The board then unanimously adopted a motion authorizing Tom and me to launch a capital campaign for $52.5 million, and to proceed with plans for building an addition. Alfred emphasized the trustees’ serious responsibility to see that the capital campaign goal was achieved — by passing the resolution, he said, they had committed themselves personally to the realization of the expansion project.
May 1985 was a big month for the Museum, the month we were to announce the building to the world. Michael Graves, Jennifer, Sandy Lindenbaum, members of the building committee, and the staff met informally with members of the local community board, the Landmarks staff, and other agencies representing the community. All this was timed to precede the filing of formal applications, called certificates of appropriateness, with Landmarks in late May for the permissions required: one to demolish the structures currently occupying the Museum-owned properties, and one to build the Museum addition. Sandy recommended that we ourselves announce it to the press.
We got a hint of future trouble at a Community Board 8 hearing. Some enthusiasm, but mostly aggressive questions, negative comments. We dismissed these as coming from cranks, and forged ahead.
The next week, a crowd of journalists arrived at the Whitney to view a model, drawings, and elevations. A. M. Rosenthal, editor of the Times, had invited me to call him when we were ready, and I did, hoping for a front-page story. I was sure we’d receive hurrahs and thanks from our city, our community, and the art world.
I thanked people: first, the men and women who are the basis of our being, the artists whose works were all around us. Then the building committee, especially Elizabeth Petrie, its chairperson. The board of trustees. Tom explained the reasons for needing to expand, emphasizing the Museum’s services to the public.
Michael spoke eloquently about his design, especially about the need to bind together our proposed addition with the building completed by Breuer in 1966, saying, “We have attempted to use to our advantage the apparent contradiction of modernity versus a more figurative architecture … a particularly American spirit, one which combines architecture derived from traditional sources with the modern architecture of the recent past.”
We got our first-page story.
Paul Goldberger, who wrote about architecture for the Times, praised Michael’s design in an article the next day, calling it “both daring and sensitive” and describing it as “a richly colored, ornamented assemblage of pure geometries and variations on classical elements such as colonnades and pergolas, and it feels right for the eclectic mix that Madison Avenue is.” But he saw the Breuer building as “a nagging presence, a problem that defies complete solution.” To him, Michael’s bold composition was “the tougher, and more courageous architectural route, and he has produced a design that is both powerful and subtle. It is just that making the old Whitney part of a larger composition, no matter how well-wrought that composition is, undercuts what integrity that harsh and difficult Breuer building has.”
And then, and then, came the groaning and shrieking and gnashing of teeth.
Moving back into our home at 110 East Sixty-sixth Street was taking almost all our time. The whole place was a wonderful affirmation of our belief in Michael’s talent. He had made our small space seem bigger by creating an axial design, allowing light to flow from one end to the other. As Carol Vogel said in the Sunday Times magazine, “The architect grappled with the issue of light right from the entrance. He created a formal skylight rotunda as a unifying element, linking all the main rooms.” With warm colors, special lighting, and the excellent kitchen/dining room right in the middle, we felt at home immediately and reveled in our lovely new surroundings. And Michael had done it with plasterboard and 2 x 4s instead of marble, gold, and real plaster. My pictures show Eric Regh, the architect in Michael’s firm who had carried the project through, standing on the kitchen island, placing a shade carefully on a vintage lamp, while we unpack books in the coved library space, and my son Duncan installs the beautifully crafted stereo and television cabinets he made in the living room. Oh, that living room, with its vaulted, gridded ceiling; the twin sofas Libby bought and dressed in moss-green velvet; Sydney’s round Biedermeier table and delicate chairs, near my father’s two embracing Biedermeier armchairs; and, presiding over our reading and conversations, two tall, naked marble ladies, one toying sensuously with a bunch of juicy grapes, the other playing her pipes, commissioned by my grandmother for niches on the stairs of the Whitney Museum on Eighth Street, by her friend and lover John Gregory.
We had such happy times in that apartment. Sunday mornings, Sydney and I would read aloud to each other, bright sun streaming into our bedroom from the latticed terrace where pots of geraniums and Atlas cedars flourished. Mann’s Buddenbrooks, Byron’s Don Juan, bits of the memoirs of his uncle, artist George Biddle. Besides giving parties for the Museum, we celebrated family birthdays and holidays — we’d gather at the round table Michael Graves had designed for us, pale fruitwood with ebony inlays, sitting on delicate chairs, once wrecks, that Libby had identified with her discerning eye as Biedermeier, and restored to their former beauty. Flipping through my photograph albums, there’s Flora, Cully and Libby’s oldest daughter, running into that dining room, her little hands full of her very first snow, gathered from the terrace. Blue eyes wide, she’s giggling with surprise and delight, pressing it on her baby sister Charlotte’s pink cheeks. And there are Sydney and I, dancing at our wedding party in the garage under the apartment, as my cousin, composer Francis Thorne, plays and sings “The Lady Is a Tramp.” Or Michael and Emily, Duncan and Linda’s two, are shooting baskets in that garage with my niece and nephew Aurora and Alfred Tower, who lived with my brother Whit and his wife Lucy in the carriage house next to ours.
Just writing about 110 makes me miss it. And makes me realize once again the privilege of participating in the making of a unique work of art with a brilliant architect.
Twenty-six
It was 1984 and we still hadn’t identified a new president. Leonard, Elizabeth McCormack, and others urged me to consider hiring a paid president. The Met had one. This president, Elizabeth said, would have primary responsibility for financial matters, would help with fund-raising, public relations, labor affairs, other such matters. Tom, among others, felt the Whitney was too small to split the leadership in this way. Elizabeth asked him to write a description of his role as director, and I quote part of his essay:
The primary responsibilities of the director of the Whitney Museum of American Art are to assist the trustees to establish immediate and long-range goals for the institution; to lead the staff in professional management of the institution in accordance with established policies; to articulate the defined goals; and, with the trustees and staff, to initiate programs to accomplish these objectives; and to translate the particular character and international importance of the Whitney Museum to the public, members, and patrons. …
Historically, it has been the director of the Museum who takes responsibility for determining the character of all programs and activities, and he is publicly accountable for those decisions. The director ultimately must create the public perception of the Museum. … He serves as the spokesman for programs, while the president plays the major role in articulating policy. If the Museum is to continue to attract new patronage, the director must remain the chief fund-raiser as well as the person associated in the minds of the public with programs and living artists.
The threat of a paid president impelled Tom and me to hurry. We examined our board and came up with a new name, one that might appeal to the financially anxious: William S. Woodside, chairman of the American Can Company. A trustee since 1979, he currently served as cochairman of the corporate committee, and as a member of the development committee. His personal interest in the work of contemporary artists was reflected in American Can’s collection of “emerging” artists and in its support, through its foundation, of several important and daring exhibitions at the Whitney: “New Image Pain
ting” in 1978, the 1981 Biennial, and “Jonathan Borofsky” in 1984. Bill, a director of several other economic and educational institutions, had recently spoken strongly in favor of our expansion program and against the idea of a divided professional leadership.
After discussing this idea with a few others, I asked Bill if he’d be interested. Elizabeth McCormack, for instance, served on the board of American Can, and was all for it. Ed Bergman, who had sold his company to American Can and now sat on its board, was enthusiastic, too, saying he’d urge Bill to take the job. So, on Tuesday, May 7, Steve O’Neil and I had breakfast at the Carlyle with Bill. Surprised, perhaps because he hadn’t played a major role at the Museum, he said this appointment would be a great honor, mentioning his love for the Whitney and his affection for me. Since he already planned to retire from business in eighteen months, this time seemed ideal for him to strike out into a new adventure. And for those remaining eighteen months he would still have all the advantages of being a major CEO — staff, fund-raising ability, entertainment budget, available funds from the American Can Company Foundation. He would think over our proposal, talk to his wife Migs, and get back to us soon.
A call from overseas came within a few days. Bill accepted, on condition that I stay involved, as chairman. Even Migs came on the line to say how touched and pleased they both were.
I was deeply gratified, thinking we’d now have a fine team for our project, one to inspire confidence in our supporters.
Before he was officially elected, I took Bill to have lunch with my mother. Growing weaker now, with eye problems, she remained as gallant and attractive as ever. Thinking he’d want to know more of the history of the Whitney, I told him all I could on the drive out to Long Island. Then I talked of the role of president. How vitally important it was to meet weekly with Tom. To keep in touch with trustees and other big donors. To prepare for meetings, especially the annual meeting.
He understood, he assured me. He would spend at least one and a half days a week working for the Museum, and more after retirement. He would bring in a team from American Can to advise on improving financial controls. He was eager to move ahead with the building.
Charmed by Mum, pleased by our visit to the Studio, he said he’d enjoyed meeting my sister Pam, living there now, who had both preserved and transformed the house and garden.
Pam, however, was mystified by Bill. “What’s he all about? Why him? He doesn’t seem very interesting or lively. Does he know anything about art? About the Museum?”
My mother, unimpressed with Bill, wished I’d stay on as president.
“What can I do to help you, Bill?” I asked as we spun along Grand Central Parkway. “How can I use my experience best, now, for the Museum?”
“Oh … if you could just keep on writing your great letters, and giving parties, that would be the best,” said Bill.
Oh, no! He was asking me to continue to do the very things I had counted on him to do: the president’s job. I had planned to work with Tom, the curators, collectors, and artists on expanding the permanent collection, on special gifts of masterpieces, work for which I felt I now had the knowledge and experience. To continue my involvement with the national committee, perhaps with the collecting committees, yes. Not, however, with every committee or every aspect of fund-raising. I envisioned a new relationship with the Museum: instead of the day-today responsibility of keeping in touch with all our varied constituencies, I’d perform special art-related tasks. Could that have been an unrealistic dream?
At the annual board meeting, Howard Lipman, living now mostly in Arizona, stepped down as chairman. Although he would remain a trustee, he became increasingly inactive, and increasingly critical of the Whitney.
On one of those sweltering summer days when tarry steam fills the air, the board voted their thanks to Howard for serving as president from 1974 to 1977, and as chairman from 1977 to 1985.
Elizabeth McCormack, on behalf of the nominating committee, then proposed the new slate of officers: Flora Miller Biddle, Chairman; Leonard A. Lauder, Vice Chairman; William S. Woodside, President; Joel S. Ehrenkranz, Victor W. Ganz, Stephen E. O’Neil, Vice Presidents; Charles Simon, Treasurer; and Jennifer Russell, Secretary. The room darkened. A violent thunderstorm broke the heat wave, as Bill spoke of his long association with the Whitney, dating back to 1950, when he had attended exhibitions on Eighth Street, and of his support of the Museum’s mission. His primary short-term goal, he said, was to “maintain a tight budget for this fiscal year so that the Museum does not incur a deficit.” His long-term goals were “to run a successful capital campaign which will represent an enormous fund-raising effort; to see that the Museum’s administrative structure is adequate to handle the recent and future growth; and to ensure that the trustees and staff are working toward the same objectives.” He mentioned the “creative tension” that often exists between trustees and staff in not-for-profit organizations and stressed the need for agreement as to the goals of the institution although opinions may differ as to the best means of achieving these goals.
These words should have warned me. Who was responsible for “the administrative staff” but Tom? The idea that we weren’t “working toward the same objectives” was the kernel of trouble ahead.
Bill had assured me of his support of the building program and of the campaign. At breakfast one day in June, however, he had dropped a disquieting note into our pleasant conference: “I haven’t decided yet,” he said casually, “what to do about Tom. Whether to keep him or not.” Horrified, I urged Bill to “keep him,” and asked, “Why not?” “Trustees are complaining about him, you know,” he said, smiling. He’d work with him for a while, and see how it went.
Pretty soon, I found Bill’s promised weekly meetings with Tom were only a pipe dream. Mine. Bill was busy, unavailable, traveling. Not at the Museum.
To make room for Bill, I had cleared my desk in the office I’d used in one of the brownstones, but since he never appeared, I gradually moved back in. Fund-raising, keeping up with the many people we’d built relationships with, lunching with trustees, writing letters, staying in touch with curators and other staff, going to all the meetings Bill couldn’t make, kept me almost as busy as before. Hanging around the Museum, I had told Bill, was the most important thing — to get the feel of it, to get to know the people, the exhibitions, the programs. But he didn’t. Was he shy? Bored? Too busy? Uninterested? I never knew. I would call him, politely, and remind him to speak, for example, to trustees whose three-year terms were up, to ascertain their interest in being reelected. He never did. I wrote memos with suggestions about this or that urgent matter but never got an answer.
At the same time, Tom became disheartened. He needed to bounce ideas back and forth. He needed the support only a president could give. He talked to Victor about programs, about art. But there were so many other issues these days! Our weekly meeting petered out, too. It was summer. And then, I didn’t have the power any more. Tom, well aware of hierarchy, needed a powerful partner to achieve our goals. We saw each other, yes, but it was definitely different. We weren’t planning strategy, we weren’t making decisions. Instead, we found ourselves making increasingly desperate plans to get Bill more involved, to make him want to be there, to make him happy, to make him love the Museum.
Could I, should I, have known how this choice would turn out?
Eager to put the “paid president” idea to bed, feeling I should not extend my term any longer, knowing we must infuse trustees with confidence in our financial stability, did my desperation push me to a quick and ill-advised solution? With little research, without even talking with anyone Bill had worked closely with, we took him at face value, and were pleased with ourselves for our great idea.
Bill simply didn’t see it the way we did.
I realize now that he couldn’t have done what we expected. It just wasn’t in him to be friendly and warm, to write expressive letters, to reach out and entertain our patrons and friends. His corporat
e style was distant, impersonal.
Although he told the board at his first meeting that he would entertain often for the Museum, especially in the months remaining before his retirement, while he had a big salary and a budget for entertaining, he hardly ever did.
I saw very few personal letters, although I received copies of his Museum correspondence, as he did of mine.
Now, besides worries about Tom and Bill, abuse began to shower upon our building plans. Neighbors and other critics complained: There would be too much garbage, traffic, and noise on Seventy-fourth Street. Our building would cast shadows on the street, on other buildings. We would block light from the apartment buildings east of us on Park Avenue. The design was offensive. “A wedding cake” on top of Breuer — how dare we? We were desecrating Breuer’s building.
In the media, at lunch, at dinner parties, in bars and bedrooms, everyone in the city seemed fascinated by the Whitney’s plans, debating, arguing, and, for sure, knowing better than we did what we should do.
In the Village Voice, Michael Sorkin wrote:
The Breuer Whitney is a masterpiece. …
The violence offered by Michael Graves’s proposed addition is almost unbelievable. Adding to a masterpiece is always difficult, calling for discipline, sensitivity, restraint. Above all, though, it calls for respect. The Graves addition isn’t simply disrespectful, it’s hostile, an assault on virtually everything that makes the Breuer original particular. It’s a petulant, Oedipal piece of work, an attack on a modernist father by an upstart, intolerant child, blind or callow perhaps, but murderous …
The Graves scheme leaves no aspect of the Whitney unvandalized. … I’m no knee-jerk preservationist, but if the only way to get this awful addition subtracted is to save those brownstones, let’s save the hell out of them. Hands off the Whitney, Graves!
And Hamilton Smith, associate architect of the building, writing for the “Op-Ed” page of the Times, said that, rather than see the Whitney “invaded and disfigured,” Breuer would have “strongly preferred” it completely torn down.
The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made Page 41
