Golden Nugget
Las Vegas’s oldest downtown casino, taken over by the youngest casino owner the city had ever seen.
The first transformation: from worn neon to refined detail.
Before the marquees, before the fountains, before the Strip learned a new grammar — there was a boy in Utica, New York, watching his father work the floor of a small bingo parlor on Genesee Street.
His name was Stephen Alan Weinberg. The family had changed it to Wynn in 1946 — the year his father bet that a different surname might draw less attention in a country still uneasy with Jewish ones.
He was admitted to Yale Law School. He never went. In 1963 his father died on an operating table at forty-six and left three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in debts. Steve took the bingo parlor instead. He moved it to Maryland, then sold it, and in 1965, with forty-five thousand borrowed dollars, bought three percent of a hotel on the Las Vegas Strip.
He was twenty-three.
A career told through the buildings he gave to a city.
Las Vegas’s oldest downtown casino, taken over by the youngest casino owner the city had ever seen.
The first transformation: from worn neon to refined detail.
The first new resort built on the Strip in fifteen years. A six-hundred-and-thirty-million-dollar bet, financed through high-yield bonds, anchored on an erupting volcano and a tropical atrium.
The night it opened, Las Vegas changed its grammar.
The Strip became theatre.
A pirate ship fired its cannons over Las Vegas Boulevard.
The most expensive hotel in the world at the time. He built it as the precise opposite of the Las Vegas he had once known — replacing noise with beauty, and transaction with memory.
Inside: a Chihuly ceiling of two thousand hand-blown glass flowers. A man-made lake large enough to turn water into theatre. The first time a casino had ever opened a museum-grade gallery of his own collection.
Outside: fountains choreographed to opera, to Sinatra, to light — and to the pause before applause.
His name on the building for the first time. He told his designer, Roger Thomas: “I want this to be something no one has ever seen before.”
Thomas invented a word for what they made — evokatecture: design that evokes surprise, mystery and romance. Chandeliers above the gaming tables. Fifty thousand fresh flowers suspended above the atrium. Plants replaced every three weeks.
The refinement of the refinement. Butterflies. Parasols. Red, gold, gardens.
A casino that smelled like a garden and felt like a salon.
For four decades, his work has been documented by the most respected voices in journalism, design, hospitality and the cultural press.
There was a Las Vegas before him. Smaller. Coarser. A neon strip on the edge of the desert.
Then there was The Mirage. And there was Bellagio. And there was Wynn. And the city the world arrives to see today is, in great part, the city he imagined.
He turned a gambling town into a destination. A casino into a stage. A hotel into a cathedral of detail. He invited the greatest artists, hung the greatest paintings, choreographed the fountains to opera, and asked his designers for things no one had ever seen.
What he built became the standard.
November 22, 1989. The opening night of The Mirage. The Strip has not seen a new resort in fifteen years. The volcano in front erupts every hour.
The world arrives.
October 27, 1993. Treasure Island opened the night before. From the deck of his new pirate ship, Steve commands the implosion of the old Dunes Hotel a mile south. The ship fires its cannons. The tower falls in real time. Two hundred thousand people watch in person. Millions more on television.
That night, Las Vegas understood that spectacle itself had become architecture.
October 2006. Steve is showing Picasso’s Le Rêve — The Dream, painted in 1932 — to Nora Ephron, Nick Pileggi, Barbara Walters and a few others. He is standing close to one of the most intimate paintings in modern art. He gestures. His right elbow goes through the canvas.
The room goes silent. The painting is restored. What might have remained an accident becomes something stranger and more human: a story about proximity, beauty, risk, and the almost physical intimacy of living with art.
The dream survives. The story becomes the dream.
For Wynn, art was never decoration.
It was part of the emotional architecture.
While most hoteliers chose reproductions, Steve hung the originals. Picasso, Monet, Matisse, Vermeer. He placed museum-grade art where others would have placed decoration. The Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art opened the same night the hotel did, in 1998 — the first time a Strip resort had ever included a museum.
The collection grew: Matisse, Miró, Rembrandt, Warhol, Lichtenstein, Basquiat, Rothko, Kusama. Pieces went on loan to the Smithsonian.
In his current chapter, the art became the work. Wynn Fine Art — galleries in Palm Beach, Beverly Hills, and, since December 2024, Aspen, directly across from the Aspen Art Museum.
In 2020 he and his wife Andrea founded the Wynn Family Foundation. Education. Community. Art. Health.
One year later, the foundation gave fifty million dollars to the Mohawk Valley Health System — the largest gift in its history — to help build a new hospital in downtown Utica, New York.
The hospital is called The Wynn Hospital. It stands directly across the street from where Steve’s father once ran a small bingo parlor on Genesee Street.
The boy who left Utica at twenty-three with forty-five thousand borrowed dollars came back, six decades later, with a hospital.
The surname his father chose in 1946 to protect his family is now carved on a city’s building of healing.
The next time the lights of Las Vegas rise above the desert,
the next time a fountain climbs to opera over a man-made lake,
the next time a lobby smells like fresh flowers thirty floors below your room —
remember the man, the dreamer, the maker
who taught Las Vegas to feel like this.