The building's bones were preserved, its history woven into every detail.
In Tel Aviv's White City, a 1935 building that once gathered workers, unions, and the founding generation of a nation has quietly reopened as Hotel 1935 — not as a monument to the past, but as a living continuation of it. Designed by Bauhaus-trained architect Arieh Sharon and built with laborers' own pooled funds, the structure on Brenner Street fell into gray obscurity before being restored through careful curatorial design into a boutique hotel that asks its guests to inhabit history rather than merely observe it. There is something enduring in the idea that a place built by collective effort, for collective purpose, might find renewal not through erasure but through remembrance.
- A building that once hosted Ben-Gurion and shaped a city's political soul had spent decades as a forgettable office block, its founding story invisible to those who passed it daily.
- The central tension of the restoration was philosophical as much as architectural: how to honor austere, idealistic origins without embalming the space in nostalgia or suffocating it with museum-like reverence.
- Architect Dana Oberson answered by layering two eras — the Bauhaus minimalism of the 1930s and the glamour of 1970s Tel Aviv — into a design language of teak, terrazzo, grandmother glass, and geometric carpets that feels curated rather than costumed.
- The hotel now sits at the intersection of the city's most walkable cultural geography, two minutes from Carmel Market and Rothschild Boulevard, inviting guests into the city's living fabric rather than its archive.
- Interior designer Vered Ben Simon leads architectural tours through the hotel, narrating the workers who built it and the leaders who walked its halls — turning each stay into an act of civic memory.
On Brenner Street, parallel to the bustle of Sheinkin, a building has stood since 1935 that watched Tel Aviv transform from a workers' settlement into a modern city. Designed by Arieh Sharon — a Bauhaus-trained architect who brought the school's language of clean lines and functional beauty to Mandatory Palestine — it was funded by the city's laborers themselves and served for decades as the Tel Aviv Workers' Council House. Ben-Gurion held meetings here. Unions gathered. The city's cultural and political life took shape within its walls. Then it faded into gray office anonymity, its founding purpose forgotten.
Now it has reopened as Hotel 1935, a boutique property that treats history not as decoration but as the foundation of the guest experience. The redesign, led by architect Dana Oberson, faced a genuine puzzle: how do you honor a place built for austere, purposeful idealism without turning it into a museum? The answer lies in the details — custom teak carpentry, reddish stone floors recalling the Dan Hotel's 1950s lobby, black-and-white terrazzo, vintage sink cabinets sourced from Tel Aviv's flea market, and a diamond-pattern shelving unit backlit through what locals call 'grandmother glass.' The design draws from the building's birth decade and from the 1970s, which Oberson identifies as a golden age of Tel Aviv glamour, while preserving the Bauhaus minimalism Sharon originally brought.
The building's bones were kept intact. The original plaster facade was restored, black metal frames now accent the street-level windows, and the lobby ceiling's geometric metallic cladding contrasts with reddish-brown marble below. Room types range from 15-square-meter classics with rain showers and minibars to a 35-square-meter suite with a balcony, with prices beginning around 650 shekels midweek. Family rooms open onto a courtyard with checkerboard tiles; ground-floor rooms access a shaded garden with a Jacuzzi.
The location places guests at the center of the city's cultural geography — two minutes from Carmel Market, Nahalat Binyamin, and onward to the beach and Rothschild Boulevard. Interior designer Vered Ben Simon leads architectural tours through the hotel, telling visitors how workers built this place, how the city's founding generation walked these halls. The building, she says, has come back to life — no longer a relic, but a place where the past and present meet, and where guests can feel part of the city's story rather than standing outside it.
On Brenner Street, a quiet lane that runs parallel to the bustle of Sheinkin, there stands a building that has watched Tel Aviv grow from a workers' settlement into a modern city. Built in 1935 with money pooled by the city's laborers themselves, the structure at number 5 was designed by Arieh Sharon, an architect who had studied at the Bauhaus school in Germany and brought its language of clean lines and functional beauty to Mandatory Palestine. For nearly a century, the building served as the Tel Aviv Workers' Council House—a place where David Ben-Gurion held crucial meetings, where unions gathered, where the city's cultural and political life took shape. Then it faded. It became an office building, gray and unremarkable, its original purpose forgotten by most who passed it.
Now it has been reborn as Hotel 1935, a boutique property that does something unusual: it treats the building's history not as decoration but as the foundation of the guest experience. The redesign, led by architect Dana Oberson and her team, faced a genuine puzzle. How do you honor a structure built for austere, purposeful old Tel Aviv—a place of workers and ideals—without turning it into a museum? How do you make it feel alive and inviting to people accustomed to contemporary comfort?
The answer lies in the details. The lobby evokes what Oberson calls a feeling of "old money," with custom teak carpentry, khaki textiles, and reddish stone floors that recall the Dan Hotel's iconic 1950s lobby. The corridors feature geometric carpets in mustard, cream, burgundy and brown. Guest rooms have black-and-white terrazzo floors, decorative wooden partitions with rounded edges, and vintage-style sink cabinets sourced from Tel Aviv's flea market. Even the television has been given a wooden frame with rounded corners, as if it belonged there from the start. The design pulls from the 1930s—the building's birth year—and the 1970s, a period Oberson identifies as a golden age of Tel Aviv glamour, while maintaining the minimalist ethos that Sharon brought from the Bauhaus.
The building's bones were preserved. The facade, with its original plaster texture and shade, was restored. Black metal frames now emphasize the rhythm of the street-level windows. The teak and glass entrance door hints at the materials within. The lobby ceiling is covered in geometric metallic cladding that contrasts with the reddish-brown marble floor. Behind the reception desk sits a diamond-pattern teak shelving unit, backlit through textured decorative glass—what locals call "grandmother glass." These choices are not random. They are curatorial, Oberson says, drawing the architectural essence of the building and the era of its founding into a new language of elegant simplicity.
The hotel offers several room types. Classic rooms start at 650 shekels (roughly $230) midweek and 850 shekels ($300) on weekends. A classic room measures 15 square meters and includes a rain shower, bathrobes, minibar and coffee corner. Deluxe rooms are 19 square meters, some with balconies. A 35-square-meter suite provides a living room, double bed, bathroom and balcony. Family rooms open onto a shared courtyard with a black-and-white checkerboard tile floor surrounded by plants. The ground-floor rooms facing the back courtyard have access to a shaded private garden with a Jacuzzi. Throughout, the design emphasizes comfort and work space—a recognition that modern guests need both rest and productivity.
The location is central. From Brenner Street, it is a two-minute walk to Carmel Market, the Nahalat Binyamin pedestrian mall, Sheinkin Street, the Bialik cultural complex, and onward to the beach, Rothschild Boulevard, and the city's restaurants and nightlife. The hotel's dining room is spacious, with large windows facing the street. The design continues throughout—the same palette, the same attention to proportion and material, the same sense that you are not simply staying in a hotel but inhabiting a moment in the city's history.
Hotel 1935 is part of the Adam Hotels chain, which operates 430 rooms across four properties—two in Tel Aviv and two in Eilat. The building was originally planned to open under the Brown Hotels chain but never did. Now, under new ownership, it has found its second life. Interior designer Vered Ben Simon, who leads architectural tours through Tel Aviv's side streets, brings groups through the hotel when it is not fully booked. She tells them the story: how workers built this place, how Ben-Gurion walked these halls, how the city's unions and cultural figures gathered here. The building, she says, has come back to life. It is no longer a relic. It is a place where the past and present meet, where guests can feel part of the city's history rather than observing it from outside.
Citas Notables
The hotel's design takes us back to the good old days, to Tel Aviv's golden age in the 1950s and 1960s, focusing on the modesty and minimalism that characterized the period of Israel's founding.— Architect Dana Oberson
When it is not fully booked, I bring groups inside for a tour that connects past and present. Even David Ben-Gurion used to hold important meetings here.— Interior designer Vered Ben Simon
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why restore a workers' council building as a luxury hotel? Doesn't that contradict its original purpose?
Not necessarily. The building was designed by someone who believed in accessible, functional beauty—Bauhaus principles. A hotel that honors that aesthetic while making the space livable and welcoming today feels true to Sharon's vision, even if the clientele has changed.
But the original users were workers. Now it costs 650 shekels a night. That's a complete inversion.
Yes, there's an irony there. But the building itself—its bones, its design language—survives. And the story is preserved. When people stay there, they learn what it was. The design doesn't hide that history; it's woven into every detail.
The designer talks about "old money" feeling. That seems deliberately nostalgic, even romantic.
It is. But there's a difference between romanticizing and honoring. The 1950s and 1960s were genuinely a time of optimism in Tel Aviv. The design captures that without pretending the workers' movement didn't exist or that the building's purpose was frivolous.
What does it mean that Brenner Street is becoming a hotel district?
It means the city is deciding that its history is valuable enough to preserve and monetize. That's not inherently wrong, but it does change who gets to inhabit these spaces and who gets to tell their stories.