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9 Storm King Sculpture Park We circled fabricated girders, welded, hoisted, their surfaces scored. Around us, a meadow marked and pierced with immense human effort. You spoke first of our terse formality with each other after months of silence, the strain of polite gestures. How had we arrived at this wide, quiet place with so much to name? The sculptures enlisted us, became us, steel-limbed sieves through which a few names poured— Goldsworthy, di Suvero, Smith— and then stopped, grit in the colander. ...

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