In New York magazine, Kay Larsen wrote a follow-up to her previous long article:
In retrospect, the way he was unseated was abysmal. The coup was begun by a small group of trustees, angry for their own personal reasons, who enlisted the discontent of the majority. The argument seems to have been transferred to “larger issues” as a face-saving device … the callous, arrogant, and supercilious attitude displayed to Armstrong by his president, William S. Woodside, chairman of Sky Chefs, who trod with the tact of a bull through the glass corridors of a humanist institution. Woodside’s quoted statement in the Times about “quickie show-and-tell operations …” betrays a barely concealed contempt for living artists. It’s an appallingly ignorant and insensitive statement for the president of the Whitney to make. If the trustees care about the Museum, they will ask Woodside to resign.
In the Nation, Arthur Danto wrote a review of the Whitney’s current exhibition, “The New Sculpture 1975–1985.” Here is the last paragraph:
This is a flawless exhibition, the Whitney at its best, doing what it understands, meticulously and theatrically. With it, the Museum’s trustees condemn themselves for the terrible way in which they fired the director of the Museum, Tom Armstrong, who was outstanding. It is everything the trustees said the Whitney was not under Armstrong’s stewardship: serious, historical, scholarly and resolutely as untrendy as the impulses of the work shown were. It is historical in an especially difficult way, giving historical shape to a period that would be difficult to grasp without it and the superlative catalogue that accompanies it. Had the trustees known about the show, they could not have said what they did about Armstrong. It follows further that the reasons they discharged this director must have been personal and frivolous, as everyone suspects, and the action itself one by men and women used to getting their own way, the institution be damned. They stand red-handed and shamed by an excellence to which they have no right.
Letters poured in. A few were encouraging, notably one that Adriana Mnuchin handed me on the day of the trustees’ meeting, urging board unity and healing, enclosing a special, unrestricted contribution to the Whitney of $200,000, asking that it be anonymous.
Some people resigned. Some foundations threatened to pull their support — and some did. Attendance dropped. Catherine Curran wrote a note with her letter of resignation from the print committee that expressed the feelings of many: “I’m sure you know what a difficult decision this was — I have so enjoyed my association with the Whitney. When I first came back to New York, it was like my club — it was welcoming and friendly and fun. I loved the gatherings, made friends, learned a lot by going to lectures and exhibitions. It had great style — yours and Tom’s.”
In a formal letter of resignation to Bill, she wrote:
“I cannot but feel that any financial support that I might at present give to the Museum could only be considered tantamount to granting approval to the recent actions and decisions taken by the board. … I am horrified by what has happened, and even more, by the way in which it happened. … I must take my stand, however insignificant, on the side of the civilized values that some of us treasure.”
I will only quote one more letter, dated March 1990, a surprising and touching one, since I had assumed David Solinger’s disagreement with me.
Dear Flora,
I am delighted that you are serving on the Search Committee for a new director. Indeed, as the Museum enters yet another era, I am impelled to express how important I believe it is for you always to remain active in its affairs. There is a paucity of people who know the Museum’s traditions and understand the nature of its commitment to contemporary American art. Memories are short and firsthand knowledge of the past is more and more unavailable; and as the years pass there will be fewer and fewer of us to remind trustees and others what the Museum stands for.
I have genuine concern that, no matter how excellent it may continue to be, the Whitney may lose its character and unique place in the museum world.
The buzz word of the moment is “scholarship.” While scholarship is fine, there is no substitute for an eye, the ability to recognize quality and artistry (as distinguished from technical skills), and the importance of the biennial (which, fortunately, has survived many an assault) and the long tradition of friendship to visual artists.
It will be harder and harder with each passing year to sustain the Museum’s unique traditions, and I hope you will be there for many years to remind one and all what the Whitney stands for.
Affectionately,
David
I’d opposed the majority of trustees on a vital issue, and had lost. Should I resign from the board? David’s letter suggested one answer. Everyone was urging me to remain, to join the search committee for a new director, to stay involved with committees and with policy. The staff, especially Jennifer, argued for the importance of continuity and commitment to the institution.
Unfinished business, too, needed to be attended to: surely Bill would see he must resign. I hoped Leonard Lauder would take his place, even though he’d been one of those who had led the attack on Tom. Only Leonard, I felt, could unite the board and raise the funds necessary for the Museum’s survival. At that moment, being president of the Whitney wasn’t the glorious honor I’d hoped it would always be.
So I asked him.
As a responsible human being, as a community leader, as a decent person with the skill, power, and personality to pull things back together, and also, surely, because he now wanted to balance his part in the coup by taking a positive role, Leonard agreed to become president.
He asked me to remain active, and I said I would, knowing he and the others were right, that this was still my heritage and my responsibility, and knowing, too, how much I still cared for the Museum. It had also become a way of life; so many friendships and loyalties were involved. Tom himself encouraged me to stay — yet further evidence of his genuine love for the Museum. And then, a new fear entered into my decision: if I left, would that seem to confirm the rumors about anti-Semitism? Would the Museum, as well as Tom and I, be further dishonored?
Somehow Bill’s resignation was arranged behind the scenes. I don’t know the details. On June 13, at the annual meeting, Leonard was elected president; I remained as chairman; and, in a gesture of reconciliation, Tom was elected and agreed to become director emeritus.
In her introduction to the 1989–90 Bulletin, Jennifer wrote:
“The outstanding quality and variety of the programs presented by the Whitney Museum of American Art in fiscal year 1990 represent the accomplishments of Tom Armstrong, whose sixteen-year tenure as director ended in March. The Museum flourished under his leadership, with new programs, expanded constituencies, and the building of the permanent collection. To achieve his goals he delegated a great deal of responsibility to a relatively young staff. He challenged us, nurtured us, and gave us the opportunity to grow as professionals. The smooth continuation of the Museum’s exhibitions, publications, acquisitions, and public education programs following his departure testifies to the vitality and strength he left with the institution.”
Epilogue
For a long time, I expected perfection — in events, in places, in objects. Above all, in people. When they fell short, I found fault with them. I’d reject things, I’d reject people. Wanting to move on, to change lives. Hardest on myself, I’d also criticize those I most loved: my parents, my husband, my children. I didn’t see this for years. Even now, my critical nature is a problem. As a small child, I was expected to be good, all the time. The perfect posture I still retain, that erect and quite confrontational attitude, is a metaphor for that opposite side of my “ideal childhood”: Hold on tight to bad feelings. Control them. Sit on them.
How did these attitudes carry through to the Whitney Museum?
Though the world’s, and my own, imperfections loomed ever larger, the Museum always kept its magical aura. There, I believed, ideals could actually reach fruition. And I could help this
to happen.
For some time, the dream was real. As it waned, my old tendencies revived. Finding villains aplenty, I insisted on the purity of the hero. I soon saw a battle between good and evil. And I wanted to win.
Instead, Tom was fired.
Why was this so important?
I’d assumed that many “family” aspects of the Museum would never change: the board’s sense of fairness toward the director. Smooth transitions from one director to another, from one president to the next. But now, the tightly knit, idealistic structure of the institution that was my heritage was dismantled. Board and staff were ruptured. I felt responsible, hurt, and guilty.
In this book, I’ve chosen what facts to use to bolster my own truth. It’s the story of a journey from childhood to age, from illusion to reality. It tells of change in an institution and change in me. Realizing, now, that I, like all humans, have the capacity for hostile and vengeful feelings, I’ve reached a better understanding and acceptance of myself and of others. Larry Tisch’s actions were destructive, but his feelings were genuine. What happened to Tom was wrong, but predictable, given the personalities involved plus the imbalance of power and money. As Jules said, there’s plenty of blame for everyone — but there’s a chance for growth, too.
The subtext of the story is about art and artists. Without them the story wouldn’t exist. Since Neolithic times, art has been a necessity for human beings, and artists have been the heart and soul of culture and society. No one, not even the artists who make it, can control art. These men and women are in touch with an ultimate mystery, with the essence of life’s meaning, and they bring it to us as a gift. The Museum’s politics must reflect an understanding of the importance of that vision in order to fully represent the art it exhibits.
This story is about how the Whitney changed as it grew. It’s about the three women who’ve been corner posts of the Whitney since its inception, and a fourth whose time is just beginning.
First, Gertrude. Passionate, striving, ambitious, she sought to escape from tedium, from the big social life she was born to, in order to work and create. In her spacious studios, with beautiful models, she developed her talent and became a fine sculptor. At the same time, impelled by generosity, love, and guilt, she became a patron. From this combination of motives, her powerful ideas, and then her public institution, evolved. The Whitney Museum, its striving to achieve a sympathetic environment for American art and artists, its perseverance, its faith, its beauty, and even its playfulness, was pure Gertrude.
Flora Miller succeeded her mother. Her motives were pristine. She wanted to continue the Museum exactly as the mother she’d admired and loved had imagined it. Through the institution, she would keep her mother alive. How faithful she was! How she worked, and pondered, and gave of herself — her time, her charm, and her heart. If not for my mother, there would be no Whitney Museum today. Deviations from the original dream were difficult for Flora Miller; she worried, even agonized, over the smallest of them. She was less self-confident than her mother; though courageous and willing, she was not an artist, not deeply involved in the art world. Moreover, her money was dribbling away. If she could pass the Museum on to me, she thought, it might stay true to its original principles.
Then I came along, with yet another set of incentives. Questing. A bigger life. An unrecognized need to achieve. Too much of this was unknown to me. All three of us, Gertrude, Mum, and I, were taught to hide from ourselves. We survived the depressions all humans are prone to, in various ways, each according to our natures: through work, art, children, play, lovers, amusements, rather than through self-knowledge.
At the Museum, I struggled to both maintain tradition and push the institution into today’s world — to provide the necessary balance between past and present. Money became such a pressing need, though, that today won out. Oh, the irony of having wanted change so badly, of having worked to bring it about, and then to see that change spin out of orbit. Change itself, though, is an elemental force. Like earth, air, fire, and water, like us humans too, it mirrors the disorder of earthquakes, hurricanes, volcanos, and floods.
Could I have saved Tom’s career? The question keeps haunting me. I could, perhaps, have warned him more decisively to be easier on those he didn’t respect, to give more attention to certain trustees. But it wasn’t in my nature to be authoritarian. That’s one of the reasons we were a good team. I’d have to be a real egotist to believe I could have controlled that situation. Power always went with money — why didn’t I know that? Because I didn’t know myself, or the world, well enough. I still thought I could make things happen because they seemed right. Supporting Tom and fighting for his tenure, I contravened my own desire that the board should operate by consensus. Convincing myself that a few of us could persuade, that we could change the minds of many, I was stubborn and nearsighted.
Thus, I was forced to recognize reality, and the pain it can bring. Has it made me cynical, callous? I don’t believe so. Bringing the real and painful into the light of consciousness may have helped me deal with it better. Although more suspicious and less trusting, I’m still ready to rejoice in the good and the beautiful.
Fiona Donovan — the fourth Whitney woman — is much clearer, more direct. She’s self-aware. Mature, with intuitive wisdom and compassion. Trained in art history, she’s capable of being either president or director, has been both a trustee and an employee, and is respected and liked by both board and staff. She’s strong and has a realistic view of things. She is married to Mark Donovan, a solid, delightful man — a gifted teacher, writer, and editor. They have two wonderful children, Flora and Tess. Fiona could leave the Museum without guilt. She doesn’t need it for escape or for anything else. Still, she loves it and feels responsible to its family tradition.
And now? Nearly ten years have passed since Tom was fired. Director David Ross has come and gone, leaving his imprint on the Whitney: a commitment to the living artist, especially the young, the adventuresome. In those years, Leonard Lauder, first as president, then as chairman, led a fund-raising campaign to create galleries for the permanent collection, designed by architect Richard Gluckman, on the fifth floor and mezzanine of the Breuer building. Gluckman, at the same time, relocated the Museum’s offices and library to the “doctor’s building” and the adjacent brownstone on Seventy-fourth Street, and gave the Breuer building itself a thorough rehabilitation.
Maxwell Anderson, the new director, is endeavoring to balance the budget, to encourage warmer relationships with artists and patrons, to move into the new electronic world, and to carry out his fine and ambitious plans for exhibitions, education, and the permanent collection.
Despite the large amounts of money raised, the bottom line has remained red. In fact, during the early ’90s, deficits were higher than ever before.
As new directors have brought in their own curators, development, financial, and personnel officers, registrars, assistant or associate directors, and assistants for all these, the staff has changed markedly. New staff members soon become friends, but I’m saddened by the lack of continuity resulting from this reshuffling of essential positions, of those who give the Museum its character. Sometimes, as I walk from one floor to another, only guards and preparators are familiar, dependable presences. There’s been a break in history, in stability; the atmosphere is different. Until recently, the Whitney was filled with people who could remember almost all the way back to its beginnings, or could recall hearing stories firsthand from those who were actually there. The passage of time alone alters every institution, leaving the earlier generations to contemplate not progress, but its inevitable disadvantages. The familiar disappears, grows strange. And change, however necessary, isn’t always pleasant.
At the Museum, fine exhibitions continue to be curated and installed, although I worry when financial pressures cause the board to ask that curators try for the easy, the popular — the “blockbuster” — at the expense of the new and innovative or the revival of a worthy,
long-ignored, or forgotten artist. The permanent collection galleries are splendid, affording the public a fresh look at the classics of American art. Education programs flourish, reaching out to teachers and students in the public school system, challenging future artists and curators in the ISP, and providing classes, lectures, symposia, and other information, both in person and on the Internet, to our members. More, much more is happening. There are always parties, too, although they are likelier now to be fund-raisers. All in all, the Whitney looks great.
Since 1990, while I’ve participated much less in decision-making, I’ve continued to serve with pleasure on acquisition committees. I’ve worked with curators to add works of art to the permanent collection, and with the development department to raise money, and I’ve cochaired the Library Fellows. Recently, though, I had been living in Taos for half the year. Although I love the Museum as always and remain fixed in my concern for its welfare, I recognize that my time of active participation is over.
Who, since 1990, has cared for the Whitney?
Leonard Lauder, during David Ross’s tenure as director (1990–1998), became increasingly involved with the Whitney. He gave Ross his support and worked with him closely. It was Lauder’s idea, for example, to hold the “American Century” exhibition in 1999–2000, and he was instrumental in raising more money for it than for any previous Whitney exhibition. The show, curated by Barbara Haskell and Lisa Phillips, was not only elegant and illuminating but immensely popular.
The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made Page 49
