9 April 2026
40 degrees, cloudy
The Pfiste Hotel Lobby
The first few times I walked into The Pfister, I did what I always do in beautiful, historic spaces, I looked up.
The mural on the ceiling of the grand entryway is hard to ignore. Bright sky, gold leaf, light pouring in from a painted heaven. And then I saw them. Two brown cherubs nestled amongst the clouds.
I was surprised. And then, almost immediately, I started talking myself out of it.
First I thought I was seeing things. Then I looked again and knew I wasn’t. So I moved on to shadows. Then to grime, maybe the mural just needed cleaning. I’ve seen enough old paintings in need of conservation to know that discoloration happens. It was a reach, and I knew it, because the rest of the mural was pristine. But I went there anyway. I considered everything except the possibility that they were simply, actually, brown.
That’s been my life. As a Black woman who collects and deals in antiques, who has spent years moving through spaces built on history, I have developed a quiet understanding: this art, this beauty, these spaces were not made with me in mind. I’ve learned not to expect to see myself. Not at the center. Not with everyone else. What I find instead, when I find anything at all, is usually a racist caricature or a figure lingering at the edge of the frame.
Over time, you learn to keep your hopes small.
So when I saw those two brown cherubs, I did what years of quiet disappointment had taught me to do. I built a case against my own eyes.
That’s what it costs to move through history as a Black collector. Not outrage. I’m past outrage. Just this constant, low-level negotiation with yourself. A reflex so practiced it doesn’t even feel like doubt anymore. It just feels like being careful.
I finally got my answer on a tour with Leslie, The Pfister Hotel’s archivist. She’s the kind of person who makes history feel alive, knowledgeable, passionate, genuinely in love with this place and its story.
As we made our way up the marble stairs from the main entry toward the mezzanine, I almost didn’t ask. But I had to know.
So I asked. And she told me.
The mural wasn’t original to the hotel. When The Pfister opened in 1893, the entryway had a glass-enclosed atrium roof. It was removed sometime in the 1950s, leaving a plain white ceiling for decades. Then in 1993, to mark the hotel’s 100th anniversary, the owner, Steve Marcus, commissioned Conrad Schmitt Studios, a renowned New Berlin firm known for church restorations and stained glass work worldwide, to create the mural. The goal was to evoke what once was. To give guests the feeling of looking up into open sky.
When the scaffolding came down, Marcus looked up. All the cherubs were white; so he sent the scaffolding back up.
He wanted the mural to reflect the diversity of everyone the hotel welcomed. So the artists went back and, using stencils and charcoal, remade them, cherubs of different nationalities, looking down at everyone who walked through the door. Leslie later followed up with me over email, sharing photos of the space throughout the years. Seeing it come together that way, the history in images, made it even more real.
That decision didn’t happen in a vacuum. Guido Pfister, who founded the hotel, had a vision from the beginning. He wanted The Pfister to be a palace for the people, welcoming guests and neighbors alike. The motto in the entryway, Salve, is Latin. It means hello, goodbye, and something deeper than both: you are welcome in this house. You are safe here.
I think about what it means that both of those men, a century apart, made the same choice. To say that this place is for everyone. And I think about what it means that I almost talked myself out of believing it.
The cherubs are brown. I didn’t imagine them. And for once, the history didn’t leave me out.
— Megan