While we continued to work toward the expansion project, entirely committed to it, I worried about the ever-present problems the Museum was facing. The budget. Tom and Leonard. Keeping the board of trustees informed and enthusiastic. Community reactions to our plans.
Twenty-five
Tom, in a snapshot taken at Liberty State Park, in New Jersey, at the National Committee meeting in May 1984, is marching along with the brass band he’d picked up on the sidewalk near the Public Library and recruited for our picnic, jaunty in his Whitney jumpsuit, accessorized this time with a drapey collar made from a flag. His fuzzy red, white, and blue wig is blowing in the breeze. He looks every inch the leader — to some of us. Not to others, who resent his bizarre sense of the ridiculous. He was definitely on his best behavior, however, at the annual trustees meeting in June on a broiling hot day. It was to be a very important meeting, scheduled at two o’clock instead of the usual four thirty, to allow time for the trustees to consider the fund drive for addition and endowment. We’d planned it carefully.
First, Tom narrated a slide show on the history and development of the Museum, covering the origins and growth of the permanent collection and the exhibition program. He ended by showing several outstanding works acquired within the last ten years, saying that “it has now become the Museum’s obligation to present these and the other great works that form the core of the permanent collection to the public.”
Elizabeth Petrie then made her report, as chairman of the building committee. She prefaced it with quotes from the recent, and extremely enthusiastic, American Association of Museums accreditation report: “The Whitney remains one of our great museums and is a major national treasure. … This is a great museum in various ways. The collections are outstanding, and continue to grow in stature. The program is one of high quality. The staff is generally excellent. … And the prospects for the future are not only favorable but potentially exciting.”
She went on to say that the expansion program was the result of many years of study and work by countless professionals. Alfred Taubman, who had been professionally involved with many major building projects, had said he’d never worked with a committee where more thought, effort, and good judgment had been expended in the planning process. Michael Graves, still refining the details of the proposed addition, already had trimmed building costs by about 15 percent. The resultant estimate by Pavarini Construction Company, including renovation of the Breuer building, was $27 million. With endowment and “soft costs,” the whole campaign would be for $52 million.
Leonard Lauder and Elizabeth had exchanged detailed letters just before this meeting, and reading them over now is a bitter reminder of the doubts Leonard had about the size and cost of the expansion project. Having already discussed this with me on several occasions, he started his long letter with these words: “Basically, I am 100% in favor of the expansion of the Museum, and of the choice of Michael Graves as architect. Michael’s selection was a brave decision that will give us a building that we’re all proud of. The Program: Unfortunately, I feel it is too ambitious. It raises the question of whether we can match our ambitions to our means.” He continued with specific questions. Was the building too vertical? The superstructure too costly and controversial? Was the cost estimate accurate, or should we get another? Might getting occupancy of the buildings we owned be difficult, time-consuming, and expensive? Could we get the zoning permissions we needed from the city? Would the Museum have to be closed for longer than we thought? Would the cost of operating the enlarged Museum be too great, even with increased endowment? He made other points, but these were the principal ones.
With accurate information from Jennifer Russell, now assistant director, Elizabeth’s letter answered each point cogently. At the meeting, she corrected misassumptions: Leonard had thought the program almost tripled the space of the Breuer building, when, in fact, it would be two and a quarter times its size, about one hundred thousand square feet. The building committee, after long deliberations, had concluded it was more desirable to build part of the addition over the Breuer building, resulting in a lower structure, than to build a higher tower that would be more obtrusive.
Sandy Lindenbaum, who advised on all real estate and zoning questions, had recommended a firm to handle repossession of the buildings next door, including Books & Company. After investigating, they gave us a reasonable date for emptying the buildings: January 1987, at a cost of $2.3 million, included in our schedule of capital expenses.
Operating costs for the first year the addition would be open had been carefully estimated. There would be additional income from the $15 million to be raised for endowment, and from rentals for the commercial spaces on the first floor, lower level, and second floor that were part of the design — an idea of Richard Ravitch’s. Morgan Stanley’s real estate division, Brooks Harvey & Co., had given us very conservative figures for these rentals, but even so, there would be no projected deficit.
Sandy Lindenbaum, who would coordinate the whole process of obtaining city permissions, felt that we had a good chance of ultimate approval from the Landmarks Preservation Commission, the City Planning Commission, and the local community board.
Long discussion of the building program ensued. Leonard still felt we should reduce the size of the building; the library, for example, was too big, and a library was not one of the chartered responsibilities of the Museum. But library facilities had always been an important part of the Museum, I answered, and my grandmother herself had first established the library in 1914, at that time in the Whitney Studio. Jules Prown added that one of the Museum’s primary purposes was educational, and that a library was integral to this purpose. He also thought, concerning the height of the building, that Michael’s design was a brilliant solution to the limitations of the site and the requirements of the Museum and its public.
And so it went, back and forth, until at last Elizabeth McCormack proposed the following resolutions, which were unanimously adopted:
“Resolved: that the board of trustees of the Whitney Museum of American Art enthusiastically supports in principle the plan for physical expansion of the Museum; and be it further
“Resolved: that the board authorizes and directs the development committee to solicit $20 million for the capital campaign from the board of trustees, to be pledged by the trustees before November 30, 1984.”
Tom and I glanced at each other down the length of the granite table. We had surmounted the first hurdle. Although we knew the “development committee” in this case meant the two of us, that we would have to solicit each trustee ourselves, we felt confident of raising at least as much as we needed for the next step.
But the meeting wasn’t quite over. We had asked Victor Ganz to articulate why he thought the Whitney was ready to take this enormous step, why it should. Once again, he really came through.
When I was invited to join the newly created Drawing Committee almost ten years ago I was initially very doubtful, but I was finally persuaded by the enthusiasm of Flora and Tom, and by the prospect that this committee would be involved in the creation and development of a completely new department in the Whitney program.
My perception of the Whitney and that of my friends and acquaintances in the art world was not very bright — it seemed like a quiet, comfortable little village set in a valley between twin peaks, the Metropolitan and the Modern.
In the decades from 1940 to 1970 it had come close to missing the greatest moment in the history of American art. If it hadn’t been for the courage and generosity of the Lipmans in the field of sculpture, for several daring purchases by the “Friends,” [and some important gifts] the record from 1940 on would have been dismal indeed.
All of this has now changed. I fear that many of us are so close to the situation that we see the problems and not the progress — but the progress has in fact been astonishing:
In 8 years: We have tripled in size (except physically). We have filled some of the most important gaps in o
ur collection. We have pioneered and developed a branch program which is respected nationwide. We have created and expanded the National Committee so that it now plays an essential role in our affairs. We have put together an American drawing collection which is one of the finest in the country. We have exhibited and acquired excellent examples of the important trends in American art of recent years. We have in fact become an ambitious and successful national institution.
Many of us realized that the situation in New York during the past 5 years was very favorable to our growth: both the Modern and the Met were deeply involved in their expansion programs and there were good reasons to be concerned about what the future would be. That future has become the present and the present looks fine!
The newly opened Modern has declared itself: it is, and wants to remain, the great museum of the art of the first half of the twentieth century.
The Metropolitan has never really cared about contemporary art and apparently still doesn’t — it minces hesitantly to the water’s edge, but it seldom goes in.
The Guggenheim basks on the beach.
It’s really amazing! The opportunities for the Whitney are greater than ever. The perceptions of those in the art world have changed completely — they love the Whitney — they love its open-minded and open-handed approach — they love its daring and its generosity of spirit — they love its friendliness and its guts.
This is our great opportunity. Our village is out of the valley and now it’s a city near the top of the mountain.
It certainly takes courage to move a city! — but we may never get the chance again.
Wow! Rereading that brings back all the euphoria of that moment, all our confidence and high hopes. It also brings the conviction that, had Victor only lived longer, we might have succeeded.
I saw Leonard quite a lot that summer. Lunch at his office. Breakfast at Park Lane. He was communicating, ever more forcefully, his mistrust of Tom’s ability to manage the Museum, his wish to have a new director or at least a senior curator, and better financial controls. I, on the other hand, was asking him for a pledge for the campaign, a leadership gift. I wouldn’t give in to his criticisms, he wouldn’t give me a number; we were both stubborn. At the same time, Leonard was completely supportive in public, at meetings, or openings, or to the press.
In 1984, in Dallas with the National Committee, we celebrated Tom’s tenth anniversary as director, along with a big birthday for Brendan. Jennifer had provided T-shirts for all, “Happy Birthday Brendan” on one side, “Happy 10th Tom” on the other. At a signal, we all whipped out masks and became Brendan look-alikes as we bellowed out our birthday wishes. Reporting on this at the November trustees meeting, Bob Wilson remarked that the celebration was especially fitting since Tom was, indeed, a “10.”
One of the Museum’s new initiatives was the Curators’ Discussion Group, which Victor and Tom had recently dreamed up to enable patrons to explore in depth various facets of contemporary art. After a candlelit dinner in the Lower Gallery, we repaired upstairs to the trustees room for lively discussion. I remember one especially animated meeting with John Cage, Ivan Karp, and Nam June Paik. John, as I recall, maintained that nothing was intrinsically boring, and immediately was loudly challenged by several of the members. “What about that noisy air conditioner?” said one, pointing up at the ceiling. John listened for a long moment, then answered that one could meditate to its soft sounds, as one could to any number of other city noises often heard as unpleasant interruptions. He articulated his Zen and Taoist-inspired beliefs in the nonlinear logic of chance and process with such patience and gentleness, such a beautiful expression, that I believe skeptics were impressed, maybe even convinced. I certainly was.
Five new trustees joined the board in 1984:
Joan Hardy Clark became chair of the education committee and of the Library Fellows. She was responsible for the first million-dollar pledge to the campaign, and later funded the memorial book about my mother, the “Flora” book. Joan remains one of my closest friends.
Gilbert C. Maurer became president of the Museum in the ’90s, and funded Michael Graves’s initial fee through the Hearst Foundation, a heartening gesture of support.
Stephen E. O’Neil, chairman of the development committee, is a lawyer with a great sense of humor and a fine mind.
C. Lawson Reed, national committee member from Cincinnati, was a member of the building and development committees. Lawson, a business leader who had led important cultural projects in his city, was a passionate, articulate believer in our building, and in Michael. He and his wife Dorothy gave a major gift towards the campaign.
Leslie Wexner, founder and chairman of the Limited clothing store group, member of the national committee from Columbus, served on the painting and sculpture committee. A close friend and protégé of Alfred Taubman’s, he promised major support, but never came to meetings and never made a pledge.
We needed pledges from trustees. The development committee had recommended that the solicitation of trustees be postponed until a new president was chosen, but those we had sounded out for the job had said no, and we weren’t sure where to turn next. In November, the development committee gave Tom and me approval to proceed.
The first trustee to make a commitment was Bob Wilson, with a long-standing pledge for $1 million, and the understanding that, if we obtained five $1.5 million pledges, he would match them. Before long I wrote: “Your confidence and generosity have often kept us optimistic about the long run, when the short run seemed downhill. … You are an extraordinary trustee — the combination of intelligence, wisdom, and support you give is unique — I’d like to clone you, except I’d really rather you stayed unique! I think we have five $1.5 million pledges, and should know for sure by mid or late January.”
Tom and I usually made dates for breakfast at the Carlyle, two blocks up Madison, with individual trustees. The headwaiter seemed to be on to our plan, and we decided the dining room staff was making bets on how we did, according to our expressions at the end of breakfast. Theirs would reflect ours: our waiter beamed when we smiled with satisfaction. Bob’s challenge had really put us on our mettle. Breakfast after breakfast, we’d describe, enthuse, cajole, and flatter, as we’d watch trustees help themselves to scrambled eggs and bacon from silver chafing dishes on the buffet. Ice water, starched linen napkins, soft lighting. Our cozy corner banquette exuded all the comfort and reliability with which we could imbue a hotel dining room.
And no one said no!
Amounts varied, but mostly, we were immensely encouraged by trustees’ enthusiasm and pledges.
After a lunch meeting with Michael Graves, Mary and Laurance Rockefeller, who had already contributed so much to the acquisition of the brownstones next door, firmed up their verbal pledge of $500,000. This gift, when completed, would bring their total to a munificent $1,200,000 — nearly enough to match to Bob Wilson’s challenge. “We thought,” Laurance wrote, “the presentation by the architect was splendid. His solution to the problem of providing additional and necessary space is both brilliant and uniquely responsive to the site and existing buildings.”
After talking with Sondra Gilman about her foundation’s possible gift in memory of her husband Charles, the Gilman Foundation board met in the Trustees Room with Michael Graves, Karen Wheeler, Tom, and Jennifer. They asked tough questions, and listened without saying much. But after their next meeting, Sondra told us that they had approved the biggest gift the Whitney had ever received; $3 million for the auditorium, “a jewel,” as Sondra called it. We were overwhelmed. In honor of Sondra, Sydney and I gave our last dinner in Mum’s apartment at 10 Gracie Square, where we were staying while Michael Graves was redoing ours.
One of the new trustees we invited to that party was Joanne Cassullo. A recent graduate of our Independent Study Program and a gifted woman, Joanne had access to a large foundation through which she is extremely generous to the Whitney. Committed and loyal, besides endowing the Independent Stu
dy Program and contributing to many other programs, she continues to give a great deal of herself to the Museum.
Trustee Berthe Kolin had introduced us to Joanne — an important one of her many gifts to the Whitney. Her husband, Oscar, was Helena Rubenstein’s nephew and president of her foundation. Chic in French couture suits, impeccably coiffed and made-up, Berthe hardly ever missed a meeting and always added her inimitable touch. After a particularly tense budget discussion she might say “But do you have a di Suvero sculpture? Mark is a very close friend, you know, I can ask him.” And then one day she gave us her favorite treasure, David Smith’s Running Daughter. A masterpiece. She always missed it, always visited it when she came to the Whitney. She and Oscar, she told us during lunch in their East Hampton house, had fled their Paris home during World War II, riding across the Pyrenees on bicycles with one suitcase each — a harrowing journey. After somehow arriving in South America, they managed to get on a boat to New York, and sailed proudly into the harbor, Berthe in the brand new Chanel suit she’d preserved in that single bag for just this moment. She was irrepressible, obstinate, and delightful.
In February 1985, I was able to report to the board that Tom and I, after speaking to most trustees, were confident that the future of the Museum was assured. After thanking Bob for being the first to express his confidence in the project, and for his challenge gift, now matched, I announced Sondra’s pledge, the largest single gift in the Museum’s history, and asked if she would say a few words. The opportunity, she said, to support the expansion program was a great privilege for two reasons: “first, organizations are not static, either they progress or regress, and by providing funding for expansion, trustees enable the Museum to continue to grow; second, support of the expansion program allows trustees to play a key role in one of the greatest architectural projects of the decade, which I believe the addition designed by Michael Graves will be.”
The Whitney Women and the Museum They Made Page 40