Dealer Bill Lowe, who cultivated Wayne’s taste and helped him acquire the Basquiat, among other pieces in the collection, seconds that sensibility. “Wayne has always been attracted to work that is emotional,” says Lowe, who owns eponymous galleries in Atlanta and Santa Monica. “He doesn’t buy something thinking about what he’s going to do with it in 10 or 20 years. He buys it because he can’t live without it.”

Fortunately for Wayne, his wife, Mindy, is in agreement. “I’d live on ketchup packets and hot water rather than sell our art,” she says. Mindy’s comment brings up an interesting point. When she and Wayne discuss their favorite pieces, they do so in spiritual terms. In the garden and on the deck, the couple display two life-sized Deborah Butterfield horse sculptures. As Wayne leads me out to view these rather stoic equines made from an assortment of found metal, he moves slowly, quietly, as if the figures were alive. “It’s astonishing to me that someone could make something so evocative from found metal,” he says in a hushed tone. “I’d have a whole herd of Butterfield horses if I could.”

Another favorite sculpture is a 6-foot-high Senufo bird carving from the Ivory Coast, created 300 to 400 years ago. These impressive statues, which represent the Yellow-casqued Hornbill, often stood in the center of African villages. The bird’s long, phallic beak, reaching down to touch its swollen belly, suggests fertility and symbolizes the harmony of man and woman as the key to ensuring the continuity of the whole community. “It’s elegant and regal, and has such a lovely patina,” Wayne says, running a hand down the side of the smooth wood.

Walking through their house, Wayne and Mindy point out other, more contemporary pieces they love, such as an evocative ziegenkopf (goat head) (1987) by German artist Markus Lüpertz, a glass sculpture of a bull-like figure with the body of man (2004) by William Morris and a ghostly painting of a school of white guppies (1998) by Donald Sultan.

Though many of the couple’s favorite pieces depict animals, they say there is no common thread, such as medium, school or era, in the collection. “Every one speaks to me and teaches me something,” he says. “They’re like different members of an extended family. And like living with your family, living with varied pieces teaches you to enjoy their differences.”

David Lansing writes on architecture and interior design for the Los Angeles Times and other publications.