The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made

by Flora Miller Biddle

  The next morning, I went to the Regency Hotel, owned by Larry Tisch, for a breakfast meeting of the finance committee. There we sat, grandly isolated in the middle of the big room Larry had reserved. Everyone but Bob. “Where is Bob?” asked Larry. Someone remarked that he never went to breakfast meetings. “Oh, in that case,” said Larry, “he definitely won’t be here. He never changes his mind.”

  After the meeting, I walked back to Sixty-sixth Street. When I opened the door, my daughter, Michelle, visiting from San Francisco, called excitedly down the stairs. “Mom, do you always get messages like this early in the morning? Someone named Bob just phoned and said, ‘Tell your mother I’ve decided to give the one hundred thousand dollars after all!’ ”

  Leaving Café Nicholson, I felt that same burst of joyful pride.

  Yes.

  We can do anything.

  Sixteen

  Tom, I decided, was the best director the Whitney had ever had. I was determined to make a go of our partnership. Henceforth, we would talk out our problems and deal with them. One of my mandates was to develop and maintain close relationships with trustees and they, in turn, would support our plans and warn me of trouble.

  Our specific goals emanated from specific assumptions. First, that New York had become the capital of the art world. Second, that the most significant art in the Western world was now coming from the United States. Third, that the Whitney, therefore, should be the preeminent showcase of American art, just as the long range planning committee had said in its report. Fourth, for that to happen, we needed to expand qualitatively and quantitatively, to upgrade the collection, and to double or triple our space.

  This was Tom’s vision for the Whitney’s expansion:

  A permanent installation of the collection, including concentrations of works by certain artists the Whitney had collected in depth — for example, John Sloan, Maurice Prendergast, Edward Hopper, Alexander Calder, Louise Nevelson, and Elie Nadelman. Ultimately, we hoped to add David Smith, Agnes Martin, Georgia O’Keeffe, Jasper Johns, and others. In addition, we needed to identify the masterpieces we didn’t own and proceed to acquire them. In an appropriately expanded building, visitors would be able to walk from this historic exhibition directly into galleries where temporary exhibitions would illuminate specific aspects of the collection — or, conversely, from current to historic exhibits. Our ideas would move freely. An installation of Edward Hopper’s works, for example, might lead to a show of contemporary realism, or to a selection of films influenced by Hopper’s paintings.

  Besides a theater for film and video, we’d have a small auditorium, so that our programs for performances, dance, poetry, and music could grow. Space for lectures and symposia, housed awkwardly now in our restaurant, would also be much improved. Further, an up-to-date library would make our fine collection of books and periodicals on American art accessible and useful to scholars. The developing master plan included a gallery for works on paper, a Hopper study room, and other specialized spaces.

  Once people gained a better understanding of American culture through its visual arts, Americans at last would have a firm context that provided them with the means to comprehend and appreciate their heritage.

  I’ll quote from two Museum documents, in order to compare the Whitney’s goals when it first opened as a museum to those in the ’70s and ’80s. First, from the introduction to the Catalogue of the Collection, written by Hermon More in 1931:

  “The idea back of this institution and its predecessors is based upon the belief that America has an important contribution to make in the arts, that in order to make this contribution effective, a sympathetic environment must be created in which the artist may function to the fullest extent of his powers. Motivated by such a belief it is natural that the Whitney Museum of American Art should be primarily concerned with the work of living artists. …”

  And this, from the long range planning committee report of 1978:

  “The primary necessity at the present state in the development and understanding of our cultural heritage is to increase public awareness of the significance of American civilization of the twentieth century.

  “The Whitney tradition of encouraging and fostering the work of living American artists will be continued. It is important that the Museum present one-person shows of the works of contemporary artists. …

  “Free admission was the policy of the Whitney Museum until 1966; we would prefer to see this policy restored. Since financial circumstances, now, make this impossible, we commit ourselves to a return to more free days as soon as practicable. …”

  A difference in emphasis, to be sure, recognizing that through the growth of the art world and the tremendous success of American artists, the need for “support” had changed. Our mandate was to be more selective, to show and collect the highest quality of American art, while still maintaining the traditional commitment to the living artist.

  In the spirit of Gertrude, and through the generosity of those we’d gather around us, together, we’d build a greater Museum as a gift to all Americans. We’d make our dream come true.

  First, though, we had to infuse our benefactors with the same dedication we felt. That wasn’t always easy. So much money! So much time! Too big, said some. Go slow, said others. But we did find a solid core, and it was already enthusiastic enough for us to persevere. Still, we needed the whole board with us, and Tom in his wholehearted commitment often grew impatient with the laggards.

  In preparation for all this, Tom consolidated and centralized. He aimed to make the Whitney coherent, strong, and stable — to collect masterworks, and, hoping to avoid earlier mistakes, to continue the Museum’s emphasis on young, excellent artists, buying their best work while it was relatively new and inexpensive. With Joel’s guidance, we tried to improve the budgeting process and, more importantly, to stick to the budget.

  But it was far from easy.

  Meantime, the art world was changing. In the February 1978 New Yorker, Harold Rosenberg’s article “Inquest into Modernism” discussed “post-modernism” and described the current art scene:

  “The absence of an avant-garde — or the low level of interest in what presents itself as an avant-garde — has begun to seem a normal condition of contemporary art. … Despite the present ‘lull’ in creativity, the art world has never been in better shape. The art public keeps growing; museums are packed; in disregard of economic gloom, new galleries open, it seems, daily; government and industry support for ‘the arts’ increases each year; the art market continues to outpace the Dow … a transformation of values has occurred: novelty in art appears unessential. Even the idea of a vanguard is repudiated.”

  It seemed the perfect time to give the Whitney’s permanent collection more attention. To exhibit it in new ways, to acquire those missing masterpieces. And for important American artists to have one-person exhibitions.

  In only a very few years, the Whitney — while devoting a whole floor to the collection and mounting retrospective exhibitions of under-recognized artists like Marsden Hartley and Milton Avery — gave one-person museum shows to major, or soon-to-be major, living artists such as Georgia O’Keeffe, Andy Warhol, Jasper Johns, Cy Twombly, and Alexander Calder, among others.

  The media had discovered the arts at the same time as those in the business sector were evaluating art as they did any other product, sometimes even promoting art as a commodity. A few artists became stars, subject to the same joys and miseries as Marilyn Monroe or Jacqueline Kennedy. What did that stardom mean to these artists? For one thing, they were paid enough so they could live without part-time jobs. That was positive. But creativity implies being alone and concentrated. Stardom can mean that the inner world is invaded by the outer, the private by the public. While recognizing the risk to them of losing privacy, Tom and I also saw how, potentially, artists might well attract many more rich and powerful people from the business world to the Whitney. Suddenly, everyone wanted to meet an “artist star,” to touch o
ne. We at the Whitney joined in, inviting willing artists to meals, openings, and parties with potential donors.

  Educational opportunities were provided for both board and Museum members. We slotted art information into meetings, introduced stimulating courses and lectures by curators and outside speakers, initiated a pioneer program with docents culled from many volunteers and trained by our curators, and planned a wide variety of trips focusing on American art to satisfy different membership groups.

  We sought a careful balance on our board of men and women representing business, scholarship, and art, like Leonard Lauder, a businessman, and Jules Prown, an art historian, who despite their different disciplines always contributed creatively and positively to the board. My grandmother hadn’t wanted the board to interfere in Museum programs, and had mandated a strict division between staff and board responsibility. Determined to maintain that tradition, we searched for sensitive trustees who would understand and accept how the Whitney gave its professionals a free hand in their areas of expertise. Trustees, for example, had never voted on exhibitions. For acquisitions, committees voted only on works brought before them by curators — they didn’t bring works themselves, and they didn’t decide whether to accept gifts. Trustees, however, always hoped for a bigger attendance and more members; both had a major effect on our budget. Therefore, to raise those levels, they urged occasional popular exhibitions and the use of advertising techniques — both new concepts for the Museum. Very few shows of American art could be certain either of rave reviews or of mass appeal, so the pressure for “blockbusters,” while always simmering, seldom boiled over.

  With the constant need for more money, trustees were bound to explore every means, from improving the products we sold in the bookstore to advertising and special membership drives.

  Tom’s energy, vision, and marvelous sense of play carried us along. Constantly on the brink of alarming deficits, we often managed, sometimes at the last moment, to find generous donors. Projected shortfalls didn’t always materialize. But they were dreadful to anticipate, considering the danger of demoralizing the trustees and decreasing our already too-small endowment, and gave us a powerful impetus to search for new money. Tom and I became the Museum’s chief fundraisers. Despite our inexperience, we did well, bringing in a great deal of money and, in the process, developing an even closer professional working relationship.

  But I was walking a tightrope. As a trustee, I identified with other trustees; still, working so closely with Tom and the staff, I often felt more like a staff member. Trustees may have seen this as a danger to the Museum, threatening to tilt the necessary balance between board and staff, between professionals and volunteers. While temperamentally I’d always felt close to curators, administrators, and directors, art and artists remained at the forefront of my priorities. Only now do I see that my “dual allegiance” may have led trustees to believe they were inadequately represented by a president too close to the inner workings of the Museum and, in their view, too far from the board’s concerns.

  Seventeen

  If we were to continue to grow, buying the brownstones next door to the Museum was our next goal. We had to own those buildings, almost the whole board agreed. Long ago, we had prevented developers from assembling the other half of the block by buying two “spoilers” — two buildings in the middle of the block. Now we needed the others.

  With Bob Wilson’s pledge in hand, Tom and I went to see Laurance and Mary Rockefeller. Mary was on the board at the time. On that Monday, the rain poured and poured and no taxi was in view. We sloshed through ten blocks of puddles to the Rockefellers’ Fifth Avenue building and shook our wet selves in the pristine lobby. I must have looked pitiful, and the doormen gave me withering looks as I emptied my galoshes and put on the dry shoes in my bag. Upstairs at last, still working on my appearance, I brushed more drops from my hair, and settled into an armchair by the Rockefellers’ cozy fire.

  But Laurance wasn’t there! “It’s all over,” I whispered to Tom, when suddenly the door opened. Laurance strode in with big hellos, and we breathed more easily.

  Talking about our project over tiny cucumber sandwiches and Hu Kw’a tea, Tom and I waxed eloquent about our hopes for the Whitney’s future, acting a bit for each other. Laurance listened and asked probing questions: Did we have other sources of support? Who was on our board? What was our timing?

  Mary was quietly sympathetic to us, smiling her encouragement.

  “What would you like from us?” Laurance finally asked.

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand is what we hope you might give.” I didn’t recognize my own voice. A definitely new me.

  “That’s just what I thought. I can do that over three years, and I would like to. You must control that property for future generations, if not for now.” As a real estate entrepreneur, Laurance was captivated by the idea of the corner property, seeing immediately that it was key to our plans and to the Museum’s future.

  I gushed our thanks and our appreciation at Laurance’s understanding and generosity. It wasn’t just the money, I told them. It was also their confidence in us and in our project. The example they set made the whole thing seem so much more possible.

  Then Tom and I left and danced through the rain to Tom’s club, the Knickerbocker. Its architect, William Adams Delano, who had designed my grandmother’s Palladian studio in Long Island, had also served briefly in the ’30s as a Whitney trustee. Happy memories of lunches there with my father made me relax in its gracious rooms; I’d relished the “Knick’s” creamy rice pudding so much that, in the hospital after the birth of Michelle, my father had brought me a brown crockful. And, while researching Gertrude’s life, I’d found dozens of notes from her many beaux scrawled on the Knick’s thick ivory stationery; now I noticed the same restrained blue engraving at the top of the same paper. The Knickerbocker was part of my past. Tom and I, with potential donors to the Whitney, lunched there often.

  We knew that George Weissman would be the next chairman of Philip Morris, one of our most steadfast and generous corporate supporters, in whose building just across from Grand Central Terminal on Forty-second Street the Whitney was soon to open a branch. On June 9, 1978, Tom, trustee Bob Greenhill, and I met George in the “Ladies’ Dining Room” at the Knick. George, surprisingly, ordered white wine with a splash of 7-Up, a company Philip Morris had just that week acquired in its drive to diversify. After a financial discussion, during which George told us how ruthlessly he always had to cut the company’s budget (a good example for me), I steered the conversation to the Whitney. “Ah yes, you see I’ve done my homework,” said George, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. “I want you to know we will support the Hopper exhibition in 1980 with two hundred forty thousand dollars!” We were delighted, but to George’s astonishment I said, no, no, that’s not what we wanted to talk about, and launched into my I-hope-you’ll-be-a-trustee invitation. He personified cooperation between business and the arts. George smiled and said he’d had no idea. Then he told us he’d think about it. A few months later George agreed. And Philip Morris did sponsor the Hopper exhibition, which was both beautiful and popular.

  After our memorable visit with the Rockefellers that rainy afternoon, we sank into the Knick’s deep red leather chairs over celebratory drinks and Tom and I plotted and strategized.

  Who would we ask for money next? What new tycoon could we lure to our web?

  Soon my cousin Jock Whitney gave us $250,000, significant help and another big boost for my fund-raising confidence. Family support! Important and wonderful!

  Trustee Susan Morse Hilles, a bright, eccentric woman who painted and had a fine collection, helped. Married to a Yale English professor, Sue was forthright with both criticisms and praise. She was very generous to the Whitney and we became good friends. I drew a picture in my journal of Sue at a dinner we gave in our apartment for her on February 9, 1981, a cold winter day, noting that she had worn two dresses. When she felt warm enough, she casua
lly removed the top one and handed it to a waiter. Quintessential Sue!

  In March, Tom and I visited Larry Tisch. Perhaps the Rockefellers’ generosity would inspire him. Leaving Fifth Avenue’s noise and color, we entered his office at Loews, with its muted creams and beiges, their controlled climate softly humming.

  Larry rose with a smile and a handshake, offering tea, coffee, chairs. Again, his desk was bare. So were his walls.

  “Perhaps you’d like to borrow a few paintings from the Museum?” Tom suggested. “We could easily arrange it.”

  Thanking us, he said he’d think about it.

  Noncommittal, I thought. A bad omen.

  I explained why we had come. Tom and I did our dog-and-pony act. We asked for $100,000.

  That was a lot of money, Larry said. We were a lot more tense than he seemed to be. Although he’d be happy to work with us, he said, and to help when he could, he wasn’t for the expansion project. We’d never be able to raise so much money, he believed, and the Whitney’s endowment couldn’t support such a big building. Besides, he went on, he didn’t think the city needed a bigger Whitney — there weren’t enough resources or enough demand by the community. It needed other things more.

  “What, for instance?” asked Tom.

  Hospitals, he said, and Jewish education.

  “Well, if you believe that, why are you on the board?” Tom blurted out.

  Larry gave his cryptic smile, saying that he thought he’d been helpful in some ways. He meant, I was sure, as chairman of the finance committee.

  Larry suggested, instead, a thorough review of the space we already occupied or owned. His voice was gentle, soothing. He said the building project would become a day-and-nightmare for me.