My Week in Poughkeepsie

On the artist's solitude, finding one's way, and self-help culture

In rural Virginia, where I grew up, most winters usually passed without snow. The woods in the colder months were just tangled deadness, which left my backyard in a state of vague sadness. It stretched out beyond my father’s garden and into about an acre of trees. The exposure of the landscape was turned down to this dejected, bluish saturation.

But ever…