The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made

by Flora Miller Biddle

  The slate was accepted.

  Moving to the head of the oval granite table, I felt, flooding me, simultaneous sensations of anxiety and joy. For a moment, I could hardly speak. Would I be able to do it? Would anyone listen? Would the board recognize my fears and frailties? Such a public role was unfamiliar, awesome. But no — I would not be fearful. I would conquer my insecurity and fulfill the role I had accepted. Besides, look at the splendid attendance — nearly all the trustees had come to welcome me. They were my friends, coworkers for the Whitney’s illustrious future.

  I didn’t waste a minute, but got right down to business, restating the Museum’s long-term goals: more space for the permanent collection, for offices, and for an auditorium. To accomplish this, I emphasized that a great deal of money for building and endowment was necessary, and proposed the beginning of a major fund drive to coincide with the fiftieth anniversary of the Museum in 1980.

  At least $100,000 more must be given by the board annually, I said — knowing it would be my job to ask for it. After all, an additional $250,000 was necessary to keep the budget in balance.

  After inviting all trustees to attend meetings of the executive committee, so it wouldn’t become a kind of insiders’ clique, I concluded my opening speech: “I care very deeply for this Museum. It’s a part of my history, as well as our country’s, and I promise you all to work hard and to do all in my power to fulfill its promise.” How fervently I meant this, only I knew.

  That evening, the Museum held a party to celebrate the past presidents of the Whitney: my grandmother, my mother, David, and Howard. Mum, raising her glass, made a wonderful toast:

  “There is only one good thing I did. I don’t know if any of you knew this and I might not say it if I hadn’t had such a good time and such good … [nodding at her friends and family]. My mother left the Museum to me and said that if I didn’t want to keep it as a museum I could — sell everything. Obviously I wanted to keep it. And I just want to say that I can imagine how happy my mother would be to know that her grandchild had become president thirty-five years after she died.”

  Tom revered my mother. For Tom, Mum was everything a lady should be — charming, elegant, warm, and faithful. Moreover, he and everyone knew that the Whitney had survived only thanks to her. Since Gertrude’s death, my mother had kept it going, sacrificing time and lots of her remaining fortune, then making the Whitney a public institution, so it could continue to grow and flourish. It had been a heroic act. And Tom adored my mother, her style: her husky voice, her slightly flirtatious but dignified manner, her polished nails, her black evening suit covered with shiny paillettes. When, during an opening party, he arranged for a ’20s-style chanteuse to sing torch songs in the Whitney’s big elevator, he’d had my mother in mind, and indeed she loved it. The most special favor he could offer potential patrons was a visit to Flora in Long Island. She represented the Whitney as no one else could — certainly not much-more-casual I, who would sometimes appear for meetings with Tom in my running shoes, because I’d just jogged around the lake in Central Park for exercise; whose nails had never seen polish, because I didn’t take the time for that; who argued with him, who was all too serious, who was always trying to reduce expenses — the Museum’s as well as my own.

  Still, Tom and I were getting along pretty well.

  We met at least once a week, talked on the phone almost daily. We examined endless lists, searching for additions to the board or to committees. We planned dozens of meetings and parties. I personally took care of most trustee and committee affairs, making sure to meet with members at least twice a year for breakfast or lunch, calling them with relevant news, giving or arranging dinners where they could meet each other and new members, too. I wrote hundreds of letters, thanking, asking, informing — trying a little desperately to do whatever it took to keep us a “family.” Tom promised to keep me posted on everything to do with the Museum, so there would be no further surprises like Marcia. I, in turn, agreed not to interfere with decisions in his bailiwick and to protect him, as best I could, from trustee interference by acting as a buffer, or, when necessary, a mediator. We wooed new members together, most of them from Tom’s lists of people he’d met or had heard of from those in the art world. Both of us always met with potential new trustees.

  I was now spending at least five days a week in New York, and sometimes weekends as well — there was that much work to do. My mother’s Sixty-sixth Street carriage house, ten blocks from the Whitney — an easy walk or run — was my headquarters. With new desks in the spare bedroom, with a part-time assistant on the Museum’s payroll, I would arise early, have an English muffin and a cup of coffee, and dress in a big hurry before the arrival of John Ellis, my indispensable helper. Still in his twenties, he had graduated with honors from Williams College. He wanted to act and to write. Although I had always written my own letters, and for the most part continued to do so, John now typed them. Pretty soon, he learned to write many that sounded like me, only better. He made phone calls, scheduled appointments, and quickly caught on to who was who. Organizing my life was much easier with John to help. As the years passed we moved to a room in a building on Sixty-ninth street, and finally to two different offices in Museum-owned brownstones on Madison Avenue.

  Charlie Simon gave the Museum a generous gift so I could entertain. Inviting guests, both to restaurants and to my home, while expensive, was essential if we were to increase the Museum’s income by finding new patrons. It was typically sensitive of him also to recognize my financial limitations. Moreover, he gave me excellent advice during our lunches at “21,” where I still remember the “Sunset Salad” as we discussed the fund drive for endowment and an expanded Whitney. It seemed like his club. He had the best table, the full attention of the owners, and constant greetings.

  “You can’t do it,” said Charlie bluntly, referring to expanding the Museum.

  “Why not?” I asked. “I believe in it. I have confidence in our board — it’s enthusiastic about the project, and there’s lots of money there — and I’ll work hard —”

  “Bullshit,” Charlie exploded. “You have to be a tiger. A shark. Willing to do anything. And you’re not.”

  I was crestfallen, but I recovered quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. I hadn’t taken him seriously enough. Working, for me, was sometimes a refuge from the thinking that precedes intelligent decisions. Action was easier than sitting still, reaching deep inside for understanding. While working often had good results, I wish now I’d taken more time for reflection.

  Charlie’s generosity was legendary. After admiring his shirt or suit, a curator or even Tom would find himself being measured by Charlie’s tailor the very next day. He overwhelmed me once when he brought me fabric for a skirt from London after I’d complimented him on his flowered Liberty tie. He would invite a group of us out for dinner after meetings or openings, always including curators, secretaries, or other staff members. One memorable time, early that summer, as we sat around a table at Les Pleiades (a restaurant that was a club for the art world), all the lights went out. The great blackout of 1977 had begun. Soon, candles appeared and we finished our dinner in a newly romantic ambiance. With no radio or TV, we had no idea what had happened. All telephone circuits were busy, New York was isolated. As far as we knew, the blackout could have extended everywhere in the world. The streets without traffic lights were eerie. Buildings were dark. Of course no elevators were running. And Charles lived on the twenty-fifth floor. Then in his seventies, very overweight, he’d recently been ill. There was no way he could climb those stairs. “You must come home with me,” I said.

  “I couldn’t possibly! What would your husband say?”

  But there was no alternative, so we walked down to Sixty-sixth Street and up the one flight of steps to our apartment. Installing Charles in the bedroom was another struggle — he pushed hard for the living room sofa — but he finally gave in. We had just sat down for a nightcap by candlelight when stones began to pelt t
he living room windows, at which Charles leaped up, waving his cane and shouting, “They’re attacking! The Communists are attacking! I’ll murder them!” But it was only some of my son Cully’s friends, who came for some food and drinks, then left again to investigate New York’s dark streets.

  Other trustees were also helpful. Joel Ehrenkranz, the first to invite me to lunch at his “club,” the elegant barroom of the Four Seasons, assured me of his support. “Anything I can do, any time, just let me know.” I looked around the room at the big publishing moguls and peered into the corner to see who was lunching with Philip Johnson that day. I did ask Joel to teach me to read and understand the budget. Thanks to his skill and his patience, I learned a lot. Even though I never achieved his lightning-fast comprehension of those arcane sheets of numbers, which sometimes seemed to dance like jumping beans on their white sheets of paper, I did end up recognizing potential problems as deficits leaped off the page and alarmed me.

  Larry Tisch was our most powerful trustee in the financial world. Compact, with a disproportionately large, balding head, blue eyes, and a serious mien, he was soft-spoken and courteous. His manner was kindly, almost fatherly. Larry asked me to meet with the finance committee; he was chairman. Right after I became president, I agreed, and arranged to go to his office at 666 Fifth Avenue. His office was large but plain. Larry’s desk was altogether clear. He exuded the sort of controlled calm that sometimes accompanies success. The phones on his desk had been silenced. The only sound I heard was the click-clack of the ticker tapes, keeping Larry apprised of stock market transactions the world over.

  We must, he began, do something about the Whitney’s endowment. And he explained why. At a time when it was quite possible to double or triple values, the J. P. Morgan bank’s conservative policies had kept the Museum’s money stagnant. Howard, as an outsider aware of our strong family tradition of investing with Morgan, had been reluctant to move the funds. On that day, though, Larry told me that the whole finance committee had advised me, for the sake of the Museum and its need for more income, to take immediate action. Larry, head of the committee, urged the change.

  It was up to me.

  I was sure he must be right, especially since Morgan’s had not done well with the small trust fund they administered for me. I arranged to see Lewis Preston, then chairman of Morgan Guaranty Trust Co. A small matter for them, I thought. Fifteen or so million, when they deal in billions.

  I had always known Lew Preston. Our parents, even our grandparents, had been friends. His stepdaughter, Linda Bartlett, who’d grown up with Lew and her mother, Patsy, after their marriage, was married to my brother, Leverett Miller. Lew cared about my family, about the Museum, and also, of course, about his bank. And he was experienced, intelligent, and moral.

  But the bit was in my teeth and I was running with it. My finance committee was smarter than anyone. It had the best interests of the Museum at heart. No chance it could be wrong.

  In Lew’s paneled office on Wall Street, I listened to his understated way of addressing issues. His comfortably assured manner, his relaxed humor, our shared background, were wholly familiar. I had grown up with them.

  Lew couldn’t have been nicer, but I could tell my plan to move the money distressed him. Well, there was no rush, he said. There was plenty of time to decide. He could help me sort things out. Would I meet with him again? Along with a couple of other bank officers, too, so I could hear their views? Of course I agreed.

  But my mind was already made up. Closed, really. I’d never met such brilliant financiers as those on the finance committee. And then, I remembered my small trust fund.

  When I reported back to Larry Tisch, he reiterated his arguments, probably to strengthen my resolve.

  Then, at 1:00 on August 1, 1977, in an austere room at 9 West Fifty-seventh Street — Morgan’s uptown offices — a formidable group assembled. Lew himself joined us, attentive, as top officers presented sheets of figures, comparing Morgan’s performance over many years with that of investment firms and other banks. They suggested a number of ways to improve the Museum fund’s returns. The men were impressive, their arguments persuasive. But when I took their figures back to the investment committee, Larry’s numbers were even more convincing. The committee was unanimous about moving our money — and insistent.

  I called Lew to tell him of our decision to remove the fund and divide it among several investment firms. “I’m really grateful to you,” I said. “I appreciate all your help. But I must go along with Larry and the committee.”

  I still remember Lew’s final words exactly as he said them: “I believe you’re making a mistake. I urge you to think longer about severing ties with Morgan’s, and to reconsider your choice of advisors.”

  He saw the removal of the Museum’s funds as a crack in the longtime association of the Whitney family with Morgan’s, or so I thought then. A few family members still had deep pockets — my uncle, some cousins from another branch — and I imagined the possible loss of their money caused Lew’s unhappiness with my decision.

  Looking back, I well understand why Lew doubted Larry’s long-term commitment to the Whitney.

  For that moment, though, my very first action as president was to put my faith in our new trustees, especially in Larry Tisch. It seemed absurd to think that his lack of interest in art could in any way limit his capacity to give the Museum financial advice. He didn’t really have to care about our mission. Larry would surely give the Whitney his best.

  How often, since I now live with their consequences, I’ve wondered about my decisions and actions.

  My upbringing had led me to believe daily life was consistent and predictable.

  By the time I realized it wasn’t so for everyone, I’d already learned to trust. Though I chafed under their discipline, adults were there. And they cared.

  Perhaps the trust I had in others was implanted in my being during my early years. Both my parents were trusting souls. Innocent. Trust became as natural as breathing, laughing, or crying. Although I had been trusting, as they were, for a long time, experience eventually brought home the reality that none of us is perfect. That it was irresponsible to go out into the big world with the wide eyes of a child. That even those I thought I knew could behave differently if a great deal was at stake. That I must be wary.

  Deeply motivated, I now felt free to telephone anyone at all, known to me or not, make a date, and discuss the Museum. I reached out to heads of government, corporations, social and community leaders, the media. At first, I felt uncomfortable with my sudden power — like being in someone else’s skin.

  Slowly, I gained assurance. The board supported me strongly, as did the staff. Insisting that I become a more public representative of the Whitney, Tom pushed me to the center as we raised money and attended meetings, press conferences, openings, and other events. If this was how I could be most useful, I determined to develop that persona, and practicing made it much easier. As we relentlessly pursued funding for exhibitions or acquisitions, to my surprise, I discovered that I enjoyed the hunt — especially when we succeeded.

  It always surprised me when people I hardly knew were suddenly so friendly! I accepted as many invitations as I could from important figures in the worlds of business, politics, and art. Having up to then known so few of these, it was a good way to identify new patrons for the Museum — but following up on each event took lots of time.

  Was X, Y, or Z likely to be interested? Able to help significantly? Already committed to another museum? I had to learn to engage in endless phone calls. To arrange invitations to lunch or dinner, tours with curators, or in some cases with Tom himself.

  While by nature I was shy, I found myself enjoying the challenge of drawing people closer to the Whitney. My deep sense of mission was driving me.

  However, it was all more complicated than it had seemed initially. Everyone, it seemed, wanted something from me, friends as well as strangers. Calls, letters, visits. And I had to answer all of
them, had to be available to anyone with a question, a complaint, or a demand. This aspect of my new position became a daily challenge. There were times I felt discouraged, overwhelmed.

  A friend of a friend’s daughter would like a job at the Whitney; I’d talk to her, then decide whether to put her in touch with our personnel department.

  A member of the Friends of the Whitney wanted to borrow a painting not on the approved list. Could I arrange it?

  Artists sent slides. Should I pass them on to a curator?

  A guard was in debt. He was sure I could lend him money; after all, wasn’t I a Whitney?

  A friend of a trustee wanted tickets to MoMA’s sold-out Picasso exhibit. Should I bother my friend, MoMA’s president?

  Jeannette Watson, the owner of Books & Company, a bookstore in a brownstone the Whitney owned, was worried by rumors she’d heard that her building would be torn down for our addition. Could I reassure her? If not, what would she do?

  A gallery owner or even a trustee couldn’t understand why we didn’t buy or show a particular artist they admired or collected. Should I tell Tom? Deal with it myself?

  How could we have such a dreadful exhibition? That one was easy.

  Most recently, a video artist complained to a friend of a friend that his exhibition at the Whitney hadn’t been reviewed. Outrageous, he maintained. Could I do something about it? This time, I was outraged. I had no control — nor should I have had — over the reviewers.

  The intensity of my daily schedule was engulfing me. My appointment books often show eighteen-hour days, varying from Museum activities to book business. Trying to keep fit, I ran a mile or two in Central Park every other morning. There were moments that summer, however, when I worried about having abandoned the concentrated work on my grandmother’s biography for a more active role in the world. Moments, too, when I wished for more time with the family.