Seventy-nine stops where someone looked at a horror bookstore, a wall of rescued neon, a case of embroidered folk costumes, and decided it was worth keeping. Nothing on this road is dying. It is being tended.
A two-hundred-year-old barn holds five stories of books stacked in old fruit crates. A gallery keeps the neon signs nobody had room for once the businesses behind them closed. An antiques shop sorts what its own owner calls, without irony, oddities.
Winterthur has been the world’s foremost collection of American decorative arts since the du Ponts opened their grounds to the public — nine hundred acres replanted every season, not stored behind glass. Grounds For Sculpture turned a fairground chartered in 1745 into three hundred works that sit outside in the weather, on purpose.
Not every collection is dignified. A silver Aston Martin with a Bond villain’s plate. Costumes built for one parade a year and displayed the other three hundred and sixty-four. Eight thousand pieces of embroidery in a converted East Village building — founded, as it happens, the same year as the costume museum three states south.
Every keeper on this road began with one object nobody else would keep. Scroll — the drawers open.
a clock that sells typewriters
rare books, under glass
a painted dog, on a pedestal
a case of curios on red velvet
clown dolls, shelved with the horror
Acc. № 1976-04 · parade costume
Acc. № 1976-11 · embroidered textile
the silverware room, mint green
a silver car, a villain’s plate
four spotted jellies, drifting
bronze, left out in the weather
a lantern that paints the room
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