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IMPURE THOUGHTS: THE ART OF SAM DURANT

Each period casts a very long shadow. One’s period is when one is very young.

Diana Vreeland

THE SUMMER OF LOVE CAME LATE TO THE VINEYARD. When it did, it hit hard. That summer Ali MacGraw died in Ryan O’Neal’s arms after warming his cold, preppy heart (“Love means never having to say you’re sorry”). Our local bard, James Taylor, told us we had a friend, and we believed him. Sitting cross-legged at a free concert, joints aflame all around us, we savored Sweet Baby James’s romantic baritone and sincere words. That summer the hippies took over the beaches. Their insouciance offended our Eisenhower-era parents, who vainly shielded our eyes from unsightly penises and breasts. Though we pretended to be grossed out and giggled a lot, we were fascinated: To the children of the ’60s the hippies were mythic creatures.

In those days kids hitchhiked around the island all day long. Though no more than

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