Copyright © 1999, 2012 by Flora Miller Biddle
Foreword copyright © 2017 by Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62872-801-9
EISBN: 978-1-62872-809-5
Front jacket portrait of Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney by Robert Henri, collection of Whitney Museum of American Art, photograph copyright © 1999 by Whitney Museum of American Art
Printed in the United States of America
In loving memory of
Flora Whitney Miller
and
Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney
A museum should be never finished,
but boundless and ever in motion.
Goethe
Contents
Foreword Lessons for a Daughter
Preface
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Aftermath
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Plates
Foreword
Lessons for a Daughter
My mother judiciously surveys her garden, reaching high above her head to pluck a cherry tomato from the bumper crop in her raised bed. Her constant companion, the cherished Lhasa Apso, Dihki, hovers at her feet. Mom gathers a basketful of these golden gems, the modest satisfaction of her labor—and wonder at the beauty of these natural marvels—vivid in her determined, serene gaze. At eighty-seven, she retains the elegant bearing that speaks of disciplined childhood days spent on horseback, and walks with her nanny, a book perched on my mom’s head, while they chanted French nursery rhymes on the red clay roads near her South Carolina home. My mother’s beaming face gives way to a frown as we water the garden yet again. She can’t resist affirming her distress at humanity’s failure to curb global warming, before we retreat to the cool interior of the summer house our family shares in northwestern Connecticut.
There, we have the illusion of time to dream up a delicious meal, play a game of cribbage or tackle the Times crossword together. There is freedom for more expansive conversation, about family, the presidential election, books, art and artists, home maintenance, bills. And, inevitably, our talk turns to the Whitney Museum. Today, we wonder at how the Museum, in its new home on Gansevoort Street, would amaze and enchant my great-grandmother, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney. Not only would she admire the light-filled and supple indoor and outdoor galleries, and exclaim over the theater, classrooms, and conservation center, as well as the generous views to the city and river, she would no doubt be astonished by the general surge of interest in contemporary art today. We spend time poring over two of my great-grandmother’s many red leather journals, these ones recounting in tremendous detail, with photographs, trips to Europe. Penned in her loose, stylish script, each contains complex descriptions of the works of art, churches, and mosques she favored on visits to Constantinople, Florence, Paris, and Venice. My mother wants to do something with these journals, to find a way to offer these traces of a lively creative life to a larger audience. In this, as in so many ways, she is the Whitney’s — and our family’s—link to its essential history.
And just as our shared interest in family and love for the Museum tightly binds my mother and me, we recognize in our kindred spirit a bond with my great-grandmother and my grandmother, Flora Whitney Miller. It continues today with the fifth generation of Whitney women engaged in the life of the Museum, including my niece, Flora Irving, and my daughter, Flora Donovan. These thoughtful, assertive young women seek new ways to contribute to the Whitney; their plucky enthusiasm for art and artists, Museum staff, and patrons is palpable. As my mother writes so beautifully in this book, “I see these generations weaving in and out of each other. I look at a daughter and see my grandmother; one granddaughter becomes my mother, another seems like myself in some long ago past. The wheel of life turns, and I’m blessed to have experienced so much love. Nothing else matters as much.”
Flora Whitney Miller was a captivating woman with glamorous red-lacquered nails and carefully coiffed hair who favored sprightly modern Chanel pantsuits. She had a winning sense of style and oozed charm. When I visited her late in her life, she longed to hear everything about the Museum she had cared for and transformed after her mother’s death in 1942. A congenial confidante who loved hearing tales of her grandchildren’s youthful indiscretions, she also spun mesmerizing tales about the artists who hung around the first Whitney Museum on Eighth Street, as well as the mix of European and American art often on view there and the openings jammed with artists and musicians.
When I was growing up in Connecticut, it was only at the dinner table that I got a sense of some exotic terrain beyond the suburbs, a life of art and artists, of lively events in New York at this mysterious, cool place—the Whitney Museum—that was a frequent topic of conversation. My parents also spoke with some handwringing of balancing budgets and fundraising on the one hand and with enthusiastic joy on the other about the wonderful art they saw and artists they came to know. Guided by my parents’ multifaceted model and my own education, I came to agree with my mother and grandmother that the Whitney was—and is—vitally important and that it is our responsibility to care for it, while also finding it an enjoyable and satisfying place to spend time. I have served as a trustee for a decade and chaired and sat on many committees since the mid-1980s. Even though my involvement doesn’t compare with that of my forebears, I know that the Whitney will always be a significant part of my life.
Now, it is gratifying to see the sparkle of excitement on my children’s faces, as well as their cousins’, as they come to the Museum to view art and interact with the Whitney community. To my daughter, Flora, who feels a joyful and appreciative sense of “inherited responsibility” for the Whitney, it is meaningful that “there’s space in a family for a woman to have power.” In addition, Flora’s combined interests in making art and in art history amplify her appreciation for the Museum. My niece, Flora, has been actively involved in the Whitney for several years. Continually inspired by the generations of Whitn
ey women, Flora observes that there is a “tradition of a strikingly modern female binary: by acting as maternal stewards who nurtured and protected the Museum’s spirit, our forebears also served as trailblazers who challenged boundaries and championed the new. Upholding this legacy,” she adds, “is a way to honor and connect with those who came before us.”
Even as it grows, the Whitney continues to retain many of the endearing characteristics of a wonderful family. How could we resist being a part of such a place? It has provided a link for all of us, a significant interest we share, with wisdom passed along. In this way, it has brought a succession of mothers and daughters and cousins a certain intimacy, as happens when families are caring for and finding delight and stimulation in what they cherish.
Since the first edition of this book was published fifteen years ago, the Whitney Museum has experienced spectacular growth. In many ways, this memoir, with its forthright, engaging history of the Whitney, is even more relevant now than it was then. My mother’s chronicle provides a key perspective for a new generation seeing the Museum on Gansevoort Street with fresh eyes, and for others to revisit its past in this new context. And, given the Whitney’s trajectory from a family-run museum to a major public institution, my mother’s story offers food for thought in light of the recent rise of private museums in the United States and beyond. Perhaps most significantly, this book voices the singular dedication of three women—my great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother—working toward a common cause.
Reading my mother’s words in The Whitney Women, I am struck anew by her sustained openness to the new, as well as her deep fascination with everyone she engages with and her eagerness to consider different perspectives. She is always learning. A well-timed event informed my mother’s period of deepest involvement at the Whitney—a class she took when she returned to college as an adult in the 1970s. Assigned a seminar paper on “a woman who had influenced her,” my mother decided to write about her grandmother. She turned to her mother for research, who directed her to her attic (in the Old Westbury, Long Island, home that had once been Gertrude’s). There, my mom discovered a treasure trove of journals, letters, photograph albums, couture gowns, exotic costumes, and works of art. My great-grandmother was an incessant scribbler, and her journals alone numbered in the hundreds. This became a major organizational project for my mother, one that offered intimate insight into the genesis of the Whitney Museum and gave her a unique scholarly perspective as she became increasingly consumed by the life of the Museum. I well remember as a teenager watching my mother ready to tear her hair out as she sat by her typewriter, deciphering yet another of my great-grandmother’s endless lists of people to invite to dinner, plans for the Museum, notes for a sculpture commission or Line-A-Days. What a labor of love. The assignment eventually morphed into a major book project—a biography of Gertude—researched by my mother and written by B.H. Friedman.
My mother became president of the Whitney Museum in 1977. With her generous and welcoming spirit and her prodigious work ethic, she proved to be a tireless, engaging fundraiser, and a major champion of the Whitney. She developed an unusually close working relationship with Director Tom Armstrong, as they strategized together, made decisions, and kept in touch with trustees and collectors. They created new patron committees, traveling widely to increase the Whitney’s public profile and connect with people involved in the arts in other cities. They raised funds for traveling exhibitions to show more of the permanent collection than the Breuer building could accommodate and encouraged collectors to donate significant works of art to the Museum. At the same time, Tom hired a devoted, rambunctious group of excellent young curators who helped reaffirm the Museum’s commitment to living artists and developed a range of historical and contemporary exhibitions, many radical in scope and effect. The Museum dedicated itself to supporting emerging and mid-career artists, at the same time working to build the preeminent collection of twentieth-century American art.
In spite of her unassuming nature, my mother boldly accepted her leadership role and the serious responsibility that it entailed. She became adept at running meetings, working to put in place a leadership structure and inspiring prospective leaders. In tandem with Tom, she welcomed and encouraged patrons to become increasingly engaged with the Museum through dinners with artists and curators, exhibition tours, education events, and performances. She often sat down one-on-one with trustees to articulate plans and simply listen. She delivered talks and toasts—never overly long—with disarming ease and grace, including meaningful excerpts from favorite poems or the words of an artist, always taking special care to generously acknowledge those present. Even as a sometimes jaded college student, I recognized and marveled at my mom’s relish of new experiences and enthusiasm for all she was taking in.
At events with artists, patrons, and Museum staff my mother has an extraordinary gift for making people feel at home. She collaborated with staff and volunteers to create a stimulating community, maintaining the Whitney’s familial feel as it grew. As the finely spun anecdotes in this book reveal, my mother worked with great aplomb, lightening her endeavors with an endearing good humor, affection, and great sense of fun. I particularly remember her unbridled joy at riding on the elephant Targa to save the Calder Circus. She hosted hundreds of lively dinners and parties, many of which I was fortunate to attend, with a broad mix of guests of different backgrounds and persuasions. One summer, she and Tom even sold tomatoes grown on the roof of the Museum to raise endowment funds. Like her mother and grandmother, my mother’s natural grace combines with a mischievous informality. She has always felt a special kinship with the Whitney staff, developing close friendships through her association with the Museum, and has passed on her respect and appreciation for their abiding dedication to her children, to her grandchildren, and now to her great-grandchildren.
My mother became Museum chair in 1985. Though somewhat less involved in the Museum’s day-to-day operations, she remained a central force for community. She was devastated when, in 1989, after fifteen years as director, the board leadership asked Tom Armstrong to resign. Although she steadfastly maintained her support for him, she was torn by loyalty to Tom (who ultimately became Director Emeritus) and the best interests of the Museum, ultimately choosing to stay on as chair to ensure a smooth transition in leadership—a key decision that represented stability at a time of tremendous demoralization for the institution. As her daughter, it was crushing to watch, though I came away with renewed respect for my mother’s dignified resilience.
The years after Tom’s departure were challenging for the Whitney and its next two directors, David Ross (1991-1998) and Max Anderson (1998-2003). David’s passion for the new and experimental led him to encourage the curators to reconsider the art historical cannon. Under his tenure, the Museum had some of its most polarizing and influential exhibitions, including the 1993 “politically correct” Biennial and curator Thelma Golden’s authoritative, 1994 “Black Male.” David has a poetic sensibility. Full of enthusiasm for artists and ideas, he challenged the curators and board to reexamine the definition of American art and experimented with ways of amplifying the scope of the Museum’s exhibition and collecting programs. During David’s tenure, the Breuer building turned its fifth-floor offices into eight thousand square feet of additional exhibition space, increasing opportunities to show its permanent collection.
When David resigned, the board chose Max Anderson, a polished academic with a strong background in Greco-Roman art, to lend a more scholarly perspective and provide a new management model. In addition, Max brought a keen interest in technology, aiming to explore the relevance of the surging development of new media in museums. Max’s greatest legacy was his hiring of the Whitney’s first full-time conservator, the innovative Carol Mancusi-Ungaro, who has revolutionized the way conservators work with artists to support their production and protect their work. One hallmark of the Whitney curatorial staff was its collaborative nature. Max upended this struc
ture and the Whitney’s collegial atmosphere, assigning each curator a “portfolio” or area of responsibility. Many longtime staff members departed, frustrated with the lack of direction or simply seeking change.
With the Whitney’s identity wavering and other NewYork museums turning their attention to contemporary art, many critics questioned whether the Whitney was still viable. Both David and Max, working closely with the board leadership, had overextended themselves as they continued to explore physical growth, never coming to terms with a workable plan, their efforts further challenged by periods of financial deficits. In 2003, Max resigned after the trustees decided not to go forward with a planned expansion designed by the Rotterdam architect Rem Koolhaas. It was a pivotal moment in the Whitney’s history, as its board and staff worked to regain its strength and sense of mission.
That year, the board turned to Adam Weinberg and the Museum began its current trajectory. Adam, an experienced curator, already knew the Whitney well, having been hired by Tom Armstrong in 1989 as Director of the Whitney at Equitable Center. He also worked as Curator of the Permanent Collection and Senior Curator in the 1990s. Adam’s hiring was a felicitous turn of events for my mom and me. Adam and I had worked together at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, under one of the greatest director-curators ever, the demanding Martin Friedman, in the early 1980s. As often happens when people find themselves in an unfamiliar place, we became fast friends, drawn to each other in part by our East Coast extraction. At the Whitney, Adam delighted in his relationship with my mother, which flourished thanks to their mutual admiration for artists, passion for the Whitney’s ideals and generally gregarious natures.
Not only does Adam have a deep appreciation and understanding of the Whitney’s mission; he is a jovial and tireless leader. In addition to his tremendous love and respect for artists and art, he has a generous way with all people. Something of a pied piper, Adam always finds time for a relaxed greeting or conversation, sowing good will. Adam has united the Board of Trustees, prudently adding a refreshing group of knowledgeable young collectors. He has also reorganized the staff, in the process, hiring (in some cases, rehiring) several excellent curators and other senior staff members. In addition, he stabilized the Museum’s finances, and, perhaps most significantly, he turned the Museum once again toward expansion.
The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made Page 1
