Our Minds Are Not Just Houses

Happy Saturday!

Contemplating a move? Consider a residence with history. In today’s American Artifacts, James Taylor Foreman recounts his family’s choice to settle in an aging dwelling in Jackson, Louisiana, and how this historic home truly grounds them within their community. Elsewhere in this newsletter, you’ll find an essay suggestion from me, recommendations from SCOTUSblog executive editor Zachary Shemtob, a review of Lena Dunham’s new memoir by Elizabeth Grace Matthew, and a Work of the Week by Dispatch member Ben Connelly.

For today’s piece, we present the results of Lawson Chapman’s recent sojourn to Philipsburg, Montana, the setting that inspired Richard Hugo’s 1973 poem “Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg.” That poem speaks of a town in decline—and Chapman went to verify whether that impression still holds. “​​I ask him if he’s familiar with Richard Hugo, and he grins, saying everyone in Philipsburg knows that poem,” Chapman recalls of a town resident. “I ask whether he thinks it still accurately portrays Philipsburg. He offers a warm smile.”

We also have Dispatch debutant Noah Swank discussing a new book that treats opera as a teacher of virtue. “Opera, [the author] argues, can help shape us into the new, more virtuous citizenry our society needs,” Swank writes. “After all, while Rousseau, Kant, and their fellow philosophers educate the intellect, Mozart and his peers teach the heart.”

And finally, our latest entry in the “Where I’m From” series comes from Victoria Holmes, the Dispatch’s associate multimedia producer. In this installment, Victoria writes about Dallas, Texas, and the hidden grottoes she’s discovered across the city. “There’s nothing particularly remarkable about Dallas’s geology, but when you look up, you get the sense that you could drift off the edge of the world,” Victoria notes. 

With warm regards,

Valerie 

By James Taylor Foreman

C.S. Lewis imagined hell as an interminable gray suburb, a sprawling lattice of streets steeped in perpetual dim light. One can’t recall whether it’s dusk or dawn, only that the atmosphere remains pallid and indistinct. 

Neighbors quarrel and drift apart, with rumors that generations might pass before one could reach the likes of Genghis Khan. A lingering ghost claims to have spent an entire life journeying to Napoleon, who endlessly paced his grand libraries and muttered about the causes of his defeats.

These reflections echo the North American sprawl for Foreman: Europeans are pressed closer by the limits of land, while Americans spread themselves across a country so vast that people still manage to drift further apart in their endless suburban exodus. 

I reside in the small town of Jackson, Louisiana, which once boasted the second-highest tally of nationally registered historic structures in the state, second only to New Orleans. Many of these buildings now lie abandoned or in dire need of repair. Driving through, one could conclude there isn’t enough money to restore them. Yet linger long enough, and you’ll notice McMansions tucked behind oaks along quiet rural lanes. The money exists; people simply aren’t eager to be in each other’s proximity.

Prosperity from the West renders this rural sprawl nearly as effortless as in Lewis’ depiction of hell. Why endure the procedures of historic committees, preservationists, the quirks of an old house, or disagreeable neighbors when you can drop a plastic-and-concrete home into the woods, let Amazon stock your pantry, and never have to greet the neighbors—like PigBooty, a real person in my town? You wouldn’t, unless you’ve truly internalized the cost of living separated from others lived aloud.

Sartre claimed that hell is other people. As usual, that’s partly true. The fear of being watched by others pushes you toward a sunlit-but-walled mansion with tall fences. The sole path back is reknowing others who must see you—and all your flaws—that have thrived behind closed doors. That dynamic feels a bit like hell.

My wife and I inhabit one of these historic houses, erected in 1885. Winters are biting, squirrels seem to dodge our attic-clearing efforts, and some neighbors verge on the fringe. All this ordinary humanity, though, perhaps keeps us from spiraling into a self-imposed hell. Our circle includes octogenarian friends, we attend the local Mass, and once a week my wife assists a coffee-shop owner who has cerebral palsy. Our heads are as much the houses we live in as the neighborhoods we inhabit—we rely on one another and the surrounding environment to stay lively and sane.

Today’s greatest artistic opportunity, I believe, lies in encouraging young families to return to small towns and take stewardship of these homes. No offense to abstract art in film or literature, but true creativity often flourishes under constraint, a condition that technology is steadily eroding. Instead, choose abundance where it already exists: purchase an affordable historic home, learn its quirks and its timber, and plant a garden.

That, at minimum, gives us a common ground to stay connected.

Dispatch colleagues frequently trade links, and this week, TMD editor Ross Anderson increased my own productivity burden when he forwarded Scott Sumner’s essay “A painter’s painter.” In it, Sumner explains precisely what makes early European oil painting essential to art history and notes that the finest examples are housed in Madrid’s Museo del Prado.

“I have no problem with those who prefer Bergman, Scorsese, or Kurosawa to Hitchcock,” Sumner writes. “But if you want to grasp what makes cinema unique as an art form, and what sets it apart from theatre, you must study the visual language of directors like Hitchcock, Tarkovsky, Ozu, and Kubrick. … Likewise, I don’t object to lovers of Caravaggio, Rembrandt, and Vermeer preferring Rubens—indeed I share that sentiment. Yet examining the progression of oil painting from Titian through Rubens to Velázquez remains the best way to understand what oil painting can achieve beyond any other discipline.”

By Elizabeth Grace Matthew

Famesick, by Lena Dunham, released April 14, 2026.

Lena Dunham possesses not only talent but a streak of genius. That’s why her unruly yet luminous prose in her latest memoir, Famesick—much like the sharp, bristling writing of her HBO series Girls—manages to win reluctant admiration, even from those of us inclined to resist the self-absorbed “voice of a generation.”

In Famesick, Dunham narrates her path: the genesis of her debut feature Tiny Furniture, followed by Girls, and how she became a divisive cultural icon, adored and reviled as the avatar of millennial feminism she could neither fully command nor symbolize. Most notably, how her body and mind unraveled as her brand soared.

Most readers and critics of Famesick have centered on particular disclosures and painful truths: that Hannah’s intimate scenes with her on-screen partner Adam mirrored Dunham’s own complicated relationship with actor Adam Driver more than we might guess; that Dunham’s rift with colleague and best friend Jenni Konner left lasting marks; that Dunham is very much a father’s girl, with her father repeatedly shown as the sole person whose love remains untainted and steady; and that Dunham has endured serious illness in ways that deserve our deepest sympathy, regardless of what one makes of her.

But here comes the sweeping conclusion that might provoke a quiet grin from conservatives: Dunham’s “famesickness”—like the story that gives the book its title—essentially coincides with the start of her 2021 marriage to musician Luis Felber. A privileged 35-year-old bride walking toward a life of “happily ever after,” after spending her twenties and beyond glorifying nearly everything but that? 

Dunham may indeed speak for a generation after all.

By Zachary Shemtob, SCOTUSblog executive editor 

Archspire represents a technical form of death metal, characterized by blistering tempo, intricate guitar phrasing, relentless drumming, and a chorus of guttural growls and occasional shrieks. Yet, before you skip ahead, consider listening to at least one track from their latest album, the aptly titled Too Fast to Die. At the heart of it is the astonishing vocal speed of lead singer Oliver Rae Aleron, who, through a mastery of specialized breathing techniques (not unlike those used by Tuvan throat singers), demonstrates that humans can still achieve remarkable feats in the era of AI—even as metal faces a future dominated by machines.

What happens when a Catholic mystic and a Zen Buddhist convene to discuss “art and philosophy at the edge of the unthinkable”? Some unapologetically pretentious podcasting, but also genuinely engaging conversations on topics like David Lynch (head’s-up: if you’re not fond of Lynch, you might not enjoy this), The X-Files (the same caveat), H.P. Lovecraft (same), and “horror and the retail experience” (I’m still unsure what that means). The best part is that politics and current events rarely enter the talk (unless UFOs are involved). So, for the tiny slice of you still with me, switch off The Rest Is History for a moment and explore something completely different. 

While my husband and I aren’t passionate cooks—despite occasional successes with scrambled eggs and other dishes—we’ve sampled several meal kits with mixed results. Recently, though, we tried Eat Clean Bro, and despite the somewhat awkward branding, we were pleasantly surprised. The meals are fairly affordable, the range is decent (if not spectacular), and most importantly, the meals actually taste like real food (I particularly recommend the turkey bolognese and chicken parm). So, without endorsing Eat Clean Bro’s broader philosophy or mindset (which I don’t claim to know), I’d suggest it for people like me who resist being shamed into cooking by the entire home-chef culture. 

Work: Mount Corcoran, Albert Bierstadt, c. 1876-1877

Name: Ben Connelly

Why I’m a Dispatch member: I used to subscribe to the Weekly Standard before its end and enjoyed reading Jonah, Kevin, and David French at National Review when access wasn’t restricted. I finally became a paying Dispatch subscriber in late 2020, and I’ve never looked back.

Why I chose this work: Bierstadt ranks among the foremost American landscape painters, having a major hand in shaping the public imagery of the American West. I could easily spend an hour in the National Gallery, gazing at landscapes whenever I’m in D.C.—America is a country of breathtaking natural grandeur, and these paintings have always spoken to my soul. 

Mount Corcoran stands as one of Bierstadt’s better-known canvases, though the National Gallery itself notes that it presents an imagined landscape that blends familiar features Bierstadt encountered on his journeys. In art, sometimes what is imagined conveys truth more vividly than what is merely factual.

Correction, April 25, 2026: The “Why I’m a Dispatch member” response in “Work of the Week” was replaced with the correct response from the reader after another reader response was mistakenly published.