January arrived across the Hudson Highlands in an envelope of stark, brilliant frost that bound the Westchester cliffs in a shimmering shell. Below the main terraces of Stony Point, the river had locked into a thick, sheeted expanse of opaque blue-grey ice, over which northern gulls drifted lazily against a pale, ice-clear sky. A sharp, dry wind whipped down through the gorge, rattling the bare silver birch branches that lined the perimeter trail and carrying the faint, clean scent of crushed pine needles and frozen granite.
Inside the East Pavilion’s glass gallery, where radiant heating grids drew warmth directly from the mountain’s subterranean geothermal wells, the silence was total and undisturbed. The long central aisle held sixteen tall quartz display cases containing physical artif
