To spot the Bohemian Club, look for a six-story masonry building right on the corner, featuring a stately owl above its entrance and standing two blocks west of Union Square on Post Street-just keep your eyes peeled for the club’s mysterious owl symbol, which peeks out like it’s judging your fashion choices.
Alright, are you ready for a little adventure into one of the city’s most mysterious and exclusive hideaways? Welcome to the legendary Bohemian Club! Standing outside now, look up-you might almost expect the giant owl of their secret wooded retreat to blink at you. But here at the city clubhouse, only the hush of secrets, laughter, and perhaps the echoes of a piano slip past the thick walls.
Let’s travel back in time to 1872. Picture a smoky back room crowded with rowdy journalists, half-empty glasses of beer, laughter filling the air, and everyone trying to outdo the other with even wilder stories. The Bohemian Club started with these creative souls-writers, artists, and musicians-just looking for a place to let off steam after work. And yes, they sometimes forgot to file their articles for the San Francisco Chronicle. Imagine being so distracted by a good dinner that you simply forget about an important story-sounds like my kind of problem!
But the sights and sounds here didn’t stay limited to just the “starving artist” type for long. Their circle began to grow-soon, entrepreneurs, businessmen, professors, and even military commanders joined the fun. The mood gradually shifted from wild tales to boardroom deals, although the official motto-“Weaving Spiders Come Not Here”-was meant to keep business matters outside. Clearly, some spiders just couldn’t help but sneak in through the cracks!
The Bohemian Club isn’t just this city clubhouse-no, the real magic happens at Bohemian Grove, their private redwood retreat up in Sonoma County. Imagine a serene lake, towering ancient trees, and a bizarre annual ceremony called the Cremation of Care. Every summer, powerful men slip away from their business suits and worries to don flowing costumes, light up pyrotechnics, and-with much dramatic flair-burn an effigy of “Care” at the foot of a forty-foot-tall fake stone owl. It’s all part of letting go of daily stresses, at least long enough to put on two elaborate performances: the Grove Play (full of drama and orchestral might), and the cheekier, slightly scandalous Low Jinks.
But let’s not forget the creative side that started it all. While many members might be CEOs or political heavyweights-in fact, some U.S. presidents were honorary members before ever making it to the Oval Office-artists and lovers of art have shaped the club’s soul. Painters, sculptors, musicians, actors, and writers helped establish the club as a hub of culture and creativity. No commissions are charged when artists sell their work to other members, making the club almost a secret gallery as well. So, while a private deal might be happening somewhere in a corner, someone else might be hunched over an easel, painting a new scene for one of their grand plays.
Now, as you stand here, you might notice a bronze relief outside the building-a tribute by artist Jo Mora to Bret Harte, the legendary California writer known for his tales of gold rush adventure and razor-sharp wit. This memorial, complete with fifteen of Harte’s colorful characters, traveled with the club when their previous building came down, only to return proudly to this spot in 1934. It’s a little hint of the literary mischief that’s always been simmering inside.
There’s a wonderful irony here-Oscar Wilde, when visiting in 1882, joked that he’d never seen so many “well-dressed, well-fed, business-looking Bohemians” in his life. The club’s own poet, George Sterling, scoffed at the idea that anyone could be a bohemian just because they liked a good party. True Bohemians, Sterling decided, needed to love the arts-and be poor! With the amount of power and silk neckties passing through these doors, you could say the Bohemian spirit here is a little fancier than most.
So whether you’re here for business, mischief, or just a dash of spectacle and song, the Bohemian Club stands as San Francisco’s most curious stage-where every year, at secret camps and late-night dinners, work and worry go up in smoke, and only the stories are meant to last.
