Raoul Hague house’s is down the road from us in the Maverick Colony outside Woodstock, N.Y. Hague was a strong, stout, reclusive wood sculptor, his creations curving in perfect turns and angles. I never met Hague; he died in 1993, a couple years after we got our place, when we were still feeling our way around. His house remains as he left it. It’s a remarkable place. Not only is it the subject of at least a couple Robert Frank photos (from 1955), but Lee Friedlander devoted a whole book, Witness #6, to photos he took in ’76 of Hague and his house. On August 13, 2017, my wife and I and friend/neighbor Phyllis Tower were given a tour of Hague’s house. I had my camera along, and snapped while the women admired the sculptures. Hague didn’t have running water, and the well pump in my books is the same as the one in Friedlander’s. Same with many of the wall-coverings. The same. Hague was simply about his work. As his foundation puts it, when he died “there were two feet of snow on the ground and it was bitterly cold, but the sun was shining and there was a just-finished sculpture in his studio.” His house conjures up a different age, a different world. A clean, functional place to work was everything. Work was everything. Art was everything.