelsea, Ms. Lipschutz, now 73, lived all over the West 
Village, raising her son, Luke Joerger, in a series of lofts and 
railroad apartments that she won and lost in typical old-Manhattan 
fashion. Buildings burned down, rents tripled, but she wallpapered them 
all, sometimes even papering the floors and the furniture. Her
 store, which she opened in 1965 on Hudson Street with a busted Tiffany 
magnolia lamp she found in a junkie’s apartment and 19th-century 
furniture harvested from the street, ranged around the Village in 
various locations for two decades before settling in SoHo, then TriBeCa,
 then lower Fifth Avenue, riding the waves of boom and bust and an 
appetite, perhaps now waning, for period wallpapers. These days, vintage
 paper is much harder to find, she said, and her own appetite to do so 
is lessening: “I’d like to sell out my stock in the next few years. I’m 
not having as much fun anymore.”
In
 the ’70s, John Lennon and Yoko Ono were clients. So was Paul Simon, 
another Dakota resident, and Ms. Lipschutz’s neighbor Julian Schnabel, 
who liked to make paintings on her vintage linoleum, and with whom she 
bartered for work. She tried to barter with Frank Stella, too. Not that 
she knew who he was the day he wandered in, when she offered him 
furniture for his paint-splattered shoes.
“They
 looked like Jackson Pollock had made them,” she said. “I said: ‘Who are
 you? If you give me your shoes, I’ll give you anything you want.’ ”
William
 Wegman photographed her with Fay Ray and her daughter, Batty, atop an 
assemblage of gilded furniture. Frank Serpico liked hanging out in her 
Hudson Street store; when a pair of local thugs stole some Victorian 
quilts, he helped her track them down, she said, which wasn’t difficult 
because the burglars had made the quilts into pants and were wearing 
them around the West Village. For a few seasons in the 1980s, 
photographs of the store were part of the opening montage for Saturday Night Live. “Those
 were my salad days,” said Ms. Lipschutz, whose deep, husky voice is as 
ornate as one of her Victorian wallpapers. “People said it was the most 
beautiful store in the world. I thought it would never end.”
 When
 Luke went to college, she said, she wanted to downsize. The Chelsea, 
where many of her friends lived, was a natural ecosystem for someone 
with her florid tastes.
“Stanley
 and I fell in love with each other,” she said of Stanley Bard, the 
hotel’s longtime manager and gatekeeper, who was ousted in 2007. “And 
that was it.”
He
 offered Ms. Lipschutz a one-bedroom apartment for $1,575. She stripped 
its layers of grubby linen paint and rubbed wax into the rich brown 
paneling and door frames until they glowed. She collaged the walls with 
period wallpaper and borders, and wainscoting she salvaged from a 
Brooklyn townhouse. She found a stained-glass door from the Aesthetic 
Movement at ABC Carpet & Home, and took it apart to make transom 
windows.

In
 the tiny kitchen, she added a 1930s kitchen cabinet, along with green 
medical cabinets from the 1940s and a mosaic of glass tiles that for 
years was a work in progress. When her son married, she persuaded him 
and his wife to move into the building, too, which they did for a few 
years until their children were school-age, living in an apartment on 
the ninth floor.
 
“We
 had so much fun,” she said. “If you were sad about something, you could
 get in your nightgown and go to someone’s apartment and cry. If someone
 was cooking, they’d share their food. It was the most wonderful place 
to live. You were never alone.” Now, Ms. Lipschutz is one of only two tenants on her floor, she said: “Those who didn’t have the strength to fight have gone.”