Rogues' Gallery Part 6

Though the museum took over immediately, a physical merger had to wait until peace was restored. But a year later, in May 1945, the first exhibit planned under the Met's auspices opened in the Morgan Wing and made it plain that the founders' intention to encourage "the application of art to manufactures and to practical life" was finally being made manifest by Taylor's museum. Fas.h.i.+on and textile designers were asked to choose inspiring objects from the museum's collection and create designs based on them. Designers like Adrian, Adele Simpson, and Norman Norell showed dresses that featured Greek architectural motifs, and fabrics inspired by a necklace worn by a statue of the Egyptian queen Nefert.i.ti.

The Costume Inst.i.tute, which by then held seven thousand articles of clothing, finally moved into the Metropolitan in the spring of 1946. Originally, it was thought the collection would be moved into a building connecting the museum proper to the planned Whitney Wing. Instead, it went into a bas.e.m.e.nt at the northeast corner of the museum, where it would remain until 1970.

Despite its less than chic quarters, its ties to the fas.h.i.+on industry quickly grew even stronger. Decades later, critics would condemn the commercialization of the museum by its a.s.sociation with the fas.h.i.+on industry, but that horse had long since left the barn. In February 1947, another department store, Bloomingdale's, gave the museum twenty-six outfits from that year's spring collections, the first created since wartime restrictions on fabrics had been lifted, to celebrate the seventy-fifth anniversary of both the store and (belatedly) the Metropolitan. After they were displayed at a lunch where the gift was announced, the outfits went straight into Bloomingdale's windows for a week before arriving at their final home at 1000 Fifth Avenue. What effect the museum's imprimatur had on sales went unrecorded.

Another Costume Inst.i.tute innovation was its Party of the Year, an annual gala planned by Lambert and Shaver to raise $25,000 a year to add to its endowment and, the board hoped, generate publicity and prestige. The first, held in 1948, honored the designer Norman Norell. The second, a supper dance at the Plaza hotel, featured a show of Belle Epoque fas.h.i.+on. A pageant of wedding gowns was the attraction at the third. At another, the entertainment featured Francis Henry Taylor and a designer competing to see who could transform ten yards of fabric into an evening gown on a model faster; Taylor lost. Though the Party of the Year would eventually become a social spectacle, in its early days, before designers became known quant.i.ties, it was simply an industry event. "It was basically Seventh Avenue, a lot of Jewish people," says an inst.i.tute staffer. "A rabbi's wife who knew everyone did the seating."

THE MUSEUM OF THE FUTURE WAS ALREADY TAKING SHAPE, BUT Robert Moses wasn't ready to celebrate. He was still waiting for the trustees to agree to pay half the costs of any postwar reconstruction, and he was getting angrier by the minute at their refusal. Osborn had Moses's demand for answers copied for each of the trustees on attention-getting thick, heavy paper, along with a similarly printed cover letter to the board, alerting it that the museum's sweetheart deal with the city was being threatened, as was its financial viability. Though the eighty-one-year-old president's signature had grown noticeably shaky over the years, this time it was as emphatic as his warning. Robert Moses wasn't ready to celebrate. He was still waiting for the trustees to agree to pay half the costs of any postwar reconstruction, and he was getting angrier by the minute at their refusal. Osborn had Moses's demand for answers copied for each of the trustees on attention-getting thick, heavy paper, along with a similarly printed cover letter to the board, alerting it that the museum's sweetheart deal with the city was being threatened, as was its financial viability. Though the eighty-one-year-old president's signature had grown noticeably shaky over the years, this time it was as emphatic as his warning.

The response from Moses was, if anything, even stronger, accusing Osborn of "astonis.h.i.+ng misrepresentations," indignantly pointing out that the museum had recently received unexpected gifts totaling more than $3 million, and tackling head-on Osborn's concerns about paying for buildings on city land by noting that the de Forests had done just that with their American Wing and that the Whitney trustees had just offered to do it again a.s.suming they and their Met counterparts could ever agree. He ended by noting that he had supported the Whitney Wing despite the likelihood of "considerable protest" from those "who do not believe in surrendering any more park land" to the museum.90 A few days later, when Osborn called a special board meeting, Moses asked his representative to point out to the trustees that the museum president also served as vice president of a city budget commission that had just blasted the city's postwar building plans as extravagant. "I don't know how many shoulders a really talented old gentleman can carry water on," he quipped, "but Mr. Osborn is way up among the record holders."91 Finally, after that meeting, the battered trustees realized that Moses had painted them into a corner. Finally, after that meeting, the battered trustees realized that Moses had painted them into a corner.

Within a month, a revised plan was developed, but the Parks officials judged the whole unwise and impractical and couldn't help but notice that Osborn kept vacillating and the question of financing the work was being "piously avoided."92 But Osborn was still stuck in the past, railing against the commandment from Moses that the museum had to come up with more money. The planning-and the posturing-continued. Osborn even told the latest man from the Parks Department that he would have to leave the boardroom the next time money was discussed. Instead of rising to the bait, Moses simply stood his ground. But Osborn was still stuck in the past, railing against the commandment from Moses that the museum had to come up with more money. The planning-and the posturing-continued. Osborn even told the latest man from the Parks Department that he would have to leave the boardroom the next time money was discussed. Instead of rising to the bait, Moses simply stood his ground.

Finally, the new reality sank in, and at the March board meeting Osborn was authorized to appoint a committee to plan a public drive for funds tied to the museum's seventy-fifth anniversary. A month later, Moses appealed to the budget director to give museum employees paid by the city a raise. "How would you like to manicure lions and tigers for 1900 bucks a year?" he wrote. "What about explaining ... Siamese Madonnas of the 14th century to a bunch of hicks from Medicine Hat?"

Still, Moses wasn't satisfied, since Osborn kept stalling, would not commit to paying for buildings, and never got around to appointing the fund-raising committee. Meanwhile, Moses kept tabs on the museum's investments and was likely delighted to learn that thanks to the economic engine of war, the market value of its endowment had risen $5.6 million in 1943. Much of that fall was spent fending off an attempt to unionize the staffs of all the museums. Once again, behind the scenes, Moses was an unlikely advocate for the museums, urging La Guardia to raise salaries quickly.

Optimism was in the air early in 1945. By May, the war in Europe would be over. j.a.pan would surrender in August. A new spirit had entered the boardroom of the museum, too. Planning for its seventy-fifth birthday and the accompanying $7.5 million fund-raising drive to finish the museum's buildings forever was in the works, the Whitney board had expressed happiness about the latest set of plans for its wing, new trustees were beginning to fill the empty seats on the board, and the executive committee was even beginning to tire of what some members saw as...o...b..rn's obstructiveness.93 After five years in office, Francis Henry Taylor could finally look forward to a bigger, better museum in years to come. And briefly, it even appeared that another European war would offer the museum an unprecedented opportunity to acquire a singular masterpiece. After five years in office, Francis Henry Taylor could finally look forward to a bigger, better museum in years to come. And briefly, it even appeared that another European war would offer the museum an unprecedented opportunity to acquire a singular masterpiece.

The Pieta Rondanini Pieta Rondanini, Michelangelo's last work of art, left unfinished on his death, was owned by an ancient n.o.ble Italian family who decided to sell it at the end of the war. Myron Taylor, a trustee then serving as America's envoy to the Vatican, got wind of the fact that it could be had for $700,000. Hypnotized by the idea that they could acquire the first Michelangelo sculpture in the Western Hemisphere, the executive committee decided to pay that price if necessary to get it. As they knew the new National Gallery and other museums, too, would "give several right eyes" to get it, the committee decided to proceed in total secrecy. Though the museum would have had to spend every free penny it had for the next eighteen months to acquire it at that price, Moses declined to interfere, although he did tweak Taylor for crying poverty to him while simultaneously negotiating for the Pieta. But it was not to be. When word of a possible sale leaked in Italy, the government refused an export permit. It was eventually sold to the city of Milan for a third of the $600,000 that the Met finally offered.

In March, the trustees moved to fill four more empty board seats. Initially, Moses was sheepish about making suggestions, even asking Van Webb if there was any sense in trying. "Perhaps the club atmosphere must be maintained," he said with a sigh.94 But when Webb replied that many of the trustees wanted a more useful and qualified board, and Moses learned that the museum study had suggested filling vacancies with representatives of the press, department stores, and religious groups, he renewed his star-crossed nomination of Joseph M. Patterson, added the name of the Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial Fund's director, Beardsley Ruml, and once again noted the absence of women on the board, suggesting Anna Huntington, Archer's wife, and Helen Reid, whose husband, Ogden, owned the But when Webb replied that many of the trustees wanted a more useful and qualified board, and Moses learned that the museum study had suggested filling vacancies with representatives of the press, department stores, and religious groups, he renewed his star-crossed nomination of Joseph M. Patterson, added the name of the Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial Fund's director, Beardsley Ruml, and once again noted the absence of women on the board, suggesting Anna Huntington, Archer's wife, and Helen Reid, whose husband, Ogden, owned the New York Herald Tribune New York Herald Tribune. The board again snubbed Moses, electing Arthur Hays Sulzberger, publisher of the New York Times New York Times (and the board's third Jewish trustee), and Walter Gifford, the president of AT&T, instead, proving a prediction Moses had made to Webb: "Art is to continue to be caviar." Out of reach of the public at large. (and the board's third Jewish trustee), and Walter Gifford, the president of AT&T, instead, proving a prediction Moses had made to Webb: "Art is to continue to be caviar." Out of reach of the public at large.95 Gifford, Moses complained, was more of the same, just another corporate officer. And Sulzberger, though a friend, lacked the "ingenuity, force and support" Patterson would have lent to the board, and "has a pedestrian mind ...and will simply be another fellow who goes along."96 Webb wrote back that he was disappointed, too, but thought Sulzberger at least to be a good choice (he was right; it would be years before the Webb wrote back that he was disappointed, too, but thought Sulzberger at least to be a good choice (he was right; it would be years before the Times Times was again critical of the museum). Moses copied the whole exchange and forwarded it to Taylor, then dropped Webb one last word on the subject. was again critical of the museum). Moses copied the whole exchange and forwarded it to Taylor, then dropped Webb one last word on the subject.

If asked for recommendations in the future, he wrote, "I shall offer the social register."97

THROUGH THAT SUMMER, MUSEUM PEOPLE, LIKE MOST IN THE world, were consumed with current events, but by the fall normal life was resuming. In the meantime, the seventy-fifth anniversary committee, led by IBM's Thomas Watson, had finally been appointed, budgets and contracts for the building rehabilitation set, a drive to recruit twenty-five thousand new members organized, and the law committee put to work devising justifications for corporate donations to the museum. The Whitney plan seemed to be moving forward, too, with the arrangement of galleries under active discussion. In September, Moses and Osborn agreed that the city would pay about $2.4 million toward the improvement of its existing buildings, and the museum would come up with $1.7 million. At the same meeting that saw that expenditure approved, Dudley Easby, a lawyer who'd worked with Nelson Rockefeller, was named the museum's secretary. Repeating Osborn's description of him as "a work-horse type, lacking the social qualities" of his predecessors, a Moses aide cracked, "The club is sure going to h.e.l.l." world, were consumed with current events, but by the fall normal life was resuming. In the meantime, the seventy-fifth anniversary committee, led by IBM's Thomas Watson, had finally been appointed, budgets and contracts for the building rehabilitation set, a drive to recruit twenty-five thousand new members organized, and the law committee put to work devising justifications for corporate donations to the museum. The Whitney plan seemed to be moving forward, too, with the arrangement of galleries under active discussion. In September, Moses and Osborn agreed that the city would pay about $2.4 million toward the improvement of its existing buildings, and the museum would come up with $1.7 million. At the same meeting that saw that expenditure approved, Dudley Easby, a lawyer who'd worked with Nelson Rockefeller, was named the museum's secretary. Repeating Osborn's description of him as "a work-horse type, lacking the social qualities" of his predecessors, a Moses aide cracked, "The club is sure going to h.e.l.l."98 What was sure was that the club was in the red. The 1946 budget antic.i.p.ated a $377,000 deficit, half of it due to the costs of fund-raising, the return of employees from the war, and increased costs for just about everything. And then there were the pesky organizers, still trying to unionize the guards; more than half had already signed up. It was against this backdrop that the diamond jubilee campaign was launched in April to "meet the total future requirements of the inst.i.tution."99 At the kickoff on April 2, the war hero and future president General Dwight D. Eisenhower was made an honorary lifetime fellow to recognize his success in protecting and recovering artworks in Europe (a matter the museum knew about quite well through the work of Taylor, Rorimer, and a newly hired a.s.sociate curator of paintings, Theodore Rousseau, who had worked at the National Gallery before the war and then been a lieutenant commander a.s.signed to the Office of Strategic Services' Arts and Monuments team). The estimated cost of the museum Taylor had envisioned had risen to $10.24 million (and by May the architecture committee would raise that estimate again to $16.6 million).100 As bait, the elaborate brochure appealing for funds ended with an elegantly typeset list of all the museum's benefactors and an invitation for a new generation to join their ranks. As bait, the elaborate brochure appealing for funds ended with an elegantly typeset list of all the museum's benefactors and an invitation for a new generation to join their ranks.

Unfortunately, the public didn't bite quite as fast as the trustees hoped. Devereux Josephs, the treasurer, had become Taylor's confidant on the board after Taylor moved to a coastal town in Connecticut where Josephs had a summer house. Taylor suggested balancing the budget by, among other things, reinst.i.tuting admission charges, creating a permanent fund-raising department, and studying ways to better utilize restricted donations. By the fall, though purchases of art objects had picked up again, he'd also be considering eliminating jobs, nudging aging employees into early retirement, and closing the museum on Mondays. Taylor couldn't catch a break. And his life was about to get vastly more complicated.

The good news was that William Church Osborn, whose wife had died a year before and who'd been hospitalized earlier in the year, had decided to retire, though he would remain a trustee and honorary president until his death at age eighty-eight in 1951. The bad news was that his successor, Roland Redmond, who not only lived near Osborn on the Hudson River but was related to him by marriage, would take after his old family friend J. P. Morgan and be a very active president. His first actions were a sign of things to come, cutting back on full board meetings and giving more power to the executive committee.

SONNY W WHITNEY QUIT THE M MET BOARD IN F FEBRUARY 1947. A 1947. AT the same time, Nelson Rockefeller, who'd tried to quit a year earlier (the board simply ignored his resignation), reopened the conversation between the two museums about how to handle modern art; potential donors to the Modern, where Nelson remained president, had proved unwilling, worried that it would fail. Francis Cormier, a Moses aide, came away from a board meeting worried that Whitney's resignation spelled more delay for the merger with the Whitney. Rockefeller was looking to the middle distance and wanted to end the state of confusion among the three museums. the same time, Nelson Rockefeller, who'd tried to quit a year earlier (the board simply ignored his resignation), reopened the conversation between the two museums about how to handle modern art; potential donors to the Modern, where Nelson remained president, had proved unwilling, worried that it would fail. Francis Cormier, a Moses aide, came away from a board meeting worried that Whitney's resignation spelled more delay for the merger with the Whitney. Rockefeller was looking to the middle distance and wanted to end the state of confusion among the three museums.

In April 1947, a working agreement was being hammered out among the three museums to buy works with Met funds but place them in the Modern for about fifty years and then move them to the Met once they were deemed cla.s.sic, the term agreed upon to describe older art. The Modern committed to sell works it owned that had become cla.s.sics to the Met, and all three agreed to generally work together more, communicate, cooperate, loan one another objects, and avoid duplication of efforts and conflicting exhibits.101 The Met would stick to old art, the Whitney to new American art, and the Modern to the modern art of the twentieth century. The Met soon identified Modern works with an agreed-upon value of just over $500,000 for purchase (ten Cezannes, including The Met would stick to old art, the Whitney to new American art, and the Modern to the modern art of the twentieth century. The Met soon identified Modern works with an agreed-upon value of just over $500,000 for purchase (ten Cezannes, including The Bather; The Bather; six Matisses; two Pica.s.sos, including six Matisses; two Pica.s.sos, including Woman in White; Woman in White; two Rousseaus, including two Rousseaus, including The Sleeping Gypsy; The Sleeping Gypsy; six Seurats; two Signacs; and van Gogh's six Seurats; two Signacs; and van Gogh's Starry Night) Starry Night). That figure was cut by more than half before the ten-year deal, known as the Three Museum Agreement, was finally signed. Nelson Rockefeller was in on the negotiation, but the proposed arrangement was a sweetheart deal for the Met, which stood to gain thirty years of modern art with little expense or effort. The Whitney, however, really took it on the chin. It got to disappear into the Met. So it took months of negotiation before a final agreement was hammered out.

Nelson's father remained of two minds about the Met. In the spring of 1946, he'd asked James Rorimer to remove his name from the identifying labels of most of his gifts to the museum. But only a few days later, Devereux Josephs sent him a financial report on the Cloisters so detailed it even included a section on how much clerks and mechanics were paid. The next year the Rockefeller Brothers Fund, a philanthropic organization set up by Nelson and his brothers, gave the museum $25,000, and after he got a letter asking for suggestions to fill six vacant seats on the board, Nelson wrote Redmond, gently reminding him of his request to be relieved. His "very ambiguous situation" would remain unresolved for four more years, as first Easby and then Redmond asked him to postpone his departure, even though he'd stopped attending board meetings. By January 1951, when he and the board agreed he would become an honorary trustee-that is, one without duties or obligations-Nelson was the fourth-longest-serving trustee after Marshall Field, Elihu Root Jr., and the inactive Osborn.102 In the meantime, his father started paying close attention to the Cloisters again. In 1944, Junior reopened his talks with Brummer about the Worthies tapestries that had provoked the rift between Rorimer and Taylor. He still wanted to get them for the Met and asked if they could talk not "as a buyer and a dealer" but as "two citizens."103 After two meetings, the price remained too high, but still Junior wouldn't give up plotting to get them. In 1946, he gave another thousand shares of Standard Oil of New Jersey to pay to rearrange the tapestry room and buy a mantelpiece from Brummer, and on Rorimer's return to the museum he again tried to get the dealer to lower his price for the tapestries. After two meetings, the price remained too high, but still Junior wouldn't give up plotting to get them. In 1946, he gave another thousand shares of Standard Oil of New Jersey to pay to rearrange the tapestry room and buy a mantelpiece from Brummer, and on Rorimer's return to the museum he again tried to get the dealer to lower his price for the tapestries.

Everything changed when Brummer died in April 1947 and his collection of about 150 objects, many never seen before, was offered to the Met. Though the executors were asking more than $2 million, and the museum was offering only half that, Junior was willing to cover $750,000 of the price and was pus.h.i.+ng the museum to make a deal for about half the collection (including the tapestries of course). The museum wanted a few other items for the main building. By July, the deal was made for $1.3 million, and the stock Junior handed over-delivered to Roland Redmond in a three-inch-thick stack of certificates-was sold for more than $1 million, more than covering the cost of everything bought for the Cloisters. Though Taylor and Redmond had offered the Brummer estate a show in the main building, Junior objected, not only because he felt Brummer's protracted tease didn't justify it, but also because he wanted the glory for the Cloisters. As always, he got his way.104 The Brummer purchase was announced in mid-September, with Rorimer revealing for the first time that the museum already owned other bits and pieces of the tapestries so the set was nearly complete, a feat Rorimer called "one of the most exciting adventures in reconstruction ever under-taken in the museum."105 Another exciting and unprecedented adventure-the Three Museum Agreement-had been approved just a day earlier, and it was announced on September 21. Several works of art were immediately transferred, including Pica.s.so's portrait of Gertrude Stein, which she'd left to the Met in 1946; it was loaned to the Modern. Though the agreement referred in pa.s.sing to the stalled "coalition" with the Whitney, the joint press release didn't mention it at all. Another exciting and unprecedented adventure-the Three Museum Agreement-had been approved just a day earlier, and it was announced on September 21. Several works of art were immediately transferred, including Pica.s.so's portrait of Gertrude Stein, which she'd left to the Met in 1946; it was loaned to the Modern. Though the agreement referred in pa.s.sing to the stalled "coalition" with the Whitney, the joint press release didn't mention it at all.

The Whitney had won a few concessions from the Met. But the arrangement was not to last, and the Whitney's management blamed Taylor for its failure. "The crux of it was," says Flora Biddle, "the Metropolitan people didn't care about American art and the Whitney people were very concerned about that."

Though it has been alluded to before, the fullest account of what happened appears in Avis Berman's entertaining biography of Juliana Force, Rebels on Eighth Street Rebels on Eighth Street. It was obvious that the Three Museum Agreement wasn't working, so in February 1948 Redmond invited the top men from the Modern and the Whitney to a dinner at the private Brook Club. Over dessert, Taylor and his vice director turned provocative, claiming the Whitney curators only cared about New York abstract artists and didn't know anything about the rest of America. Taylor sneered that Whitney openings were populated by men in blue jeans.

"Those are the artists," he was told.

Furious, the Modern and Whitney teams went to Force, who was dying of cancer but loved a good fight, and told her what had happened. Convinced that her friend Taylor was an irredeemable reactionary, she resigned as the Met's Hearn adviser and insisted the merger be called off. By May, Flora Miller had met with Redmond and agreed with Force, but they announced only that the deal was postponed. The break was finally made public in October, after Force died. The Whitney's statement cited "serious divergences in the att.i.tude toward contemporary art of the two inst.i.tutions" that "raised grave doubts" and "outweighed the many advantages of the coalition." The cover story was a thin one. "It was obvious to anyone on the inside of the art world that the target of this statement was Francis Henry Taylor," wrote Newsweek Newsweek, "a man reputedly cautious-even downright reactionary in his approach to 'modern art.' "106 Soon, the Whitney moved, first to land donated by the Modern in the old Rockefeller neighborhood of West Fifty-fourth Street, and then to its current location on Madison Avenue. Soon, the Whitney moved, first to land donated by the Modern in the old Rockefeller neighborhood of West Fifty-fourth Street, and then to its current location on Madison Avenue.107 Redmond was convinced the Whitney trustees were simply afraid of losing future bequests to the Met. Redmond was convinced the Whitney trustees were simply afraid of losing future bequests to the Met.108 Robert Moses was furious when he learned in August that the merger had collapsed. He'd already had his doubts about Redmond, who'd been on the New York City Art Commission the year before when it sued to stop his plan to raze the 1807 Fort Clinton at the tip of lower Manhattan. In retaliation, Moses left the museum out of the 1949 city budget, even though Redmond was pressing to proceed with the rehabilitation of its oldest wings. The Department of Parks instead scheduled that work, which represented about a quarter of Taylor's master plan, for 1953 and 1954, with completion estimated in 1958.

Thus far, the seventy-fifth birthday drive had brought in $1 million; Thomas Lamont had left the Met the same amount when he'd died early in 1948 (and was soon replaced on the board by his son); the Panama Ca.n.a.l promoter William Nelson Cromwell had willed the museum $450,000; and another windfall came with the death that same year of the lumber heiress and portrait painter Catherine Denkman Wentworth, who left the museum almost $4.5 million (along with a renowned collection of French silver and gold snuffboxes). It was more than enough to cover the museum's share of the work, so Redmond pressed for an earlier city appropriation. In response, Moses told him that due to his role in the "futile and basically malicious" Fort Clinton lawsuit, he could not "expect special attention and effort" in solving the museum's problems.109 By October, the museum had retrenched, abandoned Taylor's building plans, and was asking only for funds to repair and modernize its existing buildings. Unmollified, Moses told them they'd have to start from scratch with new plans and cost estimates. By October, the museum had retrenched, abandoned Taylor's building plans, and was asking only for funds to repair and modernize its existing buildings. Unmollified, Moses told them they'd have to start from scratch with new plans and cost estimates.

Briefly, the trustees considered buying 998 Fifth Avenue, a venerable McKim, Mead & Whitedesigned Italian Renaissancestyle apartment building across the street from the museum, for its administrative and research offices, some specialized collections like the unwanted musical instruments, and the library. Its builder-owner, James T. Lee (grandfather of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy), was in deep financial trouble and offered 998 at the bargain price of $900,000. Taylor had plans drawn showing how it could be connected to the museum with a tunnel, but Moses thought it "a thoroughly bad idea," and the executive committee finally decided not to evict the seventeen families renting there, some of them contributors, in order to take it over.

After the 998 deal died, the museum and Moses finally reached an accommodation. The rehab work began, with the museum loaning the city its half share until 1951, when that money would be repaid. Redmond might have been the president, but Robert Moses was the boss, albeit one with a puckish sense of humor. When the museum mailed him a members.h.i.+p appeal that listed all the trustees except the public officials, Moses sent Redmond a note asking if he'd "painlessly got rid of us."110 They hadn't, but the trustees did approve a program to get rid of duplicate and secondary art and save on storage bills as galleries were emptied for the impending work. It was the largest sell-off since the Cesnola deaccessioning. Many curators opposed it, though, and Taylor was reluctant, so it stalled for several years.

All the while, Rorimer and Nelson's father were growing closer than they'd been before the war. In November 1947, the curator gave his patron a private tour of a loan exhibition of 175 famous French tapestries, including a dozen from Versailles, that had been delivered to New York on a French battles.h.i.+p-"one of the most important exhibitions ever held in the museum (Taylor's opinion)," according to a Moses aide.111 Others were rising in the museum hierarchy; Bobbie Lehman was elected a vice president, and Taylor was made a trustee after nearly doubling attendance to more than two million and bringing in a $143,000 surplus (thanks in large part to his greatest innovation, the international loan shows he championed), but Junior's power was undiminished. At seventy-three, he was getting on in years, but he still operated autonomously through Rorimer at their very successful little museum. It seemed to have none of the problems that plagued Taylor and Redmond downtown. Others were rising in the museum hierarchy; Bobbie Lehman was elected a vice president, and Taylor was made a trustee after nearly doubling attendance to more than two million and bringing in a $143,000 surplus (thanks in large part to his greatest innovation, the international loan shows he championed), but Junior's power was undiminished. At seventy-three, he was getting on in years, but he still operated autonomously through Rorimer at their very successful little museum. It seemed to have none of the problems that plagued Taylor and Redmond downtown.

That summer, Rorimer went to Europe to try to find more sc.r.a.ps of the Worthies tapestries. In May 1949, Junior annoyed Taylor by engineering a promotion for Rorimer; henceforth, he would be known as the director of the Cloisters as well as its curator.112 In the years to come, they would work together to buy the Antioch Chalice, allegedly the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper, for $125,000, and the so-called In the years to come, they would work together to buy the Antioch Chalice, allegedly the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper, for $125,000, and the so-called Merode Altarpiece Merode Altarpiece, a triptych by Robert Campin of the Annunciation, from a financially strapped Belgian n.o.ble family for $778,000. When Ted Rousseau, who'd rapidly become a significant buyer in the European paintings market, heard it was for sale in 1956, he and Rorimer flew to Switzerland to examine it in a bank vault.113 "The price was negotiated in accordance with our understanding," Rorimer reported to Junior. "I am under obligation to the owner not to reveal the price publicly, either now or in the future ... The important fact is that we have it." Junior congratulated him on doing the impossible. "The price was negotiated in accordance with our understanding," Rorimer reported to Junior. "I am under obligation to the owner not to reveal the price publicly, either now or in the future ... The important fact is that we have it." Junior congratulated him on doing the impossible.114 "It's a great game," Rorimer once said. "The only way we can win is by getting the pieces we need most."115 The Rockefellers were, of course, equally adept at the game. When she died in 1948, Abby left two van Gogh drawings to the Metropolitan, but it would get them only after they spent the next fifty years at the Modern. Taylor was one of seven trustees at the meeting of the executive committee where the bequest was accepted without the usual expressions of grat.i.tude. The Rockefellers were, of course, equally adept at the game. When she died in 1948, Abby left two van Gogh drawings to the Metropolitan, but it would get them only after they spent the next fifty years at the Modern. Taylor was one of seven trustees at the meeting of the executive committee where the bequest was accepted without the usual expressions of grat.i.tude.

If foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds, then Taylor's was obviously a large one. Though he sought advice from modern architects, he fought the advocates of modernism in art. Yet he also made one crucial hire that edged the museum into art's present. Late in 1948, he called an art critic, anatomy and drawing lecturer, and former vice president at the distinguished art school the Art Students League and asked him to head a new department of American paintings and sculpture. His taste for modernism aside, Robert Beverly Hale fit perfectly into the patrician precincts of the Metropolitan. He was descended from the brother of Nathan Hale, America's first spy in the Revolution. His grandfather the Reverend Edward Everett Hale was an author, Unitarian minister, and, late in life, chaplain of the U.S. Senate. His father, an architect, died when Hale was just a boy. His mother, Margaret Curzon Marquand Hale, was a distant relative of the Met president Henry Marquand and aunt of the novelist J. P. Marquand. Hale would refer to his parents as "upper Bohemians," part of the affluent set that supported the early American avant-garde. When he was a teenager, his mother introduced him to Pica.s.so and Matisse.116 Taylor's call came "out of the blue," Hale recalled, when he was forty-seven years old. "Francis made it very clear that it was an enormous job."117 He had to silence the museum's critics, who were aware, even if the museum wasn't, that American art was enjoying its first great flowering since the era of the Met's founding. "There was so much Hearn money left, they had to do something," says Hale's widow, Nike. In his public announcement of Hale's hiring, Taylor pointedly noted that he had "never allied himself with any group or movement." He had to silence the museum's critics, who were aware, even if the museum wasn't, that American art was enjoying its first great flowering since the era of the Met's founding. "There was so much Hearn money left, they had to do something," says Hale's widow, Nike. In his public announcement of Hale's hiring, Taylor pointedly noted that he had "never allied himself with any group or movement."118 But in fact, Hale saw the importance of the very group and movement-abstraction-that so threatened the trustees. But in fact, Hale saw the importance of the very group and movement-abstraction-that so threatened the trustees.

Right from the start, "it was terrible," says Nike Hale. "The Met really didn't want contemporary art. There was so much animosity, from Roland Redmond particularly. He was wonderful but conservative; he hated abstraction. He just wanted Rembrandts and Vermeers."

"I was in with the last of the Victorians," Hale would recall of the museum, which had "enormous funds ... but not much taste for contemporary art." Early in his tenure, Taylor had arranged a meal at a midtown club with a group of artists and some trustees who hoped to learn. Asked how to tell a good picture, one artist asked if his questioner had ever walked by the ocean, admired a glistening stone or sh.e.l.l and picked it up to take it home. "I don't believe I ever have," the trustee answered.119 Three days after Hale was hired, James Naumburg Rosenberg, a New York lawyer who'd just retired to become an artist, opened a correspondence with Robert Moses about the Metropolitan's att.i.tude toward contemporary art. When Moses expressed interest, Rosenberg warned that he intended to "stir up a hornet's nest." He'd decided the Met was moving backward, despite Hale's arrival, and planned a series of nine daily open letters to Redmond, detailing its sorry track record, hoping the press would pick up on the story. A life member of the museum, he intended to make a fuss at the next annual meeting, too.120 In essense, Rosenberg demanded that the Met cancel what at that point had become a two-museum agreement and begin collecting modern art on its own if it was to be the "vital dynamic educational body" demanded by its charter. How, he asked, could the museum not own a single Seurat, van Gogh, Matisse, Rouault, Modigliani, Braque, Chagall, Bonnard, Vlaminck, or Utrillo? How could it be that its only Pica.s.so was at the Modern? How, now, could they still define those artists as modern and not cla.s.sic? "How long does the Metropolitan propose to wait before giving full recognition to such modern masters?" he asked. "How can real education in art be given if these artists are omitted? And how much longer must a now living foreign painter wait before his works cross your threshhold? What does such a policy do to the morale of your curators or the reputation of your museum?"

Open letters six through eight were filled with misgivings about Taylor's leaders.h.i.+p, and Rosenberg's amazement at his statements, such as one where he said that modern art "announces the sterility and the intellectual vacuum of twentieth century America ... [the] spiritual breakdown in our Western civilization." In those words, Rosenberg heard "echoes from the Kremlin ... declarations of contempt and despair." Rosenberg's last letter came three days before the annual meeting set for January 17, 1949, and urged immediate adoption of a program that put current art on a par with past treasures on the museum's walls and in its scholarly estimation. "Art did not come to an end with the advent of the twentieth century," he concluded. "Yours must be an unshackled, forward-looking, educational inst.i.tution not in one area only, but in the entire field of art." He was even more blunt in a letter sent the same day to each of the ex officio trustees. "Are you of the opinion that Dr. Taylor should be continued as [the museum's] director?" he wrote. "I shall present that question at the meeting."121 Vanderbilt Webb, responding privately to Moses, said that Taylor's virtues outweighed his flaws but that Rosenberg had "probably done a real service in stirring up the animals a little."122 Redmond's reply, sent the day of the annual meeting, reaffirmed the museum's position and supported Taylor's right to his opinions, no matter how controversial or unpopular. "We are not disposed" to censors.h.i.+p, he wrote. Particularly not when he and the rest of the trustees agreed with their director. But the museum had come to a turning point. Taylor and Redmond may have been on top at the moment, but they were on the losing side of a long war. Redmond's reply, sent the day of the annual meeting, reaffirmed the museum's position and supported Taylor's right to his opinions, no matter how controversial or unpopular. "We are not disposed" to censors.h.i.+p, he wrote. Particularly not when he and the rest of the trustees agreed with their director. But the museum had come to a turning point. Taylor and Redmond may have been on top at the moment, but they were on the losing side of a long war.

At the annual meeting, Taylor refused to engage with Rosenberg beyond saying his words had been taken out of context. "Mr. Rosenberg did not take the courtesy of discussing this with me in advance," he said, "and I don't see why he should have the courtesy of a further answer." After the meeting, Rosenberg vowed that he'd only just begun to fight.123 Though it admitted that Taylor's glibness was easily turned against him, that his feelings toward modern art were lukewarm at best, and that his eight-year tenure at the Met had been "difficult," the Though it admitted that Taylor's glibness was easily turned against him, that his feelings toward modern art were lukewarm at best, and that his eight-year tenure at the Met had been "difficult," the Times Times approved of Redmond, judging him "calm, judicious and friendly." approved of Redmond, judging him "calm, judicious and friendly."124 But others thought Rosenberg's critiques were on target, including George Biddle, whom Moses had proposed as a trustee. He, too, wrote an open letter to Redmond. But others thought Rosenberg's critiques were on target, including George Biddle, whom Moses had proposed as a trustee. He, too, wrote an open letter to Redmond.

Harking back to Artists for Victory, a show of work by living artists that filled the Met's galleries at the end of 1942 after its masterpieces were sent to Whitemarsh, Biddle suggested an annual or biennial exhibit of work by living artists, be they modern or conservative, American or foreign, and two permanent galleries to show the paintings and prints then allegedly stacked up "in the vaults of the Museum." In response, Redmond a.s.sured Biddle that Hale was coming up with a plan.125 And within a week, the purchasing committee had appropriated $94,000 to buy two van Gogh paintings, And within a week, the purchasing committee had appropriated $94,000 to buy two van Gogh paintings, Cypresses Cypresses and and Sunflowers Sunflowers, and to hold a large van Gogh exhibit that fall, with sixty-six paintings coming from the Netherlands and another twenty from American collections. After a trustees' meeting in March, Francis Cormier of the Parks Department decided it was likely that Rosenberg's open letter had influenced the decision. Certainly the reaction to the thirteen-week show was a harbinger of things to come. Total attendance exceeded 300,000, making it the most popular in the museum's history. Huge sums were made selling reproductions and catalogs-not a first, but a significant event. And one night, Nelson Rockefeller had the museum to himself for a private evening viewing for forty members of the Modern's board and staff, an experience so positive he wrote Redmond to say it "opens up rather an interesting new possibility for a service which all the museums might render."126 The van Gogh blockbuster was exactly what Robert Moses wanted-a return to Hudson-Fulton-style showmans.h.i.+p. "Let's admit the showmen to these exclusive circles," he wrote in a magazine article appraising all the city's museums that year. Though he would force Taylor to reverse course on his next innovation, hanging banners on the front of the museum to herald its show, Moses was a pretty happy guy, and he'd set the museum on the course it would sail for the next fifty years. He told George Biddle late in March that he and Rosenberg had proved to be "useful catalysts," that now "the Metropolitan is generally moving in the right direction," and that he believed that Thomas Lamont's bequest would soon be used to build a wing for contemporary art.127 Two out of three of his conclusions were right. The Lamont Wing would turn out to be a pipe dream. The museum simply wasn't yet ready to pay for new wings all by itself. Two out of three of his conclusions were right. The Lamont Wing would turn out to be a pipe dream. The museum simply wasn't yet ready to pay for new wings all by itself.

Yet, like Rosenberg (who kept writing protest letters until 1957), Moses kept at the museum, restating his desire for a female trustee and suggesting that it might also benefit from adding a broadcast executive to the board as well as someone "distinguished in the field of modern art, but a conservative and not a crackpot."128 The trustees appeared to have reconciled with Moses as well, and at the same board meeting where they approved the first rehabilitation contracts that fall, the board elected the candidate Moses suggested for the latter slot, the copper heir and political progressive Sam A. Lewisohn, a Modern and Brooklyn Museum trustee, modern art collector, author, relative of Bobbie Lehman's by marriage, and the board's fourth Jewish trustee. Sadly, he would only live another sixteen months, but in that time he helped nudge the museum a bit further out of the prison of cla.s.sicism. The trustees appeared to have reconciled with Moses as well, and at the same board meeting where they approved the first rehabilitation contracts that fall, the board elected the candidate Moses suggested for the latter slot, the copper heir and political progressive Sam A. Lewisohn, a Modern and Brooklyn Museum trustee, modern art collector, author, relative of Bobbie Lehman's by marriage, and the board's fourth Jewish trustee. Sadly, he would only live another sixteen months, but in that time he helped nudge the museum a bit further out of the prison of cla.s.sicism.

Robert Hale had quickly found that Taylor's backing did not translate into support from the board of trustees. Indeed, they often laughed at works he recommended. They were all so old and repressed that he would joke about wearing a dark suit to work in the hope that he might have to attend one of their funerals: "But that was a slow process and didn't really solve my problem." When he recommended the purchase of three paintings of clowns by Walt Kuhn, one of the organizers of the 1913 Armory Show and an important American modernist, one trustee "flew into a rage," Hale recalled, waving his arms, insisting he could paint better than that. Now Lewisohn, who wasn't afraid to throw his weight or his money around to get his way, was so shocked by the unnamed tyc.o.o.n's behavior he persuaded the board to buy all three pictures, and before the year was out, Hale and Taylor convinced the trustees to effectively give up their oversight over the Hearn funds and allow Hale to purchase art in consultation with a special advisory committee of three trustees, Lewisohn, Elihu Root Jr., and Walter Baker, all of whom, Hale would say, "appreciated contemporary American art."129 Baker had been elected to the board in 1948 along with General Eisenhower and Henry Luce, the editor-publisher of Time, Life Time, Life, and Fortune Fortune magazines. A vice president of Guaranty Trust, a large bank (that would merge with J. P. Morgan in December 1958), and the chairman of the board of Union College, Baker collected cla.s.sical antiquities and drawings. Root, a lawyer who was known as Sec, shorthand for "Second," to distinguish him from his father, the cabinet member, whom the family called Elihu-the-statesman or Elihu-the-famous, had deep links to the museum (his grand-father Salem Wales was a founder) but also to modern art; he'd been a weekend painter since the 1920s, when he joined the art-oriented Century a.s.sociation, where he began showing his work in 1947. magazines. A vice president of Guaranty Trust, a large bank (that would merge with J. P. Morgan in December 1958), and the chairman of the board of Union College, Baker collected cla.s.sical antiquities and drawings. Root, a lawyer who was known as Sec, shorthand for "Second," to distinguish him from his father, the cabinet member, whom the family called Elihu-the-statesman or Elihu-the-famous, had deep links to the museum (his grand-father Salem Wales was a founder) but also to modern art; he'd been a weekend painter since the 1920s, when he joined the art-oriented Century a.s.sociation, where he began showing his work in 1947.

As important, perhaps, Root's younger brother, Edward, had been teaching art since 1920 at Hamilton College in their hometown in upstate New York while quietly building one of the finest collections extant of early American modernists. In the 1920s, he'd even tried to get the Met to buy an Edward Hopper painting, to no avail. "The average age of the purchasing committee was seventy-two," Edward Root said, "and none of them liked anything more modern than the Barbizon school and certainly nothing American."130 Some of the museum trustees would likely have been equally negative toward Sec Root's favored subject, female nudes. But that choice probably stood him in good stead with Robert Hale. It is a testament both to the Root family's influence on the board and to Hale's growing effectiveness that in 1953 Edward Root's collection was shown there. It was the first time the museum had ever exhibited a private collection of contemporary art. Family lore has it that Root then offered the collection to the museum. Some of the museum trustees would likely have been equally negative toward Sec Root's favored subject, female nudes. But that choice probably stood him in good stead with Robert Hale. It is a testament both to the Root family's influence on the board and to Hale's growing effectiveness that in 1953 Edward Root's collection was shown there. It was the first time the museum had ever exhibited a private collection of contemporary art. Family lore has it that Root then offered the collection to the museum.

"They refused it," says Dolores Root, a relative. "They had no vision."

BUT T TAYLOR WAS HARDLY A CONSERVATIVE. RATHER, HE WAS AN innovator and something of a s...o...b..ater. In 1949, for example, he loudly canceled a speaking engagement in the South when he learned black students would be banned, and at home experimented with new ways of lighting art, starred in a televised walking tour for CBS, and hired Bradford Kelleher to create the museum store; previously the store had only sold etchings, prints, miniature facsimiles, catalogs, and postcards at its information desk. Kelleher's book and reproduction shops would eventually become a major profit center. innovator and something of a s...o...b..ater. In 1949, for example, he loudly canceled a speaking engagement in the South when he learned black students would be banned, and at home experimented with new ways of lighting art, starred in a televised walking tour for CBS, and hired Bradford Kelleher to create the museum store; previously the store had only sold etchings, prints, miniature facsimiles, catalogs, and postcards at its information desk. Kelleher's book and reproduction shops would eventually become a major profit center.

After Redmond's election as president, he and Taylor had gone on a nationwide trip to cultivate the directors of other museums to ensure that the Met could both borrow and loan art more easily. They also met local artists and were shocked to discover their hostility toward New York's art world, which they felt either looked down on them as provincial hicks or tried to take advantage of them. So in 1949, Taylor sent Robert Hale to more than twenty American cities, to meet artists and seek opinions on how the Met should deal with and define "living" American art. A decision was made to hold an open compet.i.tion, with regional juries leading to a national panel convened in New York.

The result was American Painting Today, opening in winter 1950, just after a summer show of two hundred of those long-unseen Hearn-financed paintings and prints in the cellar. Hale had discovered to his chagrin that the museum owned no Cubist, surrealist, abstract, or Expressionist art, and called what it did have timid. But the retrospective show did include works by Thomas Eakins, Winslow Homer, Mary Ca.s.satt, and Childe Ha.s.sam, as well as others from the modernist collection of the photographer and gallerist Alfred Stieglitz; his widow, the painter Georgia O'Keeffe, had just given the museum 589 works of art-including works by herself, Marsden Hartley, John Marin, Charles Demuth, Pica.s.so, and Brancusi-"because Stieglitz was so definitely a New Yorker," she explained.131 The idea of successive retrospective and compet.i.tive shows-and two more juried exhibits that followed-was to prove that the Metropolitan had been paying attention to living Americans all along, and would continue to do so. Howard Devree of the Times Times judged the effort courageous. But behind the scenes, Hale mocked his own shows, submitting a prehistoric j.a.panese sculpture from an Asian art curator's collection to the jury as the work of an invented American Indian named Joseph Kubeb, a.k.a. Chief Laughing Horse. Don Holden, one of Hale's drawing students, was recruited to fill out the form. "I did it with a steel pen that blotted and splattered and tore the paper," he remembers. "There were misspellings and cross-outs and where it asked me to describe my philosophy of art, Hale dictated, 'Make true Indian thing.' " The Far Eastern art curator Alan Priest's j.a.panese houseboy delivered the package, complete with a photo of Kubeb, actually a Navajo grocery delivery boy. "The jury called it a piece of junk and rejected it," Holden says. judged the effort courageous. But behind the scenes, Hale mocked his own shows, submitting a prehistoric j.a.panese sculpture from an Asian art curator's collection to the jury as the work of an invented American Indian named Joseph Kubeb, a.k.a. Chief Laughing Horse. Don Holden, one of Hale's drawing students, was recruited to fill out the form. "I did it with a steel pen that blotted and splattered and tore the paper," he remembers. "There were misspellings and cross-outs and where it asked me to describe my philosophy of art, Hale dictated, 'Make true Indian thing.' " The Far Eastern art curator Alan Priest's j.a.panese houseboy delivered the package, complete with a photo of Kubeb, actually a Navajo grocery delivery boy. "The jury called it a piece of junk and rejected it," Holden says.

Eighteen well-known painters and sculptors, including Robert Motherwell, Louise Bourgeois, David Smith, Hans Hofmann, Barnett Newman, Clyfford Still, Richard Pousette-Dart, Ad Reinhardt, Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Willem de Kooning, felt the same way about the Met's efforts and in May 1950 announced a boycott, declaring that the jurists were "notoriously hostile to advanced art," the only creative endeavor "that, for roughly 100 years ... has made any consequential contribution to civilization." They also echoed Rosenberg's charge that Taylor held modern art in contempt, and added that Hale, by accepting the jury, had taken his "place beside Mr. Taylor." Soon enough, seventy-five more artists, a group the Times Times described as "equally noted," defended the Met in an open letter, but history has not been as kind to those signers, who included only a few still known as first-rank artists today, among them Milton Avery, Reginald Marsh, Will Barnet, and George Grosz. described as "equally noted," defended the Met in an open letter, but history has not been as kind to those signers, who included only a few still known as first-rank artists today, among them Milton Avery, Reginald Marsh, Will Barnet, and George Grosz.

The protesters still wanted in, just not via a jury trial; soon enough, Hale and his trustee-advisers (when Lewisohn died after his sixteen-month run, he was replaced by Stephen Clark, who was himself replaced by the progressive publisher and Robert Moses ally Marshall Field) were pulling off minor miracles, buying works from the living artists on the outer edge of the avant-garde, New York's Abstract Expressionists. "The argument about abstraction went back and forth forever," Nike Hale says. "Bobby wanted those people in the Met, but the trustees didn't like it. In the 1950s, you bought European paintings," like a Pica.s.so purchased at the end of 1950 for $38,000 (more than half of which was donated by one rich couple in exchange for the right to keep the painting in their home eight months a year). Hale had won one crucial advantage, however. "He needed approval to spend more than $1,000," says Hale, "but he could spend less than that on his own." In 1952, he did just that, buying Jackson Pollock's Number 17 Number 17, 1951, one of a series of all-black paintings on unprimed canvas, for a three-figure sum. "No one had heard of Pollock," says Hale's widow. "There was still no money in Abstract Expressionism." Taylor was so furious at him for buying the Pollock, though, he almost fired him.132 Five years later, after Pollock's death, Hale made a deal with the trustees to acquire a Pollock masterpiece, Autumn Rhythm (Number 30, 1950) Autumn Rhythm (Number 30, 1950), which remains a highlight of the museum collection.* Several trustees hated the huge piece, and confronted with the board's overt hostility, Hale began to cry-amazingly, his tears won the day. "At most, they were only going to have one Pollock in the house," Hale's successor, Henry Geldzahler, would say. Several trustees hated the huge piece, and confronted with the board's overt hostility, Hale began to cry-amazingly, his tears won the day. "At most, they were only going to have one Pollock in the house," Hale's successor, Henry Geldzahler, would say.133 So Pollock's dealer, Sidney Janis, took So Pollock's dealer, Sidney Janis, took Number 17 Number 17 back and gave the museum a $12,000 credit toward the $30,000 price of the much larger back and gave the museum a $12,000 credit toward the $30,000 price of the much larger Autumn Rhythm Autumn Rhythm.** When Hale took Redmond to see it once it was hung, he said, "You know, Bobby, you've ruined my museum." When Hale took Redmond to see it once it was hung, he said, "You know, Bobby, you've ruined my museum."134 But there was no turning back now, and the trustees seemed to realize it, eventually allowing Hale to acquire more great work like Willem de Kooning's Easter Monday Easter Monday, Ars.h.i.+le Gorky's Water of the Flowery Mill Water of the Flowery Mill, and Isamu Noguchi's marble sculpture Kouros Kouros.

Perhaps this loosening up inspired Roland Redmond to take his own leap into the unknown; he left his wife, Sara Delano, in the fall of 1952 and took up with Lydia Bodrero Macy di San Faustino. A descendant of an early chief justice of Connecticut and the daughter of an Italian diplomat, she already had one museum connection in her background, having married Valentine Everit Macy Jr. in 1925 and divorced him in Reno seven years later. Macy was the grandson of a Standard Oil official and the son of the Metropolitan trustee and benefactor Valentine Everit Macy. Lydia would loosen Redmond up and introduce him to cafe society.

As further evidence of the new order, the first women trustees were finally elected in March 1952: Mrs. Ogden Reid; Mrs. Sheldon Whitehouse, the granddaughter of a founder of the Central Pacific Railroad; and the second Mrs. Vincent Astor, Minnie Cus.h.i.+ng (Redmond was Vincent Astor's divorce lawyer). Also elected that year were Arthur Amory Houghton Jr., the president of Steuben Gla.s.s; and Chester Dale, a collector who'd already favored the National Gallery with many gifts. Dorothy Shaver, the retailer behind the Costume Inst.i.tute, would shortly join the board, too. And it wasn't just the board that was being renovated. Galleries were closing for repair and reopening; Taylor had taken the Greek and Roman court, which was then seen as out of fas.h.i.+on, and hired the decorator Dorothy Draper to design a new restaurant that would soon be dubbed both the Dorotheum and Cafe Borgia for its poisonous food.135 A new auditorium, paid for by the estate of Grace Rainey Rogers, a coal and c.o.ke heiress, was in the works, too. And Moses was cooperating, insisting on limiting contractors to ones who were unquestionably competent rather than allowing open bidding because, he told the Board of Estimate, "every conceivable kind of hazard to irreplaceable objects is involved." A new auditorium, paid for by the estate of Grace Rainey Rogers, a coal and c.o.ke heiress, was in the works, too. And Moses was cooperating, insisting on limiting contractors to ones who were unquestionably competent rather than allowing open bidding because, he told the Board of Estimate, "every conceivable kind of hazard to irreplaceable objects is involved."136

AMONG THE FIRST NEW GALLERIES TO OPEN AT THE REFRESHED Metropolitan Museum was the three-room Treasury at the Cloisters, conceived of after the Brummer purchase as a home for the branch museum's most precious possessions, with the Antioch Chalice as its centerpiece. In June 1951, when Rorimer wrote to John D. Rockefeller Jr. in Maine to tell him that it was getting good reviews but had cost $25,000 more than expected, Junior wrote out a check within a week. Although Junior, at seventy-seven, was growing frail, he still wielded great power. C. Douglas Dillon, a Republican investment banker who was close to the Rockefellers, had just been elected to the Met's board. And Junior's sons would shortly decide to add the museum to the annual donations list of their Rockefeller Brothers Fund, even though the Museum of Modern Art had terminated the comatose-on-arrival two-museum agreement early in 1952. Metropolitan Museum was the three-room Treasury at the Cloisters, conceived of after the Brummer purchase as a home for the branch museum's most precious possessions, with the Antioch Chalice as its centerpiece. In June 1951, when Rorimer wrote to John D. Rockefeller Jr. in Maine to tell him that it was getting good reviews but had cost $25,000 more than expected, Junior wrote out a check within a week. Although Junior, at seventy-seven, was growing frail, he still wielded great power. C. Douglas Dillon, a Republican investment banker who was close to the Rockefellers, had just been elected to the Met's board. And Junior's sons would shortly decide to add the museum to the annual donations list of their Rockefeller Brothers Fund, even though the Museum of Modern Art had terminated the comatose-on-arrival two-museum agreement early in 1952.

Museums didn't always do what their patrons wanted. In 1954, Nelson Rockefeller, still in thrall to the Latin American cultures he'd been immersed in since before the war, incorporated yet another museum (a dozen years after the Modern board failed to act on his suggestion that it create a new department to house such art). He tentatively called it the Museum of Indigenous Art. But Junior's commitment to the Cloisters remained focused and unwavering and was about to reach its zenith.

Rorimer was just back from a three-month acquisition spree in Europe that January when Junior surprised him with an envelope containing $500,000 worth of stock to pay for his many new finds. He also hinted at a larger gift to come. By March, a number had been attached to that gift-$5 million, with 70 percent earmarked for acquisitions and the rest to maintain the Cloisters. By June, Junior had upped the ante again, and gave the museum $10 million in Socony-Vacuum and Standard Oil of California stock-the largest donation ever made to the Met, and one that doubled its annual purchasing power.137 Rorimer family legend has it that Junior decided to double the gift after Rorimer came to a breakfast meeting at his apartment one day carrying an envelope he'd planned to mail to Rockefeller and