It is hard to not feel rattled entering Tom Healy’s downtown Manhattan apartment, where an old-fashioned manually operated elevator opens to a blinding threshold of throbbing neon light. Healy likes to let his guests pass through this strange portal unattended, the better to record their bewildered expressions on video, which is projected on a couple of small flat screens inside. “Lite-Gate,” an installation by the New York–based art collective Lo-Tek, is just one of many compellingly weird and splendid works of contemporary art throughout Healy’s 2,500-square-foot place.

The man himself cuts a figure as intimidating as his entranceway. With his natty Prada gabardine suit and bald pate giving off a subtle sheen, Healy looks every bit the part of a former art-gallery owner—one who helped pioneer the massive gallery migration to Chelsea in the early 1990s. He is a warm and willing storyteller, happy to discuss any piece in his apartment, and he readily admits that what is most meaningful to him often involves more than aesthetics alone. “I rarely collect the work of artists I haven’t met.” Healy says. Now the head of the Arts Council Manhattan (formerly the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council), he has a professional mission to help artists continue to work in Manhattan, despite skyrocketing rents that have undermined the borough’s ability to nurture creativity. It dovetails nicely with his personal passion: “In some ways I think of myself as a friend and supporter of emerging artists rather than a collector.”

A glance around the grand apartment he shares with his partner, Fred Hochberg, the dean of Milano The New School for Management and Urban Policy, yields a formidable list of art-world movers and shakers. In the living room, a large photograph by Nan Goldin of boys in Japan during cherry-blossom season abuts a boldly colorful painting by Lowell Boyers. A rifle stand covered in fur by Robert Beck sits near Toland Grinnell’s golden mold of Healy’s middle finger. An odd landscape by Jay Davis occupies prime real estate above the sofa, and the fireplace holds a small television atop a fire extinguisher, one of two pieces in the room by maverick video artists Casey and Van Neistat. There are also two square “paintings” by Tom Sachs, an irreverent multimedia artist—one made from overlapping torn pieces of white duct tape (his “taped Robert Ryman,” Healy suggests), the other of layered pewter brushstrokes in reflective paint, which disappears when photographed (his “invisible painting”).

There are also plenty of framed photographs, including one of Healy playfully struggling with a cow. He grew up on a dairy farm in Cooperstown, N.Y., and was the first person in his family to go to college. “Harvard changed my life,” he says. But had his philosophy major failed to inspire him to pursue a life in the arts, he could have fallen back on his skills in auto mechanics and welding—which a guidance counselor suggested he learn in case he had trouble getting a job after college.

Given his background, it’s fitting that Healy gravitates toward art that offers more than meets the eye. His favorite work in the apartment is rather modest: a lone dark squiggle against a white background, painted on wood by Robert Therrian, a “very eccentric” Los Angeles–based artist. Therrian usually works large, and the painting was a study for a giant wood coil in the front yard of his studio. When Healy saw the painting, he said, “I have to have that.” Therrian demurred—the painting was above his own kitchen table—but later gave it as a gift. “I think it’s most important to me because of that friendship,” Healy says reflectively.

He has just as much artwork in storage, both here and at his place in Miami Beach. Even with all the art on display, the apartment feels homey, with plenty of color and warmth. Scattered among the furniture, much of which came from Parisian flea markets, are a few collector’s items, such as the ceiling lamps by Emile Jacques Ruhlmann (who also designed Healy’s simple wooden desk) and a fireplace set by Donald Deskey.

A published poet, Healy will see his first book of poetry come out next year. Above his bed is a neon sign he created that reads AMPLE MAKE THIS BED, the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem. It casts a nice urban glow. “I like art that’s about ideas,” Healy explains. “Not simply about the thing itself.”

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Emily Bobrow is an editor for The Economist’s website and a contributor to the magazine. She also contributes to the book section of the New York Observer and Time Out New York.