West River House

I whet my appetite to the rhythm of the Grateful Dead and graze on life-sized post-modern art. Tonal, abstract pieces hopscotch with vibrant oils, and they all speak with fervor. I start to meander like a river from room to room; my thoughts feel sublime by a spirit connected to the divine.What’s so moving about this place? Why do I feel so well-fed by its glass walls, grey limestone, and lonely grace? And ironically, why do I feel zapped by its life-giving energy?

As I keep moving, even a bathroom is complete with a Rauschenberg, Picasso, and one of Kurt’s (the owner) original oils lounging together. The house entices and lures me on with slim peaks into the next room. It sounds strange, but I can’t not look; can’t not go. Stairs act like tributaries that feed delightful touches of Ming dynasty horses, Persian carpets, and Brazilian-wood balconies. High, white ceilings in the back of the house dance with no ceilings. In the front; the triangular roofline of a majestic wooden bridge pays homage to the Dummerston bridge over the West River in Vermont. So, “a river runs through it?”

Now I’m dangling in the game room with a hawk-eye view to the living room below;