IT is 7:30 of a fall Sunday evening and only a few artists remain, straggling under spotlighted trees across the shaven lawns of Philip Johnson's 32-acre New Canaan precinct. All the millionaires and collectors have gone home. Andy Warhol, in black jacket and silver wig, looking like the Angel of Death quitting Jerusalem, left ten minutes ago. Robert Rauschenberg lingers on, and though a lady art critic is locked in Johnson's subterranean painting gallery with a young artist who is slapping her around for undetermined reasons, the place is quiet. Above the Morrises,...
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