Discoveries on Long Island: Art, Literature, and Music That Shaped Me

Long Island has always been full of hidden treasures, small bookstores tucked into corners of sleepy towns, thrift shops brimming with forgotten gems, and record bins where stories linger in the grooves of vinyl. Over the years, I’ve found a few pieces that resonate more deeply than their titles might suggest.

One of my most cherished finds is a book on John Singer Sargent, discovered in a dusty shop in Oyster Bay. Flipping through the pages, I could feel the brushstrokes of his portraits come alive, so much personality captured in oil and watercolor. There’s something magical about holding a book like that in your hands, as if you’re in dialogue with the artist himself.

Another long Island discovery was a William Morris book, tucked away in a secondhand bookstore in Huntington. His designs, his philosophy, and his meticulous attention to beauty and craftsmanship spoke to me in a quiet, persistent way. It reminded me that art and everyday life are inseparable, that the world we surround ourselves with can reflect our inner ideals.

Then there was the Edgar Allan Poe book, found at a local yard sale in a pile of well-loved classics. Holding it felt like holding a little portal to shadowy, atmospheric worlds, stories that have always drawn me in with their tension, their melancholy, their depth.

And then there’s music. My mom’s copy of The Wall on vinyl holds a special place in my heart. The iconic album, with its layers of sound, its stories of isolation, rebellion, and self-discovery, was part of the soundtrack of my childhood. The record isn’t just music; it’s memory. Listening to it now, I hear echoes of conversations, laughter, and quiet moments shared with her.

These books and that record, found in various corners of Long Island and cherished from my family’s collection, aren’t just objects. They are markers of curiosity, of connection, and of the unexpected joy in discovering beauty in overlooked places. They remind me that inspiration can be everywhere: in the pages of a book, in the grooves of a record, and in the quiet thrill of a chance discovery.