In 1959, the same year my mother wrote to her brother for money, the Friends’ Acquisitions Committee gave ten paintings and drawings, including James Brooks’s Rasalus, Stuart Davis’s Paris Bit, and Conrad Marca-Relli’s Junction — works only possible for the Museum to acquire through the Friends.
Besides these gifts, members and others individually gave important paintings that year, as they have in most years.
In the late ’50s and early ’60s, I began to know the leaders of the Friends. I liked them; their interest in and commitment to the Whitney impressed and moved me. Mostly, they formed a world of successful businessmen or wealthy individuals who had managed to keep their interest in art and ideas alive, while working hard toward personal success.
The Friends saw the Museum’s weakness in decision-making, in funding, in leadership. They wanted to help. And they wanted a voice in policy, in deciding how much money to raise and how to spend it; in determining whether our building was adequate and well situated for our mission; in examining the possibility of expansion.
These were the main characters:
Arthur Altschul, a partner in Goldman Sachs, had a family fortune of his own from his Lehman relations. He collected mainly French Nabis, American Pointillists, and “The Eight.” Since the Whitney’s collection was rooted in “The Eight,” the so-called Ashcan School of artists who had made “ugly” paintings, as critics at the time often called them — realistic scenes of daily life, not glamorous or sentimental — Arthur was drawn to the Whitney, although not to its more contemporary purchases. With his distinguished German ancestry and his respected business position, Arthur was a natural aristocrat. We remained good friends until the ’80s, when he became disenchanted with Tom Armstrong, the Whitney’s director, and with the Museum’s waning commitment to artists whose work he owned and loved. (Essentially a museum of contemporary art, the Whitney did exhibit those historically important artists, though not as often as before.)
B. H. Friedman was then an executive in his uncles’ construction firm, Uris Brothers. “Bob” was already writing the books and articles soon to become the center of his only profession. Close to artists and writers, he and his wife, Abby, became our friends as well as associates at the Museum.
Roy Neuberger, head of the investment firm of Neuberger and Berman, eventually gave his collection to the State University at Purchase, New York, where Governor Nelson Rockefeller named the museum for Roy. A small, intense, ambitious man, with a gimlet eye and a genial manner, Roy had strong views about art — and everything else, too.
David Solinger, once a painter, now a collector, was a lawyer heading the firm of Solinger and Gordon. Careful with words, eager to take the lead in deliberations and decisions, David was critical, opinionated, but dedicated to the Whitney, giving generously of his time and money. Along with the others, David’s voice was authoritative on the Friends’ acquisitions committee. One legend has him saying to Willem de Kooning, who was painting Door to the River, one of the Museum’s icons: “Put down your brush, Bill! It’s finished! It’s the Whitney’s!”
Alan Temple was a distinguished banker and an exceptionally thoughtful collector. Alan’s gentle voice and firm, wise way impressed others at meetings, especially those about budgetary matters. He became the Museum’s first treasurer.
These were the men Jack and Lloyd had picked to become trustees.
But before any such major change could transpire, a behind-the-scenes controversy took place. Not everyone was in favor of adding nonfamily members to the board. My parents’ advisors were cautious, urging the family to keep control of the Museum.
Between 1959 and 1961, thirty years after the Museum’s founding, my mother still struggled with these conflicting points of view, bringing me, now, into the deliberations.
Lloyd Goodrich had pushed for the change.
For some time I had felt, about the structure of the Museum, that our board of trustees should be larger. This idea was not at first agreed with by my colleagues on the staff, nor by our trustees; and I understood their reasons. We were in a fortunate position. Our trustees, all but one of whom were members of Mrs. Whitney’s family, had been associated with the Museum for many years. They had never tried to control the staff too much, as so many Museum trustees do. They had never failed to back us up. We couldn’t have had a better board. I must say that all of us, both trustees and staff, when we finally came around to the idea of enlarging the board, had many qualms; we felt that we might be giving up some of our independence. But it seemed to me we had to widen our support; I couldn’t see how we could continue to grow without doing so.
How I wish I’d asked Lloyd later if, indeed, he felt he’d given up some of that essential independence.
Watt Dunnington, shocked by the proposal, wrote his thoughts to my mother in May of 1960. She and my father were leaving to spend the summer in Gertrude’s Paris studio. Dunnington sent his letter to the Liberté, “so you and Cully will have a chance to think [my thoughts] over and you will not discuss them with anyone until your return next September.” He advised her to destroy his memoranda, “as I would not like to take any chance of their reaching the files of the Museum.” Opposed to the concept of nonfamily trustees, he suggested instead an operating committee, such as existed in most corporations, which would report to the board.
Then his condescension grew evident. “I believe such a committee would serve two functions: First, it would give Lloyd Goodrich recognition that he seems to want. Secondly, it would let the Friends and also Flora have an opportunity to discuss various projects concerning the Museum and art in general. I think it would serve to stimulate their interest.”
He intimated that Lloyd Goodrich was more “concerned with his position in the art world” than with the Museum’s future and should not be made a trustee. “Mrs. Whitney,” Dunnington continued, “in creating the Museum wanted its policies controlled by her and then she wanted you and her other children to control the policies and future of the Museum; consequently, she did not want to have a large number of trustees. I feel that Lloyd has to realize that we want a unique Whitney Museum rather than just a big Museum where there are lots of people, many of whom are not desirable. If the Museum ever gets away from the Whitney family its purposes will be defeated and you will never be able to restore them.”
Finally, he advised my mother to have a frank talk with me. He thought my interest should be encouraged, although I was “too easily influenced by Lloyd, Mr. Solinger, and the members of the Friends. I think they try to get at her believing she will be able to influence you.”
My parents’ trusted office manager, J. S. Mackey, wrote in a similar vein, “Surely a way can be found to appease the Friends of the Whitney without increasing the number of trustees, which seems such an unnecessary and dangerous proceeding.”
Both men offered valid arguments about the negative aspects of institutionalization. However, I sense underlying motives, including a desire to maintain their own control over family decisions and family fortunes. Probably, too, these ambitions were reinforced by anti-Semitism, glimpses of which I caught from time to time. My mother had no racial or ethnic intolerance. She accepted or rejected people as individuals. So it happened, at that time, that many collectors of contemporary American art found a warm welcome at the Whitney lacking at other museums and cultural institutions.
Reading these letters years later, I realize that, while I reject Watt’s prejudice, his predictions were accurate. The Museum could never again be the unique institution it had been — an institution with a tiny, family board, a board that trusted implicitly in its staff and shared its vision, a board that each year made up the deficit with no complaints, a board that never, never tried to influence programs. A board that thought it all great fun, as well as vitally important. But this board no longer had the capacity to fund this institution. And the institution could no longer survive without more money.
Although I found him insensitive and his thi
nking out-of-date, Watt Dunnington was right about one other thing: I had an influence in this key decision. And my mind was made up. The Museum needed these intelligent, committed men, already an intrinsic part of my enchantment with the new world I was entering, as trustees. These new friends were good. Good for the Whitney, good for me, too. They would revitalize the inactive board, they would ensure the Museum’s future.
My mother listened to my passionate advocacy, along with Jack’s and Lloyd’s reasoned opinions, and agreed that the Museum could become a truly public institution, as Gertrude had wished it to be, only by expanding the board.
But what did “truly public” mean?
Supported by the public, certainly — in proportion to its accessibility and accountability to that public.
In May 1961 the board approved a statement of thanks to be made on its behalf by my mother at the annual meeting of the Friends:
“The contribution which the Friends have made by their purchases to the Museum’s permanent collection has been of vital importance; without it the Museum could not possibly have done justice to the quality and variety of contemporary American Art. In all of their other activities, such as their loan exhibitions and their aid with publications, the Friends have strengthened the Museum’s program incalculably.”
At the next trustees meeting, on June 21, 1961, we chose nine “elective” trustees, meaning they had no say about the Museum’s quasi endowment, a distinction abolished in 1964. Besides those named above, in addition to the existing seven “permanent” trustees, three insiders joined the board: Lloyd Goodrich, Jack Baur, and my husband, Michael H. Irving, who during the Museum’s next move was to become associate architect of our next building. I was delighted that Mike was now on the board.
Roy Neuberger wrote to tell my mother about his pleasure. “As you know, I believe that the Whitney Museum has done more for the American artist since its founding than any other institution, and I will attempt to help work toward this end.”
And Bob Friedman wrote, “I am pleased to accept this honor, and look forward to participating actively in the work of the Museum. This work has, in the past, and will, I am sure, continue to be a great source of satisfaction to me.”
The election made news.
“How interesting that four of the five trustees you appointed are Jewish,” a reporter said to my mother.
“Really?” she replied. “We simply asked those members of the Friends who were the most interested and involved.” An honest answer. Mum just didn’t think as many others did — although she realized how unusual her attitude was for that time. Other cultural institutions had few, if any, Jews on their boards. Still, following its tradition of embracing new and sometimes controversial art, the Whitney remained open to new patrons from different worlds and backgrounds.
Trustees’ meetings were different now. We had agendas, we set dates, we tried to be more formal. Meetings were longer, more substantive, livelier. We talked more and more of expansion, of moving. In a letter I told my parents how I felt after such a discussion: “The meeting was fantastic — like watching a superb basketball team … they tossed the problem like a ball, back and forth, for about two hours, without stopping or ever interrupting each other, and came up at the end of it with this great idea.”
Assuming this brainstorming to be a technique used in business meetings, I was impressed by the level of participation and of ideas. Now that I’ve been to thousands of meetings, I realize how much time can be consumed in this way. I understand why directors and staff were sometimes irritated when their informed knowledge on a given subject was drowned out by trustees’ eager “off-the-top-of-my-head” chatter. In the beginning, however, the mutual respect between staff and board made such meetings quite productive.
As my mother chaired them, I could see how important this was to her. Shy yet engaging, she would greet each trustee, and recognize each raised hand. I once watched her speak at a fund-raising lunch, knowing how nervous she was while seeing how persuasive her words were.
Our relationship was changing.
When we were together, we talked much more about the Museum than anything else — more than about my siblings’ marriages or divorces, more than about my own children.
When Mum and I planned together, I felt the intimacy I’d missed as a child. I was happy. I believe she was, too. She had read Kipling to me, the Mowgli stories we both loved, and perhaps we were a bit like those jungle beasts confronted by a strange animal needing help to grow up. My mother and I drew together around this separate entity, as she had done with her mother. The Museum was the center of our relationship.
Like proud parents, we celebrated each new step, sharing the Museum’s joys and problems, unaware that one day it would grow so far from us.
Mum sat at the head of the table like a queen. Though she was neither distant nor autocratic, others, nonetheless, saw her as a regal presence. Gradually, too, they felt her warmth, they saw her enthusiasm. Through the veil of well-brought-up politeness, which bound me, too, she made each trustee feel her personal charm, the warmth of her approval. To each suggestion, to each gift, she responded with intensity. “Ooooh, David, how wonderful!” she would breathe, and you could see this formal, cautious lawyer begin to thaw. “Arthur, you didn’t, oh, that’s too marvelous!” and Arthur’s “successful businessman” mask would melt away.
I watched, critical, wishing she’d be brilliant, instead. Witty. Tough. At the time, I suppose I thought I could do better. Probably I was a little envious, too — everyone admired her so! I wrote to my parents, in Paris that summer: “The party at the Museum was quite terrific and full of celebrities — but so many people asked me where you were that I began to feel like a has-been, or isn’t-yet, or something! Really you were very missed and finally, in desperation, I began saying ‘I’m here instead!’ which startled people a little!” And I knew how hard it was for her, too. She didn’t want this public role. It was really painful for her. With immense effort, she would prepare for days, making notes on little pads of paper or on the agendas themselves, discussing the meetings with Jack and Lloyd, and planning with her maid what she would wear — which suit, which blouse, which hat.
She led the meetings — and the Museum — beautifully. A natural politician, she made the disparate group of trustees work together as one board.
Every so often, during meetings, Mum would glance at my father, who would smile reassuringly, then return to doodling on his pad, making sketches I wish we’d preserved. He caught the flavor of the discourse, capturing each of us with an affectionate, satirical, flowing line.
In 1962 my cousin, Barklie Henry, took the place of his mother Barbara Headley on the board. He was perhaps the biggest influence on my thinking about the Museum in those days. At the time, he was living in Washington, winding down his involvement with the CIA (for which he’d worked briefly), running a laundromat, driving racing cars, being interested in art, making films and music, writing.
Barklie had lived in our house on Long Island during the war, when we were both teenagers, while his mother was ill and his father was an officer in the Navy. He was my idol. He looked very much like our Vanderbilt ancestors, those who had made the family fortune, with his strong features and a big, slightly hooked nose. Funny, intelligent, and outspoken, he planned to become a doctor, and during summers home from Exeter he worked as an orderly in the operating room at the Glen Cove hospital. Arriving home in blood-spattered clothes with a burst of energy, he’d head right for the old Victrola in our living room and play jazz records at top pitch, much to my parents’ dismay. (He himself played bass fiddle; Whitney Balliett, now the distinguished jazz critic for the New Yorker, was his close friend.) “But Auntie Flora, these records are beautiful, and really valuable. Just listen for a few minutes, please?” But Bark could never really communicate his enthusiasm to such unwilling ears. His toeless, battered, bloodstained sneakers were another source of my parents’ irritation, but my father’s te
asing only elicited Barklie’s hearty belly laugh, shaking his whole body, as they begged him at least to change them for dinner. All I wanted was to spend hours with Barklie, learning about life, especially sex, about which I felt he knew everything and I nothing. He, however, was understandably more attracted to my beautiful older sister, Pam, who had come back home with her baby while her husband was overseas in the army. He probably hoped to get much the same from her as I did from him. I was overjoyed when, replacing the Polish workers who had gone off to war, I went to work on my uncle’s farm plucking chickens. In the evenings, I could sit there all day and listen to Pam and Barklie’s jokes and conversations. Or drive with them in my aunt’s electric car to the movies in the village, a rare treat because of gas rationing. Or, best of all, ride behind Barklie on his powerful motorcycle — that was a thrill.
Close friends and associates in the ’60s, Barklie and I conferred regularly about the Museum. His life in a bigger world, his distance from the Museum and from my parents, had given him a perspective I didn’t have. All too aware of the insular world I’d come from, I was often unsure of my thoughts and capability. So I valued Bark’s advice and came to rely on it. Convinced our grandmother would have approved, he was all for broadening the board even more and for expanding the Museum.
In long, thoughtful letters after board meetings, he often criticized what he saw as weakness in my mother’s running of those meetings and her reluctance to accept what the new members were offering: not only money, but their ideas about organization, committees, responsibilities they were willing to undertake, leadership they were eager to provide. But there was no follow-through on those ideas and offers, Barklie worried, after these meetings. He had a vision of the Museum as wide as my grandmother’s original dream, and he felt it could only come about with more money from the new trustees — from still more trustees, in fact. I agreed. I had, after all, been a prime mover in the original decision to enlarge the board. But now I was learning its consequence: inexorable growth. Finding it good, finding it exciting, I failed to understand the necessary concomitant of that growth: an endless need for money.
The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made Page 15
