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.