The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made

by Flora Miller Biddle

  Michelle had remarried and was living in Oregon, where her husband was studying to be a computer programmer — a prescient choice of career, since its possibilities have grown immensely. Her new husband, Bill Evans, a part-time ski instructor, was a charming, warm, rock-solid young man, and we were all delighted by Miche’s new happiness. He loved her son Anthony and had adopted him, since Anthony’s birth father had virtually disappeared.

  Duncan had also found his mate, beautiful and intelligent Linda Stern, intensely loving and loyal, and adored by Dunc — and by us all. They were living in Connecticut while rebuilding an old wreck of a house from the ground up. Duncan was starting a flourishing business as a carpenter-builder, and soon, in 1980, they were married in Linda’s parents’ apartment in New York, with a gala party after in the garage under our carriage house apartment on Sixty-sixth Street, which we’d filled with flowers, tables and chairs, and music.

  Cully had graduated from Yale in June, and was working as an investigative reporter for the Hartford Courant, a job he greatly enjoyed. Cully met his future wife, Libby Cameron, a lovely Washingtonian who has now become a renowned interior designer, the same year. Still in school, she hadn’t yet decided on a career, and in 1980 she went off to Gerald Durrell’s refuge on Jersey, a Channel Island near France. There she cared for endangered animals: tapirs, tamarind monkeys, crowned pigeons. When a lowland gorilla mauled her, she decided not to be a zookeeper! Cully went to meet her in London, and they traveled in Europe for a month before he started working for Stuart McKinney’s congressional campaign in Connecticut. All the family hoped a marriage was in the offing.

  Our youngest, Fiona, taking time off between semesters at Barnard College in New York, had chosen a wide menu of activities to expand her world. She’d gone to Paris on a “semester abroad” and, besides taking courses at Reid Hall, the Paris extension of Barnard, she learned to cook a number of complex dishes. Back home at Christmastime, she produced a gorgeous Bûche de Noël. After a spell as a waitress in my brother Leverett’s restaurant in Palm Beach, she joined the crew of Maroufa, one of the Tall Ships racing from Bermuda to Newport in 1976 in celebration of our bicentennial year. We’d sailed to Newport to see the ships come in, but with such bad weather reports we huddled around the radio on our boat, waiting anxiously for Maroufa’s arrival. Ship after ship appeared, flags flying, crews saluting from high in the rigging, as the waiting crowds shouted their hurrahs from sea and shore. Finally Maroufa rounded the bend and we bellowed our cheers. Apparently Fiona and her good friend Jackson Friedman, Bob and Abby’s son, were the only crew members not to be completely laid out by seasickness, and they’d taken charge of the huge ship during the worst storms and waterspout dangers!

  Now, in 1977, Fi was back at Barnard, living in a Columbia dorm, working part-time for the Columbia radio station, WKCR.

  By the fall of 1977, troubles at the Museum were brewing.

  After every Museum meeting, a trustee or a staff member would take me aside and complain about Tom’s inadequacy. What weak choices he had made in Patterson Sims and also in our new administrator, Palmer Wald. How much time Tom wasted on seating arrangements for parties. How he’d offended this one or that one. People seldom took me aside to praise, mostly to blame. I listened seriously to everyone. I guess I hadn’t yet learned that most of us focus on the weaknesses we see; somehow we think we help most by pointing them out. But, being inexperienced, I took all I heard to heart. And I worried a lot. The honeymoon was over.

  Trustee and art historian Jules Prown felt Patterson’s exhibitions of the permanent collection showed a lack of scholarship and judgment. When I discussed this criticism with Tom, he replied that Jules’s experience as a professor and university art museum director didn’t necessarily apply to a big city museum. The Whitney needed to appeal to a wide public. We should have a senior curator, Jules thought, grounded in all periods of art scholarship. Before we undertook extensive planning toward expansion, he insisted, this issue must be discussed and dealt with. Surprisingly, he did have confidence in Tom’s and my collaboration. But he was concerned about our direction in expanding the board — we were overemphasizing money and success in our candidates. I knew that, while Tom and I always tried for a good balance of types, we were definitely trying to add trustees with both money and clout. Rightly so, we felt, considering our needs, goals, and vulnerability.

  Jules also found fault with our catalogues: they were unprofessional, lacking in scholarship and connoisseurship. But I found them excellent in scholarship, scope, and design — though sometimes offbeat. For example: when Tom asked Michael Crichton to write the Jasper Johns catalogue, he justified this unusual choice by pointing out the number of intellectuals who’d recently published work on Johns. A fresh look by an intelligent, lively writer, Tom said, might bring new insights about Johns, perhaps be better able to reach the broader public we were hoping for. I certainly found Crichton’s book very good — and Johns himself approved. In a similar thrust, Tom chose many other unorthodox writers for catalogues, including Roland Barthes, for example, who wrote so clearly about Cy Twombly’s work.

  Palmer Wald, the Museum’s administrator, weighed in, too, with his criticisms.

  Palmer liked to laugh. With a tidy mop of gray curls above a cheerful pink face, and a sharp sense of humor, Palmer enjoyed his life outside the Museum as well as inside. But mellow as he was, Palmer was becoming increasingly concerned. Tom, he told me, wasn’t having serious discussions about policy with senior staff. Curators, many of whom were inexperienced, needed more time, too — more guidance.

  Still, Palmer felt encouraged by Tom’s and my partnership and saw the Museum, and Tom, more positively than others I had spoken with. Although some trustees were demonizing him, Tom, like all humans, was neither entirely perfect nor entirely imperfect.

  Then, Joel Ehrenkranz visited me at home, early on the morning of November 16. We drank coffee and I listened to him. Would I talk with Tom and convey the criticisms of him with enormous tact, all the while emphasizing the positive aspects? Tell him that within three months we must have an associate director in charge of artistic matters, giving that director the authority to make all decisions in this area. If he didn’t agree — we still had to do it. Anyway, Joel thought, since Tom liked the job, he probably would agree eventually. People always do best what they like to do.

  I promised Joel I’d discuss the matter with Tom, and I did. I didn’t agree with Joel, however; Tom didn’t need an associate director. Tom’s job was to run the Whitney as he thought best, including organizing and hiring his staff. By second-guessing him, we’d weaken his ability to lead, and he’d lose the enthusiasm and energy we prized in him. By telling Tom to hire an associate director, I’d undermine his authority. I couldn’t do it. I did discuss Joel’s ideas with him, but it was clear that Tom wanted the artistic portfolio as part of his directorial responsibility.

  The idea of a senior curator had been a recurring subject of conversations between Tom and me. Other museums with senior curators were bigger than the Whitney. Since Tom had assembled his own team of fine young curators, he knew just how he wanted to work with them. Tom, originally at Howard Lipman’s request, now at mine on behalf of the trustees, searched, interviewed, sought the counsel of others, without success. Meantime, the young curators he had hired produced exhibitions of high quality, and as the years passed they grew and flourished. (Most have gone on to illustrious careers as directors or deputy directors in prominent museums.)

  I recorded all this in my journal, along with names of the many trustees who had called me to complain about Tom’s faults in areas of art, communication, organization, extravagance.

  Change and criticism at the Whitney, I was beginning to realize, were two sides of the same golden coin. It was up to me to flip that coin with luck and wisdom, to protect its precious substance. Could I do it? How did I feel about the criticisms?

  Since some of the people who had encouraged me to become p
resident and work with Tom were now complaining so vociferously, I felt they were undermining me. I trusted Tom’s motives, his ambition for the Whitney, and his vision. I leaned on his broad shoulders. Those who criticized, after all, didn’t have the ultimate responsibility. I had to rely upon my own judgment. But as new president of the Whitney, I trusted in each person’s accuracy and integrity. I gave equal weight to all complaints. By assessing and disregarding some of them, I could have achieved a solid position of authority for Tom and myself. Only time and experience taught me much later to discriminate.

  At that time, I worried, and when Bill Marsteller — head of his advertising company, Marsteller Burson, and trustee head of our development committee — offered to lend the Museum one of his best officers, I accepted. Elias Buchwald was to study the relationship of the public relations department to the rest of the Museum. The group of trustees I worked with closely — officers, mostly — saw this as a first step toward addressing complaints, something that Tom could accept. Not too threatening. But Buchwald soon found other problems: the staff lacked a shared view of the image the Whitney wished to project, he said. Some found Tom inaccessible, lacking in respect for them, immersed in irrelevant details, and unwilling to delegate responsibility. On the other hand, “Bucky” pointed out, Tom had a strong and clear idea of what he, Tom, wanted the Whitney to be: a place for the permanent collection with better facilities for exhibiting it, so that the Whitney might be the preeminent home for American art generally and American twentieth-century art in particular. Tom believed he must attract money from rich people in order to buy art that would make the collection the best in its area. Therefore the details he’d become involved in, and for which he was criticized, such as the napkins for a dinner party, were relevant.

  On December 1, the Museum’s officers — Howard, Joel, Dan Childs, Charles Simon, and I — met to discuss Bucky’s report. After I had conveyed its essence, I asked each officer to comment.

  Charles, brutally honest as always, said it was exactly what he himself had perceived. Tom was “colder than a frog’s rear end,” it was difficult to reach him, and all the staff felt this. I listened, remembering that at other times Charles had seemed very fond of Tom indeed.

  No one, Howard said, was perfect, remaining mostly inscrutable. Why, I wondered, had his great affection for Tom, his support of him, lessened? This is something I still wonder about, and perhaps will never resolve.

  As for Joel, he found Tom arrogant, and said he alienated many people.

  Almost all agreed that the most important project at this time was the acquisition of neighboring buildings. We should deal with that now. To control this site secured the Museum’s future.

  After the meeting, driving home, Charles, Howard, and I agreed that we were the three active trustees with the greatest emotional commitment to the Whitney. Was Tom, in their opinion, representing the Whitney to the public as a proper leader, I asked? Howard was silent. Had I asked him a few months ago, said Charles, he would have said yes. He was far more uncertain now. The Museum had changed, much as Salomon Brothers, Charles’s old firm, had. How, I asked.

  The board, said Charles, had gone from being idealistic and committed to public service to becoming a board of self-interested, tigerish, youngish businessmen. The older Whitney trustees, like Howard and himself, knew about American art, cared about younger artists, and wanted the Museum to remain supportive of these artists. They had no hidden agendas, their motives were pure; they had a genuine love of art, and faith in the Museum. They wanted to include in the Museum family other patrons who also loved art, not simply those with money. But the others didn’t understand the Whitney’s original ideals. To them, “bigger” was invariably “better.” They liked publicity and parties. They wanted to use the Museum and their contacts there for their social and business purposes.

  And Tom, in Charles’ opinion, was the same way.

  Was my role, I asked, to provide the leadership that would maintain the Whitney’s true nature?

  Yes, said Charles. But he questioned whether I had the sophistication or the battle scars to confront Tom, either to change him, or to ask him to leave. Art was becoming a big business. Artists, often pushed by their dealers, were now making decisions based on their capacity to earn money, making career-oriented choices, instead of working steadily and patiently to develop their talent. I’d be bucking the new system.

  While taking all this seriously, I wondered about those former ideals. What were they? To collect, preserve, and exhibit American art, the best we could find, of the twentieth century. To serve the artist and the public. Had this changed? Weren’t we, in fact, doing just that? I thought of the exhibitions up at the moment: in October 1977, for instance, a retrospective of Jasper Johns opened. Perhaps some trustees had other-than-noble reasons for wanting to be on the board, but after all, most of us had mixed motives. Including myself. So what? Human beings are all imperfect.

  I knew, too, how high Tom’s ideals were for the Whitney. How all he did was directed toward achieving those ideals. He had to operate in the new world of which Howard and Charles were so critical.

  For the moment, the Museum’s destiny was hooked to Tom’s speedy engine. As we careened along toward the ’80s, I decided to hang on for dear life.

  Despite all the criticisms, I felt good about the Museum and my work. Tom and I complemented each other and modified each other’s weaknesses: he encouraged me to be a public leader of the Whitney, to speak with conviction, and to appear confident and resolute, to reach out to the important people who could help us; I encouraged him to pay more attention to each trustee, as well as to those members he found unsympathetic, who were potential patrons. More powerful by nature than I, Tom was a born leader. Once he was sure of his goals, he pursued them with a single focus. Whatever insecurities he may have harbored inwardly, he outwardly radiated assurance. Then, bit by bit, he assembled a team of talented young men and women whose enthusiasm and abilities almost matched his own.

  On December 8, after the executive committee meeting, Tom, Steve Muller, and I repaired to Gafé Nicholson — my choice for our next heart-to-heart talk. This restaurant, in sculptor Jo Davidson’s old studio, was unique. It opened only at the whim of the owner-chef. Skylights lit its airy space. Brilliant birds in cages hung from the ceiling. On the marble floor, between life-size nude sculptures and potted trees, tables stood, generously spaced. A patrician woman in austere black, with a chignon of blonde hair, recited the unvarying menu, culminating with a chocolate soufflé.

  Complaints were normal, Steve thought. Especially when a major project involving physical expansion and a campaign for millions lay just ahead. People, those with deep pockets, became anxious. They questioned everything, hoping to find a reason not to give. And the staff, naturally, were anxious about their jobs, assuming that Tom would want his own team. Was I hearing complaints from Tom’s new curators, he wanted to know? I wasn’t.

  Since I knew Steve had raised so many millions for Johns Hopkins, his words reassured me.

  And Tom was convincing, too. Together, we would accomplish miracles. We would buy the brownstones next door. We would build a splendid collection and house it in a splendid building. But the unhappy trustees, I asked?

  We would win them over, Tom assured me. Although he didn’t suffer fools gladly, if at all, from now on he would be more patient, give them more attention. He’d remember that the stakes were high. As for me, well, why should I feel insecure? Look what I’d already done, the money I’d raised, when no one thought it possible!

  Tom was referring especially to a pledge I’d been able to win from Bob Wilson, a member of our finance committee, and a crackerjack investor. He’d started with almost nothing, and made a fortune. Since he became both a close friend and a key trustee, I’ll say a little more about him.

  My present husband, Sydney, and I traveled in India with Bob, learning his ways: his yoga straps for exercising that he used every day without f
ail, making a growly noise like a rolling bowling ball. His disciplined diet, by which he’s maintained his trim figure despite his love of fine wines. His conservative political views, to which he sticks, as he does to his many liberal friends. He’s a mass of contradictions. He abhors “losers,” he says. Not having achieved fame and fortune, we fit rather neatly into his definition of such, but he’s genuinely fond of us — as we are of him.

  Bob stands tall and straight, with sandy hair. His plain face is alert and attentive. His intelligent eyes give you a thorough once-over. He says what he thinks. He’s attracted to certain works of art, and scornful of others, no matter how highly endorsed they may be, and he’ll make that quite clear.

  Bob’s other passions center on the opera, on monuments of the past, and on beautiful birds. He travels the world over, searching out the finest of each. And he really knows about them. He’s been chairman, for instance, of the New York City Opera, where he put a shaky institution on sound financial footing, without sacrificing quality. Once committed, he’s extremely generous and supportive; the Whitney has benefited by his leadership, as well as by his major gifts.

  Bob gives exquisite dinners for ten to twelve carefully chosen guests, usually leaders in their fields, at which he often guides conversation so as to bring out the diversity of their opinions, encouraging quite vehement but seldom acrimonious discussions.

  Bob has no pretensions. I like his habitually casual, tieless garb, his dry, acerbic humor (but not his racist jokes). He’s idiosyncratic, a complex and memorable friend.

  I’d planned to talk with Bob about his giving money toward purchasing the neighboring brownstones. We’d made a date.

  I felt comfortable with Bob. But I was nervous. I’d never before asked for big money by myself. I’d asked Bob to become part of our “family” — meaning, to become a trustee — to be committed with us to the idea of expansion, to pledge $100,000 to help buy the brownstones. That seemed like a huge amount, especially from a nontrustee, and Bob, after listening carefully, had said a polite but firm “no.” He didn’t like to give away such large sums all at once. I wasn’t surprised, but I was disappointed by my failure.