Time has a curious way of collapsing upon itself. It seems impossible that I was penning a similar note about the holidays just a year ago, yet here we are again — the calendar insistent, the season upon us.
I find myself returning to the nature of art collecting: what it means, and perhaps more importantly, what it should mean. For most of us, it begins innocently enough — a pretty picture speaks to us in some ineffable way. But then something remarkable happens. As we live with that original painting, everything else begins to look stale, insignificant, somehow less.
I can still recall with clarity the first time I visited a home filled with original masterpieces — not a single reproduction, not one poster. I remember thinking, “This house…
