Upon entering downtown Woodstock, N.Y., the town’s dedication to the arts quickly becomes obvious. The colorful peace signs and graffiti on Route 375 are a fitting introduction to the town itself. Most of the shops are related in some way to music and the arts. In the span of just a few blocks, you pass multiple vintage clothing stores, a couple of art galleries, a music shop and a store that seems to offer flag-sized banners of every band that played at the infamous Woodstock Festival of 1969. The quaint “village green” downtown seems to be populated by descendants of the festival’s audience. The youth at the benches are either carrying a guitar, wearing tie-dyed shirts, sporting a head full of dreadlocks or executing some combination of the three.

Another thing that strikes an outsider visiting Woodstock is the glaring absence of any Dunkin’ Donuts, Starbucks or McDonald’s restaurants. The only chain stores to be found are a giant CVS pharmacy that seems horribly out of place and a few gas stations to fill the tanks of visiting tourists. The lack of fast food stores is contrasted by the abundance of churches of almost every denomination imaginable. Signs on utility poles advertise guided meditations, peace gatherings and numerous volunteer activities on almost every day of the week.
I decide to check out a couple of art galleries and monasteries to compensate for my lack of hippie culture.

The Woodstock Artists Association and Museum
The museum has three rooms, each with a different exhibit. The back room features “Semblance and Spirit,” an exhibit of portraits all drawn or painted by local Woodstock artists. The collection here is extensive, with more than 60 works ranging in size, subject, style and medium—a testament to Woodstock’s diverse art scene.

The middle room holds a collection of photos from New York City photographer Rick Gilbert. Accurately titled “Music Images Volume 1,” his exhibit features photos Gilbert has taken throughout his career in producing and photographing music events, providing a nice contrast to the portraits in the previous room.

But the contents of the first room are what intrigue me most. The room contains more than 50 paintings collectively titled “The Family Curse.” It is not easy to determine the meaning behind the enigmatic title. There are a number of beachfront landscapes by Nancy Summers, including one called “Maine Coast,” an illustration of large rocks on a coastline that, when rendered in charcoal, looks a bit like a set of molars with a marine backdrop. Next comes a series of paintings by Robert Angeloch, who seems to focus more on inland landscapes like forests and fields and houses. I am drawn to “Eva’s Studio,” an eerie image of an old house set in front of a forest lit by a full moon. Next to this hangs a few pieces by Eric Angeloch. I am just starting to guess at the reason for the exhibit’s title when the museum director asks if I have any questions.

“The Family Curse” is an exhibit of paintings from artists in the Woodstock area, she explains, curated by Eric Angeloch, an instructor at the Woodstock School of Art and the youngest artist in the Summers-Angeloch line. The collection features paintings by Eric, his parents and his grandparents, from charcoal illustrations to warm-colored landscapes. A few works by Pauline Stone, Eric’s grandmother, could easily be pictures in a children’s fantasy book.

It seems incredible that a family could stay devoted to painting for so many generations, but museum director Leslie Rolnick says the Summers-Angeloch family isn’t the only artistic clan in the Woodstock area, nor the first to supply the museum with a full exhibition of its work. For further explanation of the latest exhibit’s title, Rolnick points to a quote from Eric Angeloch in a museum newsletter: “It has been most interesting viewing my family’s connectedness rather than the individuality that was always stressed. Genetics are a diabolical instrument. They can wreak havoc or conjure beauty. Hopefully this show will prove the latter.” Feeling just a shade more hip, I exit the gallery.

Karma Triyana Dharmachakra
This Tibetan Buddhist Monastery sits atop a small mountain just outside one of the most laidback towns in the country—not a bad place for meditation. Although the buildings are fairly new—the monastery was founded in 1976—they are currently under construction and many are still in need of painting. Nevertheless, the buildings’ Eastern architecture is a sight to behold from the main gate, and that of the interiors are still more impressive. The monastery consists of a residence building for sangha (a community of followers of Buddha) and a main building that holds the shrine rooms and a space soon to become a library for the study of ancient texts.

Upon entering the main building and removing my shoes, I am greeted by shrine-keeper Elaine White, a small, barefooted woman who possesses a vast knowledge of the workings of the KTD monastery. Before being led to the main shrine, I learn a little about His Holiness, the 17th incarnation of the Gyalwa Karmapa, head of the Karma Kagyu school of Tibetan Buddhism, who stays at the monastery when visiting the United States. Inside the large shrine room are 19 calligraphies by His Holiness, up for auction for as much as $150,000 to benefit the construction at KTD. At the front of the room sits an impressive statue of the Buddha surrounded by smaller Buddhist figures and pictures of the Gyalwa Karmapa. With its red painted walls, golden statues and lighting coming from candles and sunlight through closed window shades, the room seems to be in a state of perpetual sunset. Feeling calm and a little drowsy, I leave the room to a new group of visitors and enter the smaller Tara shrine.

Shrinekeeper White is already there, and she begins to tell me a little of the purpose of KTD and its mission to preserve Tibetan arts and culture by publishing Tibetan philosophy and recording traditional music. Unable to stay for the 5 o’clock chanting ritual, I head down the mountain and back into town.

The mood that filled the shrine rooms at the monastery seems to drift downhill all the way to the town. Everyone in sight is so utterly calm and collected that one can’t help feeling the same way just by osmosis. You start walking a little slower than usual as all sense of urgency vanishes. I stop in at Taco Juan’s for some homemade ice cream and then pause outside to listen as a man with a guitar sings wailing laments about the government to a small but appreciative crowd. On my way out of town, I pull over beside a river where locals are relaxing on beach chairs and pool rafts, whiling away a hot summer day as time passes at half speed.

This Woodstock effect is still with me hours later as I cruise along the Mass. Pike, going 65 miles per hour through endless fields and forests as all the Massachusetts license plates pass me in the left lane—they clearly haven’t been where I have been.