On Christmas break during my last year of law school in 1970, I felt pretty good, with one semester to go before I might take on the world and become a practicing attorney. I borrowed my mother’s old gray Rambler and drove to the nearby Cherry Hill Mall in South Jersey for some last-minute shopping. I chanced to walk into an art gallery, wondering what mall art might look like. High up on a wall was a painting that took my breath away. As a poor boy from Philadelphia, which is a world-class, cultured city with museums aplenty, I always saw art as something you looked at on someone else’s wall, usually in one of those museums. I didn’t know anyone who actually owned art. Charlie, a perky art store saleslady, was knowledgeable and not much older than I was at the time. She saw my reaction and looked up …