“I soon discovered that by walking into the loading-dock, and then up a flight of stairs, one could bypass the admission desk. Perhaps because I wore a coat and tie, the security guards never challenged me. They may have mistaken me for the offspring of a curator, or board member. My parents were nonplussed one day, when one or two of the guards greeted me with friendly nods. During one of my solo Saturday visits, I spotted a herd of well-dressed adults making their way into the special-exhibitions galleries. Being curious, I followed them into the opening reception of a van Gogh retrospective. My mother owned a copy of Lust for Life, but despite having seen the movie, and Starry Night at MoMA, being surrounded by dozens of Vincent’s paintings was overwhelming. Standing in the center of the room was a tall man with an aquiline nose and thinning gray hair. Beside him stood an attractive woman, helping him greet a steady flow of well-wishers. I hung back, but he caught my eye and smiled. The man was Vincent Willem van Gogh; the artist’s nephew.”