The New York chapter of the American Institute of Architects sponsored a public discussion of the project. It was standing room only, in the Donnell Library. Michael Graves, taking the podium to explain renderings and floor plans, began: “I did smell some faint odor of tar coming in tonight. I’m sure it was just coming from resurfacing of the street.”
A number of distinguished architects praised the building — Philip Johnson and Ulrich Franzen, Yale professor of architectural history Vincent Scully, others. The good news: Only one heckler, a student, expressed real anger. The bad news: He drew loud applause. New York magazine reported “the SRO audience was treated to a full-dress debate that touched on nearly every major issue affecting high design in the evolution of this city’s architecture.” Afterward, the architects who had supported the building celebrated at “21,” a joyous moment in our bumpy voyage, replete with cheerful toasts and predictions.
Connie Breuer addressed a formal, impassioned plea to jettison the design to the president of the Whitney’s board. Surely written by committee, it nonetheless distressed me more than any other criticism.
A second article by Paul Goldberger in the Times indicated that he had changed his mind somewhat. Saying the design had caused “the biggest architectural brouhaha” and that the summer would “forever be remembered as the summer of debate over whether the Whitney will be enhanced or destroyed,” he spoke of the Breuer building’s “kind of nasty integrity,” which would inevitably be compromised by any addition whatsoever. Michael, he still maintained, had respected Breuer. He praised the Graves scheme as “remarkable,” especially “the cubic mass proposed for the southern half of the Madison Avenue blockfront.” But the “massive top section,” he felt, could be eliminated “quite happily.”
Extraordinary, we thought, that those who criticized the aesthetics of our expansion didn’t take into account our needs and our program.
Some excellent articles finally appeared, led by a big spread in August’s House & Garden illustrated by a beautiful color picture of the model. Editor Martin Filler, a distinguished architectural historian, gave the building high praise, calling it “one of the pleasantest architectural surprises of the year”:
“This is Graves’s best design yet … it captures much of the liveliness and variety that have marked his most successful small-scale projects. The architect has not tried to obliterate Breuer’s given; deftly and respectfully, he simultaneously sets it off and incorporates it into the larger whole … it seems certain that Michael Graves’s new Whitney Museum will add much to the cultural richness of a city that has always seemed oddly short of architectural masterpieces. Its boldness is tempered by a real attempt at beauty, a goal no longer prized as highly as it once was in art and architecture. For the latter medium at least, this imaginative design promises to raise the Whitney from its unquestioned national stature to a new international eminence.”
Then the former dean of Yale’s School of Art and Architecture, Gibson A. Danes, wrote to the Times, saying, “The Graves plan is much more on the mark of the moment than Marcel Breuer was in the mid-’60s. The complexity, intelligence and inventiveness of the Graves design is refreshing. It is brilliantly audacious, and it may serve as a powerful symbol of what architecture can and may be up to, as the fin-de-siècle rapidly approaches.”
The encouragement we felt was slightly deflated by Hilton Kramer’s article in the New Criterion, scathing about the Whitney in general and Michael’s design in particular.
Tom and I had to keep our spirits up, so we planned yet another trip, this time for the national committee to view American art and new museum architecture in Europe. We sped through Holland, Germany, Switzerland, and London, astounded by the size, excellence, and number of new museums we saw and, again, by the enthusiasm for American art we found everywhere — much greater, we thought, than in our own country. En route from Stuttgart to Zurich by bus, we had a memorable celebration of Seattle members Jane and David Davis’s wedding, which had taken place just before the start of our trip. Tom planned a surprise for them. We all had our parts to play, preparing a song, poem, or speech, and bringing shower caps from our hotel in Frankfurt to wear for this singular wedding shower. Since they lived partly in Hawaii, Bunty and the curators somehow procured leis and grass skirts from the opera company in Frankfurt, and, as we were spinning along the highway, they appeared in the aisle doing lively hula dances while singing sweet Hawaiian songs to the astonished bride and groom. Passing champagne around, we each took our turn to toast the couple — Sydney’s and my contribution, as I recall, was a long rhyming limerick about the romance — and then came the real tour de force. In the front of the bus, Byron Meyer rose to his feet and, with a perfect German accent, became, right before our eyes, Dr. Ruth Westheimer, outspoken sexologist, radio, and television star. What a performance! He interviewed the newlyweds, especially on their sex lives, and then he zeroed in on the rest of us. Hilarity reigned, helium balloons floated above us and escaped from open windows, and we soon noticed traffic on the other side of the highway swerving dangerously all over the road, as drivers craned their necks to see what all the excitement was about. Just before dinner, we reeled into the Dolder Grand Hotel in high spirits, shower caps, champagne glasses, and all, astounding staid Swiss guests.
Back in New York, we were faced with a jarring petition, circulated by the new “Ad Hoc Committee to Save the Whitney,” asking us to abandon a plan that “would totally destroy the architectural integrity of the original building.” More than six hundred signers included well-known architects Ed Barnes, Romaldo Giurgolo, John Johanson, and I. M. Pei, sculptor Isamu Noguchi, and writer Arthur Miller. This group and several others — the Seventy-fifth Street Block Association, the co-op board of 35 East Seventy-fifth Street, the Friends of the Upper East Side Historic Districts — had hired an aggressive law firm, famous for winning the decade-long fight over building the Westway along the Hudson by turning it into a “save-the-striped-bass” issue. We knew members would now appear at all upcoming hearings and public meetings to oppose Michael’s design. Michael himself was distressed by the vituperative words — especially when, asked to comment on I. M. Pei’s glass pyramid entrance to the Louvre the year before, he had refused, saying “Architects don’t do that sort of thing.” Alas for gentlemanly courtesy in a once-polite profession! It was going the way of hoop skirts and chivalry, resembling the corporate takeover sharks more and more.
Most ominous of all was an article in the Times in late November. Douglas McGill had managed to unearth, and publicize, the thing that could damage us the most: the disagreement among our board. That trustees would talk to the press was a terrible betrayal, we thought, threatening our institution as no outside group ever could. McGill wrote first of criticisms from without, what he called “other long-standing complaints about the Whitney”; we were called the “McDonald’s of the art world” because of our branch museums; the biennial emphasized “trendy” art, as did other programs. Then he went for the jugular: some trustees said we had serious deficits, and questioned our ambitious plans. “At least two trustees, both of them former presidents and chairmen of the board, said the museum had operated at a deficit in recent years — averaging around half a million a year over the past five years.” This figure was inaccurate, although we surely had deficits, as did most not-for-profit institutions, and often those deficits were too big.
He then quoted David Solinger and Howard Lipman directly. Howard had said: “Instead of running a tight museum, and putting on the most interesting shows you can put on, you’re trying to raise money for an expansion. This will go on for years, and you can’t do that without hurting somewhat the creative energy that you have for the museum’s activities.” The Lipmans hadn’t been really involved with Museum matters lately, but they had been identified with the Museum for years, and had been major patrons. That Howard was speaking negatively to the press hurt Tom. Howard had been his mentor, a father figure, and had brought
him to the Whitney. Why had he turned against Tom? In other circumstances — if he’d stayed well and involved — I feel sure he’d have been an ardent supporter; after all, he’d started the whole idea of expansion, with the long range planning committee. Ill now, tired, bitter, he must have been listening to associates who had something against the Whitney, against Tom, in particular. Although I tried, I never found out the reasons for his discontent.
But the bitterest blow was a quote from Leonard Lauder, whom we had counted on to be spokesman and future leader of the Whitney. “When you pare it all away … the greatest area of discussion is that everyone agrees an expansion is necessary, but does it have to be that large?”
The unanimous vote to proceed? The $18 million in pledges we had received by the last trustees meeting? The ten years of planning? What had happened? For one thing, I had ignored Leonard’s long-time criticisms of the size of our expansion. On the other hand, he’d always said he’d be supportive in public. What had changed his mind?
Although Doug McGill quoted Tom, Victor, and me, briefly but positively, the damage was done. We were surely seen by the art world, and anyone else who read the article, as a house divided.
Jules Prown, our scholar/trustee, grew concerned at this time about the dividing line between staff and trustees. In a long letter to Tom, he expressed his view that, as a museum matures, it becomes less dependent on raising money for both operations and acquisitions, and “professional management is relegated to the professional staff.” Wanting to prevent trustees from becoming involved in museum operations “except to the extent that the professional staff finds it useful, or in those areas such as fiscal or legal or real estate expertise where the knowledge of the trustees exceeds that of the professional staff,” he expected the staff “in the person of the director to be fully accountable to the board for the operation of the museum, and I expect the trustees as a board and through board committees to monitor that operation attentively.” Jules believed that the board had now grown so big that it was only used for fund-raising, leaving the executive committee as the de facto board.
Jules had spent energy and time on this letter, and was raising issues that would surface only later, after it was too late for Tom to address them. Tom sent copies to Bill, Victor, and me. On Bill’s copy he wrote in big letters across the top: “Let’s talk about this sometime.” Months later, he showed me this copy, as only one example of the important communications Bill never responded to. I wonder if things would have turned out differently if we’d discussed it seriously, perhaps with the executive committee?
Twenty-seven
In those days, thinking the days of my Museum life numbered, I was considering new ways and new projects. An editor had approached me to do an article, giving me the impetus to do a series of interviews on the meaning of the Whitney. The notes I took then, wanting to reaffirm the Whitney’s basic values and traditions, its mission, still seem relevant today.
Ellsworth Kelly: The Whitney had always been a great friend — had bought the first big painting he had sold, in 1957, had bought his sculpture early, too, and he had felt very good about it. Shows were much better now than they’d been in the ’60s, and the permanent collection installation on the third floor was “the best group of pictures in New York at this moment.”
Elizabeth Murray: “It was the first museum, when I was quite young, to show any interest in my work whatsoever, even before any dealer had shown any interest in the work. The Whitney is the only major museum in New York City that has consistently gone out of its way to pay attention to what’s happening among younger artists in the United States — and not just younger artists, but artists who are lesser known … not involved with blue-chip, or things that have already found support … and it has a staff that can’t be matched anywhere else. … All kinds of people go there who would never think of walking into a gallery. …”
Patterson Sims, curator of the permanent collection: I asked him about the patterns originally established by Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney.
“I think she really plays a very critical role in this Museum, because so many of the policies she put in place are the guiding principles of the Museum today. … MoMA did not begin with a big collection — the Whitney did. The Whitney unlike the Modern began with a commitment to collecting, and, as frequently as possible, to show it.
“The collection is the core of what we do. Your grandmother was responsible for about a quarter of the works in the Masterworks book [a catalogue Patterson had recently put together of masterworks in the collection]. Given the fact that she died over forty years ago, that’s a pretty remarkable legacy. She bought pivotal works which have become the keystones of the collection, the cornerstones of everything the Museum does — they give us our sense of quality, of what a masterpiece is — and she was integral to that.
“She also began the Biennial and that sense of commitment to contemporary artists. She established the thrust — and her name is constantly evoked as we consider different kinds of commitment the Museum makes. For instance, whether to continue the Biennial. … And also her interest in sculpture. It’s unquestionably her legacy which makes the sculpture connection meaningful to the Museum. …”
What is the meaning of this current controversy, I asked him?
“The meaning is,” said Patterson bitterly, “that there’s no civic pride in New York, and people don’t see the goodness of what the Museum’s trying to do.”
Carter Ratcliffe, critic: “There must be a public forum in order for there to be art of our own time, and the Whitney is the only place that even approaches a salon.”
Leo Castelli, art dealer. Despite what he saw as the handicap of showing only American art, this, he said was overcome by the extraordinary circumstance of American art becoming so dominant. “Personally, the Whitney became the Whitney, the precious institution I so much love and admire, when Tom took over. And he has accomplished miracles there. …”
Brendan Gill. He summarized our situation with his usual clarity, saying that now it’s clear what we are, what our mandate is: National. But we can’t really fulfill it, because of our lack of space. He stated that museums have ceased to be what they were — none of them know what to be, today. Art is part of the life of the people, as never before. He exhorted the board to be very strong and optimistic, because it had found its way.
Our problems are due to our success, he said, and we have the responsibility of success. The Whitney is the natural and good place for artists to be — it’s a relationship that really works. It’s like the New Yorker, one is grateful to be there. We feel we belong, even if we don’t see each other much. There’s a family feeling, a feeling of intimacy.
About the building, he said that scale is so important. The new building will be intimate. One hundred thirty thousand feet won’t make that different. The staff won’t be much bigger.
Very few architects have built over another building, he noted. They usually swallow it up, as at the Met.
“The Chinese ideogram for change is the same as the one for opportunity,” he said.
Brendan encapsulated, in a few phrases, my own feelings about the Whitney.
I’m so glad I wrote my mother a long letter after Christmas, thanking her for presents, and for her carefully handwritten notes to us, to our children and grandchildren, because it turned out to be my last chance. How difficult it was for her to write, with all her eye problems, but how much she wished to remember and connect with each one of us at Christmas! My worries about the Whitney, I think, had made me reflect about the past, and what had brought me to where I was today:
The painting of All Satin [my horse, as a teenager] and me is reposing against a wall in the living room, at the moment, waiting for a more permanent home here, bringing back all kinds of memories of Aiken, especially. What a wonderful and unique place and way to grow up that was, Mum. I’ve probably never told you of all the things I appreciate and am aware of about my upbringing. I’ll try to
do that when I come to visit in January — but for now, I can say that the encouragement, the sense of support you and Daddy gave us in an ambiance of warmth and a happy home were all-important in whatever I became later. My sense of independence, the knowledge in my bones and head that I was loved deeply, all this combined with the gentle climate of Aiken and the smells of horses, roses, jasmine, pines, and the colors of red clay, brilliant camellias, lush green foliage and true blue sky. …
Then the people. The beloved schoolteachers. Sis, that splendid extraordinary member of the family [our French governess]. From J. D. [the man my father painted] to Maria [our laundress], their soft voices a murmurous background to all that happened, their care responsible for our comfort. You and Daddy with your fascinating friends, to us kids, mysterious and “grown up,” awesome or adored — Huston Rawls, Dr. Wilds, the Meads, the Von Stades, the Knoxes, etc. — and the events: the shoots (remember, Mum, reading aloud in the dove blinds? I can even remember the books we read — probably those times are the roots of my love of books today —). And the meals! Oh those amazing feasts, with food for the gods. The turkeys, the chestnuts, on Christmas — the desserts, the croquembouche, the tarts, the real ice creams. The glorious teas with five kinds of cakes and cookies and the silver teakettle boiling water and exotic people stopping by — Ilya Tolstoi telling tales — and the sound of the martini shaker, as evening approached — well, it was all a dream, wasn’t it.
A dream, yes, like so much else, like everything, perhaps.
Twenty-eight
In 1986, my mother died.
That winter, when we visited her in Florida, she’d made such a valiant effort to welcome us. Despite her failing eyesight, she loved to watch television. Her curiosity was still keen as she tried so hard to grasp how polar bears survived, what really happened to the space shuttle or to Philippine president Marcos, or to unravel the affairs of J. R. and Suellen on “Dallas.” Fascinated by the love lives of her unmarried grandchildren, she clung to life while accepting the imminence of death, of which she talked calmly and concretely. She believed in an afterlife, in spirits, in life on other planets, and that she’d see us all again. We couldn’t get over how beautiful she looked. Her face was unlined, neither drawn nor sad, she dressed elegantly, and she still smoked cigarettes in her long holder.
The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made Page 42
