Love letters from Goshen
The marquee at Goshen Players for “A Goodnight Kiss.”
Cinzi Lavin
Cinzi LavinAnna Zuckerman-Vdovenko
Kathleen KellyProvided
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A protester holds a sign at Fountain Square in Amenia on March 28, where more than 200 people gathered as part of the nationwide “No Kings” demonstrations.
Photo by Aly Morrissey
Kim Travis of Amenia — who organized the rally at Fountain Square — said the demonstration reflected a dramatic shift from her early days protesting alone, when she faced threats while standing by herself.
“This started with just me, alone in June — day after day, getting threats,” Travis said. “To see it grow into more than 200 people today for this ‘No Kings’ rally in our little-bitty town of Amenia is incredible.”
She said the turnout reflected broader support across rural communities. There were several rallies in towns across Dutchess County and in neighboring Connecticut.
Travis described the mood of the Amenia crowd as both emotional and energizing.
“Our hearts are filled with joy — it’s just incredible that so many people turned out today,” she said.
She added that the message of the protest was rooted in democratic values.
“We want our country back, and we want democracy,” Travis said. “We the people serve no kings. That’s what the Constitution is all about.”
Protesters display an upside down American flag in Amenia on March 28, where more than 200 people gathered as part of the nationwide “No Kings” demonstrations.Photo by Aly Morrissey
Ellie Myers, a senior boarding student at Millbrook School who lives in Brooklyn, attended the Fountain Square protests and said she has been protesting since Donald Trump was first elected in 2016.
“Showing up is really important to me, and I’m grateful to be in a community where I can support others,” Myers said. “Right now, ICE is the biggest issue. I have friends and family who have been affected — hardworking immigrants who came here for freedom and haven’t found it. That’s heartbreaking. It goes against what ‘we the people’ is supposed to mean, and it’s painful to see, both in the news and in real life.”
Myers added that she witnessed ICE in the airports during recent travel back to school and it was “heartbreaking.”
Dutchess County Legislator Eric Alexander, who represents Amenia and surrounding communities, also attended the rally, noting it followed a unanimous county resolution opposing a proposed ICE facility in the Hudson Valley.
“That wasn’t just Democrats,” Alexander said. “That was the entire legislature unanimously saying no to ICE, and a lot of that came from the voice of the people — the people we represent.”
Alexander said the size of the rally stood out, noting its growth from a single protester to a dozen regular participants and ultimately more than 200 attendees.
“I see a great sense of community, and I see a great sense of optimism,” he said. “But I also see high frustration. People are very concerned, and I think that concern is only growing as we see more and more of what’s going on in our country.”
He said the country is in a war that hasn’t sufficiently been explained to the American people, dysfunction is rampant at airports, and prices of everything from gas to groceries are soaring.
“And we don’t see an end in sight — we don’t see a plan,” he said. “These are people standing out here today saying we, as citizens, deserve to have our voices heard and to try to get some things to change.”
Protesters at Fountain Square in Amenia on March 28.Photo by Aly Morrissey
Several other local protests took place in Dutchess County, including in Rhinebeck, Poughkeepsie and Beacon.
Meanwhile, similar demonstrations took place across the border in Connecticut.
In Salisbury, several hundred people gathered along Route 44, where organizers set up signs and encouraged participants to share messages. In Cornwall, organizers estimated more than 300 attendees at the intersection of Route 7 and Route 4. Meanwhile, in Kent, both sides of Main Street were lined with protesters, with turnout estimated at more than 250.
As the rallies wound down, organizers such as Travis said the protests would not stop.
“A lot of the surrounding small towns showed up, too, because we want to show the rest of the country that small towns can be strong, loud and resist just as much as anyone,” she said. “And we intend to, and we’re not stopping.”
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Gail Rothschild with her painting “Dead Sea Linen III (73 x 58 inches, 2024, acrylic on canvas.
Natalia Zukerman
Her work begins, often, with something small: a scrap of linen from the Judean desert, dating “to a time before the notion of ‘Israel’ or ‘Palestine;’” a fragment so diminished it barely registers as an object; or a rare indigo-dyed child’s head cloth from Tutankhamen’s tomb.
“I call them portraits of ancient linen,” she said.
Rothschild grew up in Greenwich and studied drawing and painting at Yale University. “That was kind of my first love,” she said. But she quickly veered toward something more collective, working with Peter Schumann at the Bread and Puppet Theater, building papier-mâché puppets and participating in a kind of performance-based activism that blurred art and politics.
“After Yale, I got out of school and thought‘Wait a second. I don’t want to paint anymore. I need to work with people in communities and make things.’”
She moved to Brooklyn and began working in public schools, developing projects rooted in collaboration and local history. The projects were ambitious, research-driven, and often confrontational. At the University of Massachusetts, she recalled asking students: “Did you know that Amherst was named for Jeffrey Amherst, who was responsible for giving blankets infected with smallpox to Native Americans? Why don’t we look into that?’”
There were sculptures, letters to watchdog groups, installations. She worked on four such projects a year, she said, until the pace became unsustainable. “At some point I just said, ‘I’m exhausted. I’m going back to the studio.’”
What brought her back was a book, “Prehistoric Textiles ” by Elizabeth Wayland Barber. Inside, she encountered an image of a 7,000-year-old textile, unraveling.
“It said to me, ‘this could be a great big abstract painting’,” she said. “What does it mean that this textile, this thing that used to be a Cartesian grid and over time has gone back to nature?”
That question became a kind of axis for her work. “There is this cusp between nature and culture,” she said. Early on, she avoided textiles with imagery, drawn instead to the raw language of fiber itself. But eventually, even that boundary softened. A project with the Godwin-Ternbach Museum introduced her to Egyptian textiles — Christian, pagan, Greek, Roman influences colliding in woven form.
Gail Rothschild’s “Esquina Decorada” (52 x 52 inches, 2022, acrylic on canvas)Gail Rothschild
What followed was a deepening relationship with museums and, crucially, with conservators. Institutions like The Metropolitan Museum of Art and collections in Berlin and Paris began sending her images of textile fragments, sometimes pieces she has still never seen in person.
“It’s almost easier for me to transform it when I haven’t seen it,” she said.
Her process is both precise and intuitive. She grids the canvas and the source image, drawing freehand to “honor what the object is.” For a time, she works closely from the photograph. Then something shifts. “At some point I’ll say, ‘It’s a painting. It’s got to talk to itself,’ and then I stop looking at the photograph.”
What emerges is layered, luminous and muscular. “Sometimes people say, ‘Do you miss making sculpture?’ and I say, ‘I never stopped.’”
You feel that in the surfaces: the tension of threads pulling apart, the sense that something is both forming and dissolving at once. Even the backgrounds — often ambiguous, atmospheric — are not neutral. “It’s really more about feeling the space around the object,” she said, especially as she considers how ancient fragments are mounted on modern fabrics. “I get to invent an entirely other language.”
Some of her most arresting work is on the monumental textiles of The Met Cloisters, where medieval tapestries, some towering more than a dozen feet, are slowly, painstakingly conserved. It’s in the conservation labs that Rothschild has observed the physical reality of these works: their own weight pulling them apart, threads breaking under centuries of strain. Conservators insert new threads to stabilize them and Rothschild documents this process. “There’s a kind of poignancy to their work,” Rothschild said, “because as hard as we work to conserve the objects of our past, in the greater cosmic scheme of time, it’s only temporary. There’s something beautiful about that.”
Time operates on multiple levels in Rothschild’s work. There is the time of the object —thousands of years, in some cases — and the time of the painting, which unfolds over months. “Once I start working on something, I can’t stop,” she said. “But then it’ll rest for a while and I may change it, add layers.”
And then there is the time of attention itself, the way looking can tip into obsession, into pattern-seeking that doesn’t quite turn off. Rothschild is aware of that edge.
“I have to make myself stop or I just see patterns everywhere and I can’t stop, really,” she laughed. “That’s why I’ve built in other things I need to do in my life like take the dogs for a hike or, you know, volunteer at the Sharon Land Trust… otherwise I go a little nuts. And it wouldn’t be good painting either.”
A painting session, for her, has its own its own arc. “There’s kind of a trajectory for every work session. I might be repeating something and suddenly it looks linear. The language I started painting with may change by the end and I think, ‘Oh God, I’m gonna have to go back and repaint that.’”
But then, she said, there is a pause.
“I kind of step back and say, ‘No, this painting can hold both. That’s part of its history. There’s the history of the object but then there’s the history of the painting.’”
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