Today, if I could, would I change the decisions we made then?
Probably not.
But I wish I’d fully realized the scope of our need for money.
Yet Barklie believed family leadership was crucial, and that I must be ready to provide it. That scared me! I wasn’t ready, either for the responsibility, or to leave home for the amount of time needed. And Barklie worried about his role. Considering his ambition to be an artist, he was reluctant to be part of an institution passing judgment on artists. Still, he felt he could find time in his life to “contribute something serious and honest in counterweight to what is so prevalent today around museums and galleries: pretense, fraud, social ambition, careerism.”
He thought our meetings were too “loose.” “This ‘looseness’ I speak of is a delicate matter. Naturally you want to preserve informality. On the other hand, I feel that the new members would respond to a more purposeful sort of atmosphere and would accept demands on their own time (and money) in some proportion to their feeling of momentum and purposefulness about the meetings. … It has most to do with your mother and the embarrassment and modesty she naturally feels as chairman of that high-powered a group.”
They all adored my mother. Revered her, really. Especially Bob Friedman. He likened her to a literary character he greatly admired, Proust’s Duchesse de Guermantes. Once, when they came in to a meeting together, Mother said with huge enthusiasm, “Oh Bob, I heard you last night on Long John Nebel, you were marvelous!” Bob said, horrified, “Oh Mrs. Miller, surely you weren’t listening! Were you shocked?” “Oh no,” said Mum, “I’m fascinated by all that, I always wondered what it would be like to take drugs, and you spoke so eloquently. …” Bob, looking abashed, explained to the other perplexed listeners that he’d taken part in an experimental program at Harvard with Timothy Leary and Richard Alpert to explore the effects of hallucinogenic drugs on creativity, and had been interviewed about the experience on a popular all-night talk show. Mum often awoke and turned on her radio in the middle of the night; this time, she had happened to hear Bob. The use of hallucinogenic drugs was extremely controversial and unconventional, and Bob was flabbergasted that my mother not only accepted his experience but found it intriguing. Her response cemented their friendship forever.
And years later, my mother trusted Bob to write about her great heroine — her mother.
The new trustees, including Jack and Lloyd, wanted to make the decision to expand, to move. We were losing our identity to that of the Museum of Modern Art, they said. People weren’t sure where the one ended and the other began.
Moreover, our building wasn’t nearly big enough for the grand Museum they envisioned. They wanted more space for the collection, for performance, for lectures, for sculpture, for temporary exhibitions, for storage, for a library — the list went on and on.
Soon, even my mother became convinced. I already was. The fundraisers we consulted were dubious, looking at the fairly meager fortunes of board members, but they became more optimistic as we added other members. And despite their relatively small assets, those early trustees were incredibly generous. Bob in particular stretched his gift to the utmost, hoping to inspire those with larger means to give more. Mum’s “Oooohs” became more fervent, and with reason.
Which new trustees from those days remain vivid in my memory?
When Barklie and I couldn’t persuade Mum’s cousin Jock Whitney to join the board, Jock offered us a substitute: his right-hand man at J. H. Whitney & Company, Benno Schmidt, a powerful, determined Texan who undoubtedly did Jock’s bidding. Benno, a dynamo with a drawl, was used to having his own way. He respected my mother, was rather scornful of the rest of the board, and immediately undertook to raise our standards. He invited my parents, Mike and me, and Lloyd and Jack to dine with Laurance and Mary Rockefeller. We needed “clout,” he insisted, if we wanted to raise big money. Giving me an appraising look, he suggested a new dress, hinting that a more revealing one would help. I was seated next to Mr. Rockefeller, who immediately put me at my ease, and soon we were happily chatting — about what? Wilderness, travels, maybe art. It was a pleasant evening, and Mr. and Mrs. Rockefeller quickly became Laurance and Mary to us. It must have been a success from their point of view, too, since Mary soon agreed to become a trustee, and stayed on the board until she retired in 1989, having contributed both time and money to the Whitney’s education programs. Over the years, the Rockefellers supported our expansion with both encouragement and money, although the Whitney never became their primary interest — how could it have? They were committed to conservation and education, to the YWCA, to social and environmental causes.
Many times, however, our family had difficulty enlisting friends and relations in a cause those friends just didn’t care about. They were often offended by the Whitney’s exhibitions, or at least didn’t understand them. Why should they give money, even if they liked us a lot?
I remember a lovely woman, my mother’s goddaughter, who helped us, in the ’80s, as chairman of a benefit “Flower Ball.” After its success, I hoped she’d become a trustee, but she said, “I wanted to do it for you, for your mother, and for Tom (Armstrong, the director at that time), but I can’t do any more. I just don’t get what’s on the walls.”
And a cousin, Michael Straight, once vice-chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts, was deeply distressed at turning down our invitation to be a trustee, and said, “I can’t believe in what young artists are doing today.”
The Rockefellers were one of Benno’s gifts, but there were others, too. He entertained lavishly for the Whitney, bringing in donors to whom we had no access. Jock had received an equity-related security of Global Marine — an oilfield services company — worth a million dollars, which he turned over to the museum. His contribution put our $8 million campaign over the top.
Benno’s performance amazed my parents, Lloyd, Jack, Mike, and me, since we saw no evidence that he loved the art the Whitney showed. He was loyal to the family, because of Jock, and he certainly admired my mother. We were impressed, grateful, and a bit wary. Benno was our most powerful trustee, yet the nature of his commitment bewildered us.
What was he doing at the Museum? Surely loyalty to our cousin wasn’t enough? All the other trustees cared about contemporary American art, had collected it for years. Wondering about this, I woke slowly to new realities — about motives, about people.
Who else made us curious about their motives? Armand Erpf, recent president of the “Friends,” nicknamed the “Wizard of Wall Street,” a partner in Kuhn, Loeb and a highly educated, idiosyncratic man who loved art. His apartment and his upstate home and grounds in Arkville were filled with paintings and sculpture. Armand, reputed to be extremely right-wing, traveled in exalted intellectual circles. I remember once facetiously suggesting André Malraux as a speaker for a fund raising event; Armand snapped his fingers, said, “Yes, a great idea, I’ll go call him right away.” And he did! (Although Malraux didn’t come, Armand’s friendship with him pleased me to no end.)
Another time, at dinner at his house, I was seated between Armand and Jacob Javits, U.S. senator from New York, and heard their rather horrifying political discussion, with Armand stating unequivocally that Hitler had been one of the world’s greatest leaders.
My mother and Jack Baur put their heads together and concocted a persuasive letter from Mum to Jacqueline Kennedy, inviting her to join the board when Jack was president. She wasn’t on any other art museum board, and it would be a tremendous coup for the Whitney to have the First Lady with us — especially one so intellectual and popular, so identified with increasing America’s awareness of its culture. We were ecstatic when, in 1962, “Jackie” joined the board. What a statement about the significance of American art! What a validation of the Whitney’s goals and ambitions! She was quiet and supportive, looking lovely and perfectly turned out, smiling, and speaking softly, if at all. She usually sat next to my husband’s cousin, Harry du Pont, distingui
shed elderly scion of Winterthur, the magnificent house he had built in Delaware filled with his collection of American antiques, and advisor to the Kennedy White House on its collections. Although neither of these luminaries helped us financially, their presences were impressive and positive in other ways.
Knowing my daughter, Michelle, who was then at boarding school in New Hampshire, would be interested, I wrote her a short description. “Well, Jackie K. was very nice and friendly, and I hope we’ll get to know her better. We’re planning to ask her for lunch, and a private tour of the Museum, in a couple of weeks. She wore a very simple two piece white dress, and two beautiful turquoise and diamond pins, and her hair hadn’t been done too recently so she looked nice and natural, and acted that way too. She seemed tired, though — I wished I could ask her to the country with her children for a weekend of sledding and peace and quiet.”
Most of all Mike and I enjoyed the Friedmans. So did Barklie.
Bob is tall and intense, very good-looking, and under a smart, sharp wit, genuinely kind. His conversation could dazzle and ignite a whole roomful of guests. Off we’d all go for a drink after meetings — vodka martinis were then the thing — and talk and talk about the Museum. Soon Bob and Abby invited us to their house in Turtle Bay for dinner with some of their friends, people I’d dreamed of meeting: Bob Motherwell and Helen Frankenthaler, then married to each other, Philip Guston, Alfonso Ossorio.
What always engaged me about the Friedmans was how central art was to their lives. Even their bathrooms were filled with paintings by their friends. How eloquently they talked about art, with what passion and discrimination they acquired it. Bob had already published both fiction and nonfiction. Art and writing seemed to take precedence over everything else. They were at the center of a circle of creative people. We, however, lived far away, we weren’t really part of that world, and I knew it. Exciting as it was, like Jack Baur, I had other priorities.
When, in November 1962, we embarked on a campaign for a new building, my mother once again asked her brother to help:
Dear Sonny,
We have been through a very difficult year trying to find a way of letting the Museum of Modem Art acquire our Museum which they very much want and which we would be most willing to let them have if we could see our way clear to the purchase of other land. A very attractive and desirable piece of property has just become available on Madison Avenue and 75th Street. The price is $2,600,000. The Modern is offering us $1,600,000 for our building. We would have to raise about $4,500,000. The reasons for wishing to move are: First: When the Modern completes its vast building program we will be jammed into its complex and appear to be only its annex. Second: we need more space and if we add two floors by going up higher it will cost about $800,000 and we would have to raise another million to take care of the extra staff (and our now underpaid staff.) This project would not have much appeal in a fund raising drive.
Our new trustees are very much in favor of acquiring this land and they feel that with a well organized drive we could, in time, raise the money.
Last Friday two of our trustees told Lloyd Goodrich that they would give $100,000 each and they suggested we call a special meeting for Tuesday the 27th so as to inform the other trustees of the great advantage of getting this property, and of the need to organize a drive as soon as possible.
At this time I would hope that the family could show some solidarity, even if they are not willing to make a definite pledge. I know that you did a very fine thing in Cody, but New York was Mamma’s home, where she lived and worked all her life — and worked to encourage the artists of her time, just as she would be doing had she lived now — whether you, or I, like some of the art that is shown has really nothing to do with it.
The “Friends of the Whitney Museum,” (there are nearly 200 now) have shown their interest in many ways and we are quite sure that some of them will respond to this in a substantial way. But, as the children of the Founder of the only Museum devoted to American Art of this day, it would be a sad thing indeed if we could not give to perpetuate this vision of Mamma’s.
The answer came quickly in his own hand.
Dear Flora,
I have your nice long letter re plans for the Whitney. I’m truly sorry I cannot help you as I am full of admiration for the way you have worked on this and the splendid things you have accomplished. None of these things are easy and they take up a lot of time and energy.
On the whole we have had a wonderful year. …
A year or so later, Sonny wrote to my mother again, having heard she was ill and hoping “it is all over by now.” He continued: “We seem to be completely out of touch these days, tho why I do not know. Evidently we have some type of feud going, which would seem to me quite unnecessary, and which certainly has no current raison d’être that I know of. True, our paths don’t cross often, but is there any reason for coldness? Wish I knew. … I follow your plans for the new Whitney with wonder at your energy and ambition. …”
He never realized how much the Whitney meant to his sister, and why.
Nine
In 1963, the Museum acquired land at Seventy-fifth Street and Madison Avenue for a new building. A perfect lot, already excavated, saving both time and money. And a good deal — $2,050,000. Ian Woodner, an artist and collector, had been forced to sell this prime real estate. He’d had tax trouble, and was pleased to have us be the beneficiaries of his misfortune. I called my mother in Paris to tell her, and she wrote an excited note:
May 22, 2:45 P.M., Three quarters of an hour after talking to you. SO exciting, darling, to hear your voice as if we were in the same city — just so clear! We got a big kick out of it. And of course, the news! Well there it is for better or for worse and I will pray all goes well. Only thing I can’t remember is what Mr. Erpf did thru John Loeb? And what the time element was on the $200,000 from the Modern trustee? [An anonymous gift.] It certainly is nice of Mr. Woodner to give us $50,000 over next three years. I’m sure all the trustees, especially David & Arthur, are thrilled over the whole thing. Hope some of them give something now so we don’t have to borrow quite so much on our Museum securities. I figure we can pay the $100,000 down payment on signing the contract when Mr. Mackay gives and lends mine — I figure it this way
At 2:30 on June 4, 1963, the building committee met and interviewed three architects: I. M. Pei, Louis Kahn, and Paul Rudolph. Meeting one of the others as he left, Kahn turned back angrily. If he’d known he wasn’t the only choice, he would not have come, he said, destroying the splendid impression he’d just made. Yet I still remember the fine sketches he did while we talked with him. Since he believed in using natural light in museums, in our case, in order to orient galleries to the outside, he’d have needed a narrow, high tower. Otherwise, he’d have been Bob Friedman’s first choice. I soon heard from Mike that the building committee was enthusiastic, after interviewing him, about Marcel Breuer. My mother had been there and had liked him and his ideas a great deal.
Things seemed to happen much faster in those days than they do today. Smaller groups, less bureaucracy. Decisions made and acted upon right away. On June 10, Bob Friedman reported to the trustees the building committee’s recommendation for the appointment of Marcel Breuer and one of his partners, Hamilton Smith, to design the Museum’s new building, with my husband Mike as consulting architect.
Marcel Breuer was born in 1902 in Pécs, Hungary. He went to the Bauhaus in Weimar, Germany, right after it was formed and stayed from 1920 to 1928, the last four years as teacher (Master) and head of the Carpentry and Furniture department. At the same time, he was painting and studying architecture. Breuer’s broad interests and research motivated him to redefine architecture — to investigate and design for our whole environment. He moved to Berlin in 1928 to practice architecture, but the great German economic crisis soon stopped all construction, and he left in 1931 on a circuitous journey that brought him to Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1937 to teach design at Harvard University’s
School of Architecture. He built his first houses in the United States (after a number of apartment houses and theoretical projects in Europe) and moved to New York in 1946 to direct his energies to architecture and planning. Although he never stopped building houses, the scope of his work changed mainly to large projects, public buildings, and the planning of whole communities in the United States, in Europe, and in South America. He expressed his architectural philosophy eloquently. Here are a few of his words about how the “inanimate object gains an organic quality.”
“That world of stone behind stone, of vistas, of weight and material, of large and small cubes, of long and short spans, of sunny and shady voids, of the whole horizon of buildings and cities; all that inanimate world is alive. It is as close to our affection as good friends, the family — right there in the center of emotional faith. …
“They are alive, like people. They have also their cycles of vigor, strength, beauty, and perfection. They have also their struggle with age, with decline, with circulation troubles, with sagging muscles, with wrinkles. There is one difference though: they can be beautiful even in old age, even in ruins.”
Although Breuer had never built anything in New York, he seemed to understand the Whitney and its program. Once the motion was accepted, the fund-raising drive and the design work started immediately.
I have a letter from Mum about the decision. “Just thrilled to get your letter last evening — and I’m very happy about Breuer — somehow had a feeling it would be him even tho’ I hadn’t seen any of the others. … And your champagne celebration with the Friedmans after! What fun! … I did wish I had been there — it must have been very exciting. And now for all the hard work. Money etc. OH!”
The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made Page 16
