Has it been duly noted that one of Doran H. Ross's last requests on this globe of sin was for a rum and coke from his home hospice nurse? And that the nurse was a Yoruba from Nigeria who, while happily complying with Mr. Ross's request, would regularly call her mom in London, excitedly telling her all about the Yoruba pop art hanging in Doran's man cave?
Unpack that scene of defiance and compliance and you've got the secret of the plot. Doran had charmed the nurse, as he had so many others, with his easy banter and obvious joie de vivre, even at the moment he was exiting his extraordinary life. But then, the Doran I knew was often a key player in making difficult and wonderful things happen: getting funding for exhibitions that many thought too edgy to mount; transforming, with Director Christopher B. Donnan, a basement collection...