Leonard himself proposed a process whereby we’d come up with three schemes. The first included adding minimum necessary space, with and without the “doctor’s building” on Seventy-fourth Street, which would square off our property and which we hadn’t been able to acquire. The second would be with and without needing zoning changes. And the third would mean building either an apartment tower or a building for our own use (but with commercial space on the ground floor and office space above) in a structure of scale and character to suit that part of Madison Avenue.
A problem surfaced almost immediately. Tom’s space projections were high, much higher than Leonard had projected. “There’s no use in going through all this,” Tom said, “and still not having enough space for what we want to accomplish.”
Again, I felt caught in the middle. Again, the budget and operations committee had rejected the budget for the next year, because the projected deficit was too big. In the deep hours of the night, I wondered if we could maintain a Museum doubled in size, even with an additional $15 million of endowment.
However, the small campaign group — Joel, Leonard, Tom, Palmer, and I — forged ahead. We explored. We were encouraged. Our fiftieth anniversary year, 1980, was fast approaching. The long-term implication of all we were planning — birthday celebrations; major exhibitions; two new branch museums; the new National Committee; new planning committees; greater public relations efforts; increased fund-raising; an ever more intense search for new trustees and committee members — was expansion. Since acquisition committees now raised big money, the collection was growing, in quality and quantity. Therefore, the need for more exhibition space was growing. The board itself was growing.
Steve Muller put the case well in a letter he wrote to me explaining why he couldn’t come to a key executive committee meeting but inviting me to use his letter:
It remains my wholehearted conviction that an inescapable obligation now confronts the trustees of the Whitney Museum to proceed with a capital campaign. The right moment is inexorably now. There is a 50th anniversary coming up. The board itself is stronger than it has ever been. The reputation of the Whitney has been growing by leaps and bounds, and its public exposure has been superb. (I congratulate you on the fine article and picture in today’s New York Times.) Everyone connected with the Museum has over the past few years acquired a deeper understanding of its institutional mission and importance. Facility expansion is mandatory. The step forward to a campaign is inescapable.
To back away from the responsibility which circumstances will literally thrust on the Board at this moment would be an unconscionable betrayal of the future of the Museum, perhaps forever. At least five years of preparation of various kinds have generated a momentum that few institutions ever acquire. To abort all that at the last moment would be a catastrophe which I cannot imagine, and which I absolutely believe no objective observer nor the judgment of history could ever condone. Trustees bear the burden of leadership. Leadership must move forward, not backward. The opportunity before the Museum is quite literally a once in a lifetime situation. It has a need and a right to life.
By 1985, Bob Wilson had replaced Larry Tisch as head of the investment committee. Not until February 1985 did the board formally authorize a capital campaign of $52.5 million, on the basis of trustee pledges made in the previous three months and of good news on the financial front.
Now, in 1979, Tom reported that attendance for ten months was up 43 percent from the previous year, attendance income was up 85 percent, net sales were up 63 percent. Membership was way up, too. Joel announced that the deficit would be less than half of what had been budgeted. Tom and I had raised $325,000 from new sources for the fiftieth anniversary exhibition fund, and seventy-five gifts of outstanding works of art had been given or promised to the Museum in honor of its birthday, to be shown together that summer.
By the next year, we were optimistic enough to think about an architect. This, of course, was the fun part, although there was controversy about whether to look for an “artist-architect” or a “nuts and bolts” firm to do the preliminary study. The first serious discussion took place at Philip Johnson and David Whitney’s apartment with Tom and me. Armchairs and a glass table designed by Le Corbusier sat on a gray rug, prints by Jasper Johns stood out against dark gray walls. I still remember five freesia plants in red, violet, and purple, and a cool white calla lily, all grown by David. As it grew dark, David dimmed the lights and, from our perch on the twenty-third floor, the city moved in. We must tell Dick Ravitch that we want an “artist-architect” to work with Davis Brody, and must start the process of choosing him soon, was the upshot of our talk. A small group would be best: Tom and I, advised by Philip and David, and others as we saw fit — Bob Wilson, Sondra Gilman, Leonard Lauder, Victor Ganz.
From the beginning, Philip influenced our project. He was purported to make or break the reputations of innovative young or even older architects. That was probably true. He was both beloved and hated by them, both admired and excoriated for his wit and accomplishments. To me, he was a helpful advisor.
Discussing the building program with the executive committee the next day, I was surprised to find that members were only interested in its cost, not even asking which architects we’d consider.
The first to contribute money toward buying the neighboring brownstones, Bob Wilson was now the first to offer a generous pledge for expansion: $1.5 million, if we matched it five times. In March 1981, Bob joined Tom, Philip Johnson, and me at the Four Seasons Grill in the Seagram Building. “Philip was charming,” I wrote in my diary, “he went out of his way to bring Bob into his charmed circle (me too maybe!) with conversation, our cocktails ‘Americanos’ on table, wit, erudition. We made a list of about eight architects to interview, starting with Richard Meier because he’s doing two museums right now, in Atlanta and Stuttgart.”
Feeling it to be appropriate to the Whitney’s persona and mission, we limited our search to the generation after Breuer’s. This decision eliminated, for example, I. M. Pei and Edward Larrabee Barnes, who had experience, with distinction, in building or adding to museums, and were close to Marcel Breuer. Little did we foresee the distress we would cause by not even considering most modernist architects, who were threatened by the new wave of “youngsters,” already in their late forties or fifties. For architects, though, that’s young and immature. Philip, for instance, already in his seventies, was at the peak of his career.
Soon after, we began the search.
First, a meeting with the kernel of our building committee: Elizabeth Petrie, Brendan Gill, Alfred Taubman, Victor Ganz, Tom, and me. (Philip came to this first meeting as an advisor.) Elizabeth agreed to be its chairman, although she felt her brief time in New York would prevent her from being an effective fund-raiser, and she knew how important money would be. But others would take care of that, we told her. The Petries had chosen Robert Venturi, dean of the “postmodernist” school, to design their house on Georgica Pond, in Wainscot, Long Island, and Elizabeth had interviewed and researched the field before making the final choice. She’d had broad experience with institutions in Philadelphia. In addition, she was one of the few women to whom men really listened. They appreciated her intelligence, her grasp of a situation, her ideas, and, despite her strength and determination, her gentle, nonthreatening ways. We were grateful to Elizabeth for undertaking this job. We had no idea how traumatic it would become, for her, for us all.
Victor’s voice, his passion, were essential to our project. Since he didn’t hold a position of great power in the business world, he had the same doubts as Elizabeth did about fund-raising, but we persuaded him he was not only vital to our choice of architect but to our whole definition and articulation of our mission.
I had hoped that someday Brendan Gill would write of this search. For a merry search it was, especially with his superior understanding of the history, poetry, excitement, and glory of architecture. How he loved buildings! How richly he respond
ed to those we now saw, which represented the buoyant, humanistic spirit of the ’80s! Captivated by Brendan’s response, his understanding, his contextualizing, and his dazzling language, we gained a deeper understanding of what we saw and heard. How I treasured the wonder of listening, again and again, to some of the most brilliant minds of the day enunciating their concerns and ideas about art, architecture, and life itself.
Traveling, learning, looking at innovative buildings, made this part of 1981 a magical time.
Sondra Gilman, planning to contribute the auditorium, joined us sometimes; Leonard Lauder, occasionally; Alfred Taubman became a key member; others sat in from time to time. But we were a small group. An elite group. Did we shut out others on the board who would have liked to be more closely involved? Probably, especially if they were to make major gifts to the building. One of our many mistakes, no doubt. On the other hand, working with a small, hand-picked group ensured flexibility and also the likelihood of agreement.
In May we “did” New York architects: Charles Gwathmey in the morning and Hardy Holzman Pfeiffer Associates in the afternoon. On a June morning, Helmut Jahn visited us from Chicago with a dazzling presentation at the Museum, and we decided to visit his office in Chicago. That afternoon we met with Sam Brody and Lou Davis, most recently involved in planning some of the new Met spaces. The next day, off to Philadelphia to see Robert Venturi and his partner and wife, Denise Scott-Brown. They rolled out the red carpet, showing us their detailed plans for renovating and adding to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and feeding us a delicious lunch. Their emphasis on community relations and city planning made good sense, especially when they made a point of their knowledge and experience with this aspect of urban construction. We had no concept yet of its importance, but we were impressed.
Now I started to get flak from all those architects who were sure they knew exactly what the Museum needed. Ed Barnes, for instance, pushed hard for barnlike spaces. “You have your great building,” he argued, “all you need is big flexible space for the huge paintings and sculpture artists are creating today. Knowing I’m not in the running, I could be helpful, since I know Lajko so well, and the building too.” I respected Ed’s advice — but other ideas were already attracting us.
When we visited Michael Graves’s office in Princeton, New Jersey, we knew we were still more interested. Michael and his associate, Karen Wheeler, showed us models and drawings different from any we’d seen, combining classical ideas and a modern idiom that would produce clean-cut structures with age-old, proven elements: doors as ceremonial entries, windows you could open, city buildings of human scale, finished with marbles and precious metals, warm colors, varied textures, and even humor. Garlands, sculptures, carved ribbons, and greenery enriched his walls, roofs, doorways, and landscapes. When the budget allowed, Michael used sumptuous materials, but assured us he could make the most humble substance into a thing of beauty.
We were still looking when Marcel Breuer died. I was sad for his wife, Connie, and their children; I grieved for the friend with whom I had so recently played chess. Despite illness and lessening vigor, his intelligence had still flamed. His blue eyes still sparkling with humor, he had responded eagerly to questions about form, beauty, the earthy pleasures of life. His death gave us an even greater sense of responsibility for our choice of an architect to add to his building, his most famous in the United States and the only one in New York. We felt this obligation deeply, making all the more ironic the later objections of architects who seemed to think we wished to destroy Lajko’s work.
All these months, we had interviewed, explored, and seen a half-dozen eminent architects. It was time to decide. On Tuesday, October 13, 1981, I headed for New Jersey with Elizabeth, Tom, Brendan, and Alfred. Michael Graves was ready with designs and ideas. He spoke to us eloquently: all architecture before modernism was figurative — had sought to elaborate the themes of man and landscape. The cumulative effect of the modern movement had been to dismember the cultural language of architecture — to undermine the poetic form in favor of nonfigural, abstract geometries. Michael emphasized his wish that architecture would once again become figurative; that it would represent the mythic and ritual aspects of society. Michael’s poetic words, the beauty of his drawings, the ideas he expressed, all made us certain of our choice. We sat in his office, discussing details — timing, costs, and such — when I realized we hadn’t signaled our decision. “Wait! Stop talking!” I burst out. “We must remember this moment. Michael Graves, will you be our architect?” He beamed, while Alfred shattered my euphoria: “Oh Flora, we haven’t established his fees — that comes first!”
I knew it didn’t, though, so we enjoyed a few minutes of celebration.
The next day, at the trustees’ meeting, we announced our choice to the board. Michael would come to the next meeting, I said, so everyone could meet him and hear his ideas. Afterward, the Lauders gave a dinner party for trustees and spouses. Enthusiasm abounded. I couldn’t resist, while thanking our hosts, proclaiming the bold project and its newly anointed architect, toasting the new building, although Leonard scolded me later, saying it must be a secret, for the time being. That we needed to get our ducks in order: zoning permissions, Community Board, the Landmarks Commission, all that. If we talked about it too much, he reminded me, we’d be asking for trouble. The more people knew, the more they’d talk — “you know that.” Of course, he was right. And I had warned the trustees, at the meeting, and again tonight. But it seemed a shame not to capitalize on the ebullience of the moment, impossible to recapture later.
By May 1982, Michael Graves had put together a lengthy document titled “Working Papers Toward a Building Program,” developed from interviews with staff members by his associate Karen Wheeler. The report first recognized the large, flexible spaces in the Breuer building, ideal for temporary exhibitions. Therefore, “The basic concept for the exhibition space in the new building is first, to provide a continuous, chronological survey of twentieth century American art by displaying ‘highlights’ of the permanent collection. Then, radiating from this core would be individual galleries devoted to special ‘concentrations’ of the Whitney Museum.”
These galleries would occupy forty thousand net square feet, not too big for retaining the sense of human scale and experience we so valued. Special rooms for the Hopper collection and for works on paper, orientation space, a roof garden for sculpture, a film/video gallery, some storage, and many support areas were researched and described. The library collection, corresponding to the Museum’s permanent collection, would form an exceptional resource for studies in American art and culture. Curators’ offices would be located nearby. The lobby, shop, and mailroom would be rethought and redesigned.
An auditorium seating 300 to 350 persons would be used primarily for lectures, symposia, and panel discussions but could also accommodate musical events, dance concerts, and modest dramatic productions. (The audience now sat on the floors of galleries for all such events.) A special events room near the kitchen, for parties, would be good for public relations, and could help us raise significant amounts of money for the Museum. A larger boardroom for our larger board would be necessary; a small dining room for entertaining special guests would also be useful: “a domestic scale room could also be seen as a remembrance of the Whitney’s history as a family institution.”
Much in the draft would be revised. But it was a fine start, and it was exciting to hold in our hands such a detailed document. At the 1982 annual meeting, Elizabeth Petrie felt able to say, “The planning process is proceeding with great care and devotion.”
In November, trustees met to discuss the building program that had been presented to them earlier. Elizabeth led the discussion, reviewing the six-year process leading to this day, beginning in 1976 with a memo from Mike Irving surveying the basic needs of the Museum, and delineating the program’s two primary accomplishments: to provide space for the permanent collection and facilities for its study. She announce
d the consensus of the building committee that the Archives of American Art should be included in the proposed building. The program, she emphasized, should not be considered a “wish list” but a carefully honed and examined document.
Based on experiences of dealing with any number of building programs, this was probably one of the most thoughtful and well done that he had ever seen, Leonard said.
This opinion from our most influential trustee was a big factor in the board’s unanimous approval of the architect’s fee of $175,000 plus expenses for the initial schematic design of the new building. Tom pointed out that the contract included delivery of a representative group of the architect’s drawings to show the basic stages of the design process, to become the property of the Museum, a most unusual agreement.
We felt sure we could raise the money we needed, albeit with a tremendous amount of work, but it would all be worth it in the end. We had a great architect, a great program, and we’d have a great building. Tom’s capacity for work seemed infinite. Focused on the Museum and its expansion, we were working more than ever as a real team.
Despite all the time I spent with trustees and staff, Sydney and I were adjusting happily to married life. We were getting to know each other’s friends and family. His daughter Alexandra (“Bimmy” to her loved ones) and her husband John Basinski, a delightful couple, welcomed me warmly into their family when we visited them in Philadelphia. Bimmy is a horticulturist and teacher, who gives erudite and lively classes at nearby Longwood Gardens and elsewhere. John was a proficient woodworker when we first met, and now, in addition to being a developer of malls in Pennsylvania and beyond, he rows daily on the Schuylkill — he logged a thousand miles in 1998! They recently organized a marvelous party for Sydney’s eightieth birthday at John’s rowing club, of which he is president. As we sipped champagne, delicate shells sped by us, oars flashing in the sunset, a lovely scene right out of an Eakins painting.
The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made Page 35