Another formative influence was exposure to three great private collections belonging to friends of my parents. As a child, I was often invited by one of these collectors to go to galleries to “look.” We would visit as many as three in one day, and each gallery head would take us around and talk about specific pictures that he considered of interest to the collector. They would take them off the wall for closer inspection and the two of them would disappear, leaving me alone to wander. It was a thrilling and heady experience, though not always!

After several such outings, I began to notice frames, which often seemed at odds with the art. So I finally dared to ask why, for the most part, the gallery frames were so different from those I saw on the works of art in the collectors’ homes. One of these collectors, a member of the Kress family, had a summer home not far from ours, and as their children were friends of mine, occasionally I was invited to spend the day, swimming and playing tennis, with an always delicious lunch al fresco. One day an unexpected change in weather forced us indoors. Armed with umbrellas, we were taken to an enormous, concrete outbuilding where restoration work and framing of paintings took place. In this bunker-like area, I again discovered frames, from medieval and Renaissance to 20th century. The curator became my new idol and I adored wandering along the tracks with frames hanging on chicken wire.

Art history courses were offered at both my boarding school and my college, but curiously I never took any. However, I began to travel to Europe with my parents shortly after the war, for both had spent time abroad and were anxious to introduce me to the wonders of Europe. After my first trip (lasting nearly the whole summer), I was addicted and happily took advantage of Smith College’s Junior Year Abroad Program in Florence. Our classroom was in the stables designed by Michelangelo; across the way was San Marco with its great frescoes and paintings by Fra Angelico and Fra Bartolommeo. The Uffizi and Pitti were joyous retreats, though cold and dark, with many closed galleries, but the occasional guard welcomed us as we arrived, armed with flashlights and dressed for an arctic expedition—it was the coldest winter in Florentine history, with almost no heat in any of the buildings.

Living in Rome off and on for two years, I was fortunate to meet a few girls of my age from old, Italian families. Sometimes I visited their homes or villas, but they had not yet recovered from the war. The rooms were dark and dingy and although great art no doubt hung on the walls, it was barely visible. Exhibitions were rare, but those that took place were thrilling. Most were devoted to paintings and/or sculpture, with drawings rarely included. Thinking back, sculpture and porcelain were my first loves. I was attracted to the tactility, feel, and variety of the materials. It was at this point, however, that I began to enjoy looking at drawings, mostly landscapes and religious themes of the Virgin and Child. But I had not yet begun to focus on drawings seriously and I honestly didn’t yet know about print rooms!

Meanwhile, I was fascinated by ancient art, for example the ruins of Pompeii, Paestum, and Herculaneum, and also began to travel further afield, to Greece, Turkey, the Middle East and Egypt. Later, as I visited countries in Asia and the South Pacific, I was filled with admiration for the primitive arts produced by their ancient cultures and civilizations and was especially struck by the great contrasts between the massive bronze and stone sculptures and the delicate, elegant miniatures and works on paper.

In 1986 I was in London and went to see the exhibition on at the Royal Academy at the time—which turned out to be Ian Woodner’s collection of Renaissance to contemporary drawings. I was overwhelmed, not only by the scope and quality of the material, but also by the fact that it had been started by an American in 1944, at the height of the war. I returned daily, and at the end of each visit came away with a new favorite. Eventually, the show came to the Met and again I made several visits.

More and more often, while looking at paintings in auction houses, museums or galleries, I began to see them as drawings—a curious phenomenon. I often thought that I would prefer some if they were drawings, which was a very strange sensation, to say the least.

The years passed and I continued collecting oriental and primitive art. Then in January 1994 I went into Christie’s, where my goddaughter was working for the head of the Old Master Drawings Department. I picked out three drawings in their upcoming sale, two by “unknown” artists, one of which had belonged to Ian Woodner, who had recently died. I decided to bid and got two in the morning session and one in the afternoon. That was the beginning.

The next foray was at the end of a stay in Barcelona in May. As a final treat, I was taken to the top antiques dealer, from whom I bought three drawings. Returning to New York at the time of the annual May Fair at the Armory, I bought two more drawings, one from a Munich dealer, the other from a London dealer, both of whom were to become dear friends and responsible for providing many beautiful additions to my by now growing collection.

I find drawings to be both moving and delicate in appearance, even those where the subject is violent or powerful. They convey the germ of an idea, the very heart and soul of the artist. Even though I don’t like or want every drawing I see, I find the concept and presentation of most sheets amazing. Beyond their aesthetic and/or artistic value, drawings have been the inspiration behind important medical and structural innovations. Architectural studies by Michelangelo, for example, lie behind the design of a great mosque in Istanbul, and anatomical studies by Leonardo were the key to an extremely delicate heart operation recently put into practice around the world. The beautiful and elegant bridge spanning a remote fjord in northwest Norway was also derived from a Leonardo design, not to mention the role his drawings have played in the development of airplanes, fortifications, and irrigation systems.

Drawings tell a story and, as a means of communication, theirs is a universal language. Yet, given the great variety of materials, tools, and techniques that artists have employed over the centuries—from parchment to prepared, colored or Japan paper, using pen, ink, watercolor, red and black chalk, crayon, charcoal, pencil—the same subjects can be treated in ways that convey completely different sensations. Artists speak to us through these pieces of paper, opening our minds and hearts to these new sensations.

I strongly believe that it is never too late to start collecting drawings; they need not be Old Masters or expensive. There’s a vast array of wondrous things, and it might be easier to focus on a certain period, school or subject matter, but whatever the outcome, it can never be anything but deeply rewarding!

Diane Nixon, 2011

Diane Nixon is a Trustee of The Morgan Library & Museum, The Master Drawings Association, The American Associates of the Royal Academy, an American Trustee of the British Museum and a member of the Trustees' Council of The National Gallery of Art, Washington DC., as well as being on the Visiting Committee of The Smith College Museum of Art.