It is early morning and the cleaning lady is singing in a serious soprano as she sweeps the terrazzo alla veneziana floors. The rooms are flooded with riverbero, the reflection of the light from the Grand Canal, dancing on the walls. For the moment, I lose myself in the spell of Pollock’s Alchemy. Then I look out on the terrace and there he is: Marini’s Angel of the City, greeting the world with open arms. But I mustn’t linger: there are still paintings by Klee, Kandinsky and Chagall, all sleeping in their pajamas.