The third night, the gallery looked different and even smelled different. The usual sterile scent of polish and cold air was replaced by something sharper, more organic. The tang of turpentine and the nutty smell of linseed oil hung in the air, a primal promise of creation and mess. In the very center of the vast, white room, where the cold marble floor had been, there now sat a massive, wooden frame. Stretched taut within it was an eight-foot-by-eight-foot square of pristine, white canvas. It ...