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We’re at that time when winter loses what little charm it had: the twinkling lights come down, the mercury plunges, and what felt two weeks ago like rosy-cheeked novelty is now pure marrow-sucking viciousness, part of a stimulus package for brown-liquor distillers. Everyone is holed up with a fifth of something. To deceive yourself that you have the wherewithal to go outdoors, you need wintertime propaganda. I found some in our Winter 1976 issue courtesy of Cletus Johnson, who designs what he’s called “stage sets for the play of the spectator’s imagination.” As the editors explained, Read More