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"He is a sculptor who carves stone, mostly granite. His pieces were getting more monumental, and he had just started work on a large commission for what would become New York City's Chelsea Market. Even if he could have afforded a studio in the city, no urban warehouse could accommodate the growing scale of his sculptures and the heavy machinery required to create and transport them."
"Our New York City home was a 600-square-foot apartment, where Mark and I pulled down a Murphy bed each night while Ray slept in the tiny bedroom he would soon share with his sister, Ava. We had fantasies of life in the country: the kids chasing fireflies on summer evenings, or clearing a patch of dirt where they could plant pumpkins and daisies."
"Had I known then that, within six years, we would close the door on our city life and relocate here for good, I might have chosen a town that had sidewalks, maybe even a handful of streetlights, or a train to the city (the nearest station is an hour away). Then again, I had not yet learned that in this enchanted corner of New England, remoteness is kind of the point."
A sculptor husband needed larger workspace for monumental granite pieces and heavy machinery, prompting weekend house hunting outside Manhattan. The couple and their infant child endured cramped 600-square-foot city living and imagined country life. After sixty-six viewings they purchased an unfinished, dilapidated house in Litchfield County with land for stone work. They moved permanently within six years, embracing remoteness despite limited local infrastructure. Early adjustment was drastic: routine errands required lengthy drives and distances to services and activities. Autumn arrived quickly, intensifying the sense of isolation while providing space for family life and the sculptor's expanding practice.
Read at Travel + Leisure
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