Rogues' Gallery Part 5

Most significant of all was the handsome, tweedy Roland Livingston Redmond, an imposing man at five feet eleven inches, with blue eyes and an aquiline nose. If Redmond was inclined toward ancestor wors.h.i.+p, it was understandable. On one side, he was a grandson of the founder of a forerunner of Wells Fargo and American Express. On the other, he descended from the Livingstons, who arrived in America in 1673, married into one of the richest Dutch Colonial families, and by 1715 owned Livingston Manor, more than 250 square miles along the Hudson River. Livingstons signed the Declaration of Independence, backed Robert Fulton's development of the steamboat, and negotiated the Louisiana Purchase. Johnston Livingston, Roland's grandfather, was one of the bankers who convened in Pierpont Morgan's library to stem the Panic of 1907.

Redmond was the perfect evocation of the American aristocrat. He'd grown up in a house on the Livingston property on the Hudson. In 1915, he married Sara Delano, a second cousin of the future president Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Four years later, he joined the law firm of Carter Ledyard & Milburn, where Roosevelt and Lewis Ca.s.s Ledyard, another a.s.sociate of Morgan's, had once worked. The New York Stock Exchange was Redmond's first significant client following the great Crash of 1929, and he became close friends with Richard Whitney, its patrician head, who was subsequently convicted of stock fraud and embezzlement-a scandal that spelled the end of WASP primacy on Wall Street. Though he wasn't an art collector, Redmond had every other quality needed in a trustee.

George Grey Barnard died two weeks before the new Cloisters opened. It's unclear if he'd been invited. Memos in Rockefeller and Parks Department files indicate that Winlock asked the trustees, the mayor, the comptroller, and the parks commissioner and their wives, the governor, the City Council and borough presidents, local legislators, the department heads of the museum, the builder, and the architects. Junior asked his kids, his sister and her husband, someone from Olmsted's office, one of his aides, and "your people on the landscaping, traffic problems etc." Admission was limited to museum members for three days before the doors were opened to the general public. n.o.body mentioned Barnard.106 The great sculptor's last few years had been played to type. He'd badgered Junior to build a museum for American sculpture on the site of the old Cloisters, and tried to sell him his own collection again to get out of debt (to the tune of $100,000) and get back to work on his Peace Arch. "It is destined that we shall go down in history together on this Acropolis," he wrote.

They ran into each other at the opening of Fort Tryon Park. Then a Dr. Seligman of Harvard called to say Barnard had had a stroke-and to ask Rockefeller to buy his Peace Arch for the nation. Barnard's last few letters to Junior were spiritual, nostalgic, and a little mad. He asked if it was true that the "Standard Oil Co. possess[es] millions of harmonicas and wants them given as prizes to boys and girls who can imitate the songs of birds." Rockefeller was disturbed by the correspondence.107 In the spring of 1937, Barnard announced he'd given the property that held his Cloisters to the government; the problem was the museum owned it. That summer he tried again, saying he'd given it to the Gold Star Mothers charity. "Fortunately for Mr. Rockefeller he cannot be made a party to any controversy which may arise," one of his lawyers a.s.sured.108 Before his death, Barnard sent some of the plaster models of his Peace Arch to the city of Kankakee, Illinois, and to the University of Delaware. "They just showed up in about 1934," says Norman Stevens, executive director of the Kankakee County Museum. But because they included b.r.e.a.s.t.s and genitals, they were hidden away in storage, where they crumbled to dust. Barnard had spent $1 million on his quixotic dream.

Barnard's obituary said he suffered a heart attack "while working on what was to have become a giant statue of Abel, depicting him as he realized the treachery of Cain."109

AT THE C CLOISTERS' OPENING ON M MAY IO, 1938, JUNIOR OVERCAME his shyness and gave a speech after Mayor La Guardia, the parks commissioner, and George Blumenthal all praised him. "I was told the other day that the first perquisite his shyness and gave a speech after Mayor La Guardia, the parks commissioner, and George Blumenthal all praised him. "I was told the other day that the first perquisite [sic] [sic] for a successful funeral is a willing corpse," he began with an awkward joke. "This looks to me like a very successful funeral, but I can a.s.sure you that I am a very unwilling corpse." Noting that the day was the culmination of twenty years' work, he recalled how he'd waited through four mayors to make the park and museum a reality, then disclaimed credit for it, saying his contribution had only been financial. He singled out Breck; "his brilliant successor," Rorimer, who "with rare taste and infinite patience has brooded over every detail;" the planners, architect, and builder; and the parks commissioner. And then he proposed that beauty surrounded by nature could solve a problem confronting Americans: how to use leisure. for a successful funeral is a willing corpse," he began with an awkward joke. "This looks to me like a very successful funeral, but I can a.s.sure you that I am a very unwilling corpse." Noting that the day was the culmination of twenty years' work, he recalled how he'd waited through four mayors to make the park and museum a reality, then disclaimed credit for it, saying his contribution had only been financial. He singled out Breck; "his brilliant successor," Rorimer, who "with rare taste and infinite patience has brooded over every detail;" the planners, architect, and builder; and the parks commissioner. And then he proposed that beauty surrounded by nature could solve a problem confronting Americans: how to use leisure.

"If what has been created here helps to interpret beauty as one of the great spiritual and inspirational forces of life, having the power to transform drab duty into radiant living; if those who come under the influence of this place go out to face life with new courage and restored faith because of the peace, the calm, the loveliness they have found here; if the many who thirst for beauty are refreshed and gladdened as they drink deeply from this well of beauty, those who have builded here will not have built in vain," he concluded. In months to come, Junior and Rorimer would strive to top each other in their expressions of mutual appreciation.

Three years later, an out-of-town visitor wrote to Junior's lawyer, reporting his shock and disappointment that Barnard's name was nowhere to be found on the building. The lawyer wrote Junior, drily noting that neither the land, the building, nor the Cloisters collection was donated by Barnard, and that his original property had reverted to him when the collection was moved.110 In 1943, a vegetarian society offered to pay for a plaque in Barnard's honor on what would have been his eightieth birthday. The offer was refused. He finally got some credit twenty-three years later, when a plaque was placed just inside one entrance to the museum branch by a local landmarks group. In 1943, a vegetarian society offered to pay for a plaque in Barnard's honor on what would have been his eightieth birthday. The offer was refused. He finally got some credit twenty-three years later, when a plaque was placed just inside one entrance to the museum branch by a local landmarks group.

* The Johnstonde Forest connection to the museum would, of course, live on. For years, the museum's legal work was done by Lord Day & Lord, co-founded in 1848 by one of de Forest's uncles and one of his cousins. Howard Mansfield, a trustee since 1909 and the museum's longtime treasurer, was a Lord Day partner, and another partner and de Forest descendant, Sherman Baldwin, would serve both as the museum's general counsel and later as a trustee in the mid-1960s. Baldwin's daughter-in-law worked as the a.s.sistant to the museum's first development (or fund-raising) director in those same years, and in 1995 many Johnstons and de Forests attended a founders' ball celebrating the museum's 125th birthday. The Johnstonde Forest connection to the museum would, of course, live on. For years, the museum's legal work was done by Lord Day & Lord, co-founded in 1848 by one of de Forest's uncles and one of his cousins. Howard Mansfield, a trustee since 1909 and the museum's longtime treasurer, was a Lord Day partner, and another partner and de Forest descendant, Sherman Baldwin, would serve both as the museum's general counsel and later as a trustee in the mid-1960s. Baldwin's daughter-in-law worked as the a.s.sistant to the museum's first development (or fund-raising) director in those same years, and in 1995 many Johnstons and de Forests attended a founders' ball celebrating the museum's 125th birthday.

The parks commissioner who spoke at the opening of the Cloisters would pose the biggest challenge to the Metropolitan Museum's trustees since the Sunday-closing controversy. Robert Moses would fight a multifront war against the increasingly imperial museum that would continue well beyond his thirty-year tenure at Parks. New York's legendary urban planner, a twentieth-century czar of the city, Moses reshaped the metropolitan area, creating parks and parkways and cloverleaf overpa.s.ses, destroying, transforming, and creating neighborhoods, and literally redrawing the map of New York, first as a state official working for Governor Alfred E. Smith, beginning in 1919, and then, after a losing run for Smith's job in 1934, as the city parks commissioner and head of the Tri-borough Bridge and Tunnel Authority. A revolutionary often criticized for caring more about big pictures than little people, Moses was an imperial populist whose dreams transformed the urban area as much as skysc.r.a.pers redefined its skyline. New York's modern infrastructure was approved with his signature. He also transformed the Met. opening of the Cloisters would pose the biggest challenge to the Metropolitan Museum's trustees since the Sunday-closing controversy. Robert Moses would fight a multifront war against the increasingly imperial museum that would continue well beyond his thirty-year tenure at Parks. New York's legendary urban planner, a twentieth-century czar of the city, Moses reshaped the metropolitan area, creating parks and parkways and cloverleaf overpa.s.ses, destroying, transforming, and creating neighborhoods, and literally redrawing the map of New York, first as a state official working for Governor Alfred E. Smith, beginning in 1919, and then, after a losing run for Smith's job in 1934, as the city parks commissioner and head of the Tri-borough Bridge and Tunnel Authority. A revolutionary often criticized for caring more about big pictures than little people, Moses was an imperial populist whose dreams transformed the urban area as much as skysc.r.a.pers redefined its skyline. New York's modern infrastructure was approved with his signature. He also transformed the Met.

Moses was appointed parks commissioner by Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, replacing five men with one and totally revamping the department's structure. His job gave Moses ex officio trustee privileges. But despite their right to attend, the city officials on the Met's board almost never did. And overwhelmed with more urgent problems, Moses did not object-at first. That year, the only big issue was an old request to fix the roof and move the water mains beneath the building, vestigial remains of an old water system that threatened the excess art stored in the bas.e.m.e.nt.1 In 1939, as the world warily watched Germany and Europe barrel toward war, it was oddly appropriate that the new Arms and Armor Hall opened. The biggest museum news of the year, though, was Herbert Winlock's resignation in April due to ill health. Appointed director emeritus, he would move to Maine and live on ten more years in relative obscurity. At Winlock's insistence, William Ivins, the prints curator, had been named acting director in the fall of 1938 after the director had a stroke.

Ivins, whose family was accomplished but not socially distinguished, wanted Winlock's job. Though he had no training in art, he'd been collecting prints since his student days. He had the intellectual and aesthetic skills for the job, and friends in high finance whom he could tap for funds. But his personality got in his way. Though quick-witted and full of ideas, "he had a terrible temper," said A. Hyatt Mayor, his a.s.sistant and eventual successor, "absolutely ungovernable; a mad temper" that made him enemies from the lowest ranks of curatorial a.s.sistants to the board of trustees.2 Roland Redmond found him "sarcastic and impish" and, though brilliant, lacking in administrative ability and tact. His two stints as acting director caused Blumenthal to reject him for a permanent appointment. Roland Redmond found him "sarcastic and impish" and, though brilliant, lacking in administrative ability and tact. His two stints as acting director caused Blumenthal to reject him for a permanent appointment.3 They were so bad, in fact, the staff nicknamed the nine months the board spent searching for a replacement as the reign of Ivins the Terrible. They were so bad, in fact, the staff nicknamed the nine months the board spent searching for a replacement as the reign of Ivins the Terrible.

The trustees first approached George Harold Edgell, the director of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, but he turned them down. Then two other highly qualified candidates were rejected, one in-house, Harry B. Wehle, a paintings curator since 1918, the department head since the death of Burroughs in 1934, and a nephew of the Supreme Court justice Louis Brandeis, and the other, Wehle's former teacher Paul Sachs, the a.s.sociate director of Harvard's Fogg Art Museum. Both Calvin Tomkins and George M. Goodwin, who wrote a study of the role of Jews in American art museums, say that Blumenthal nixed them both because of their religion, feeling there were already enough Jews in high positions at the museum, himself first among them.4 The search went on and on. The search went on and on.

There was "an arid, tomblike calm" that "pervaded the mostly untrodden galleries" in Winlock's museum, Karl Meyer wrote.5 Wags had taken to calling it the Necropolitan and said it suffered from hardening of the galleries. Wags had taken to calling it the Necropolitan and said it suffered from hardening of the galleries. The New Yorker The New Yorker sniped that the acting director, Ivins, still wrote with a quill pen and considered theories about the democracy of art to be "so much parlor Socialism." Some of the younger trustees, the magazine continued, "felt that their inst.i.tution might perhaps be run on more progressive lines." sniped that the acting director, Ivins, still wrote with a quill pen and considered theories about the democracy of art to be "so much parlor Socialism." Some of the younger trustees, the magazine continued, "felt that their inst.i.tution might perhaps be run on more progressive lines."6 Robert Moses disdained the old families who'd run the place since its founding. "The arrogance and conceit of those people were phenomenal," he would later say. "They really felt they were the lords of creation and that n.o.body had the right even to question what they did."7 They were particularly arrogant when it came to efforts by the public or its representatives to exercise any oversight over the museum or its finances. Blumenthal wouldn't even let his finance committee do an audit of the endowment. They were particularly arrogant when it came to efforts by the public or its representatives to exercise any oversight over the museum or its finances. Blumenthal wouldn't even let his finance committee do an audit of the endowment.8 As president, Blumenthal was even more dictatorial than Morgan had been. He occupied a commanding oak armchair at the head of the board table, with Henry Kent, who for all intents and purposes ran the museum, and the senior trustees (average age seventy-five) closest to him, and younger members like Rockefeller, Henry Morgan, and Redmond at the far end. Blumenthal would inform the trustees what he wanted done, expected them to approve, and was rarely disappointed. Discussion was kept to a minimum. He or his cronies ran all the most important committees. Blumenthal brooked no interference, delay, or even interruption. "He was, like so many men of his kind," Germain Seligman recalled, "difficult to argue with, and had little inclination to waste time."9 It was among those younger board members that Moses found allies, notably Marshall Field, Van Webb, and Nelson Rockefeller. In the early 1930s, aside from his work on the Cloisters, Nelson's first tentative involvements in the museum had been limited to the areas he knew, Asian and pre-Columbian art. He certainly had a hand in a secret deal the museum made with the Modern, which agreed not to show art more than sixty years old.10 Though he regularly wrote $3,000 checks to cover his share of the annual deficit, so unattuned was the twenty-seven-year-old trustee to the perks he was ent.i.tled to that in 1935 he sent the museum a request for one of its books and enclosed a check for it. "Did you not know that a Trustee is ent.i.tled to each and every publication free of charge?" came the reply. "I hasten to return your cheque, although I am tempted to keep it in our Museum memorabilia collection." Though he regularly wrote $3,000 checks to cover his share of the annual deficit, so unattuned was the twenty-seven-year-old trustee to the perks he was ent.i.tled to that in 1935 he sent the museum a request for one of its books and enclosed a check for it. "Did you not know that a Trustee is ent.i.tled to each and every publication free of charge?" came the reply. "I hasten to return your cheque, although I am tempted to keep it in our Museum memorabilia collection."11 The next year Nelson was named head of the trustee committee on sculpture, which also included Webb and Field, along with Redmond. That spring Nelson urged the board to accept a Rodin sculpture being offered as a gift, but Winlock disapproved, feeling the subject matter-a man and woman embracing-was inappropriate. In a note to Webb, Nelson said he found that hard to believe. Webb replied puckishly that he hadn't realized the committee would deal with "such interesting problems."12 In May 1939, after he was named president of his mother's modern art museum, Nelson resigned from all his committees at the Met aside from the one in charge of finding a new director. In May 1939, after he was named president of his mother's modern art museum, Nelson resigned from all his committees at the Met aside from the one in charge of finding a new director.

This was the museum's most pressing need, as Ivins continued to alienate those around him. Yet he was also as incisive as he was abrasive, as he demonstrated in a memo submitted to the board just after after he was denied the directors.h.i.+p. In it, he laid out the square footage of each department's gallery s.p.a.ce and its proportionate share of administrative costs. The disparities, he concluded, "raise the question whether a number of the Museum's collections do not represent favored fas.h.i.+ons in private collecting and personal enthusiasms and dislikes rather than any considered plan for a balanced development of the whole to a cultural end." He proposed that galleries displaying "endless and weary" amounts of everything from Egyptian objects to arms and armor to lace be downsized and that study-storerooms be created to hold "duplicates and quasi-duplicates and ...art in which the public has little interest," in order to heighten the quality of the art shown in galleries, cut maintenance and security costs, and free up s.p.a.ce for what was missing, "the art in which the public is most interested," he wrote, the "living contemporary art the Museum deliberately turns its back upon ... whether or not it is liked by the Trustees and officials." he was denied the directors.h.i.+p. In it, he laid out the square footage of each department's gallery s.p.a.ce and its proportionate share of administrative costs. The disparities, he concluded, "raise the question whether a number of the Museum's collections do not represent favored fas.h.i.+ons in private collecting and personal enthusiasms and dislikes rather than any considered plan for a balanced development of the whole to a cultural end." He proposed that galleries displaying "endless and weary" amounts of everything from Egyptian objects to arms and armor to lace be downsized and that study-storerooms be created to hold "duplicates and quasi-duplicates and ...art in which the public has little interest," in order to heighten the quality of the art shown in galleries, cut maintenance and security costs, and free up s.p.a.ce for what was missing, "the art in which the public is most interested," he wrote, the "living contemporary art the Museum deliberately turns its back upon ... whether or not it is liked by the Trustees and officials."13 Some of the younger trustees secretly agreed with him, feeling the collection did not reflect the breadth of art history, but these were not sentiments calculated to curry favor with the board. Some of the younger trustees secretly agreed with him, feeling the collection did not reflect the breadth of art history, but these were not sentiments calculated to curry favor with the board.

Though he was bitter and disappointed when denied the directors.h.i.+p, Ivins still managed to score two more important career coups. In 1941, he reeled in 228 prints, including 44 by Rembrandt, collected by the investment banker Felix M. Warburg. Five years later, he curated a show celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of the Prints Department, before he was forced to retire at age sixty-five. His parting shot was an article in the Bulletin Bulletin that summer, t.i.tled "The Dead Hand," ridiculing those who fought the new and ran the museum. They were "the nice people, the cultured people, the backward-looking people," he wrote. "They withdraw to their ancestral homes and talk shrilly about vulgarity, taste and eternal verities." Ivins died a mostly forgotten man in 1961. that summer, t.i.tled "The Dead Hand," ridiculing those who fought the new and ran the museum. They were "the nice people, the cultured people, the backward-looking people," he wrote. "They withdraw to their ancestral homes and talk shrilly about vulgarity, taste and eternal verities." Ivins died a mostly forgotten man in 1961.

ROBERT M MOSES AND N NELSON R ROCKEFELLER FIRST TEAMED UP IN 1938, when the Dutch Colonial Verplanck family offered the museum the contents of an eighteenth-century drawing room for the American Wing, demanding it all be exhibited together. When the board declined as a matter of policy, Moses engineered the pa.s.sage of an amendment reaffirming that conditional donations would be refused but giving the board the right to make exceptions. 1938, when the Dutch Colonial Verplanck family offered the museum the contents of an eighteenth-century drawing room for the American Wing, demanding it all be exhibited together. When the board declined as a matter of policy, Moses engineered the pa.s.sage of an amendment reaffirming that conditional donations would be refused but giving the board the right to make exceptions.14 Then Moses began "studying the relations.h.i.+p" and concluded that "the city's supervision [of museums] ...should be tightened rather than loosened."15 Realizing that the various museum boards simply rubber-stamped decisions made by their executive committees, he demanded and won the right to send a representative to the executive meetings at the American Museum of Natural History and, after "a h.e.l.l of a row," elbowed his way into the inner council of the art museum, too. Realizing that the various museum boards simply rubber-stamped decisions made by their executive committees, he demanded and won the right to send a representative to the executive meetings at the American Museum of Natural History and, after "a h.e.l.l of a row," elbowed his way into the inner council of the art museum, too.16 Moses soon discovered that he had a real edge over the trustees: due to the Depression, attendance and members.h.i.+p were down (annual dues in 1939 brought in only $38,810 compared with $109,880 in 1929); the museum was desperately short of funds (its 1939 deficit would be $75,000); the city had cut its subsidies, forcing fifty-three city-paid security and maintenance employees onto the museum payroll and put off repairs and maintenance. Moses had the chance to trade his power to fix things for influence over the museum's affairs.

At first, when Moses pushed, Blumenthal and his trustees pushed back. But it wasn't long before Moses started making his power felt. By December 1939, Moses's pressure had led to the appointment of a special committee to study the museum's finances. Rockefeller and Webb were named to it and immediately decided to use it "as an excuse to have a study of the whole museum made" as they'd done recently at the Modern, where the process led to a total reorganization and a 20 percent cut in the annual budget.17 In the meantime, the trustees were squirming to avoid giving Moses the right to oversee their budget requests to the city, and in the process they briefly tied themselves up in a knot, claiming that the museum should by rights deal directly with the city regarding its financial needs and not have to go through the Parks Department-that is, another agency.18 "If you want a showdown on this question, I am all for having it," Moses told William Church Osborn. "If you want a showdown on this question, I am all for having it," Moses told William Church Osborn.19 He was even more blunt with Blumenthal, calling the proposition preposterous. He was even more blunt with Blumenthal, calling the proposition preposterous.20 Finally, Moses went to the city's lawyers, and they agreed that the museum was not an agency and that its budget would have to be presented by Moses. Luckily, Moses was not the enemy the trustees thought he was-when they discovered that a new city administrative law repeated language from 1901 that capped the city's annual appropriation to the museum at $95,000, Moses advised them not to draw attention to it by fighting it, and the much-larger annual subsidies the museum had been getting since the Morgan era ($479,000 in 1929, $508,000 in 1932, $345,700 in 1934, $404,148 in 19391940) continued. Finally, Moses went to the city's lawyers, and they agreed that the museum was not an agency and that its budget would have to be presented by Moses. Luckily, Moses was not the enemy the trustees thought he was-when they discovered that a new city administrative law repeated language from 1901 that capped the city's annual appropriation to the museum at $95,000, Moses advised them not to draw attention to it by fighting it, and the much-larger annual subsidies the museum had been getting since the Morgan era ($479,000 in 1929, $508,000 in 1932, $345,700 in 1934, $404,148 in 19391940) continued.21 But the other thing that made the trustees squirm was Moses's insistence that the museum needed to be more democratic, more entertaining, more popular, more representative of the community, and more responsive to its needs. And he made it clear that the trustees would need to court the general public-not just their own society-if they expected continued financial support from its purse. And this wisdom could have been the deciding factor behind the stellar, if belated, choice the trustees finally made for the museum's next director.

The year before, in The Museum in America The Museum in America, a study for the American a.s.sociation of Museums, Laurence Vail Coleman had written, "A trustee's duty is to have the museum run, not to run it. The director is the museum."22 If that was the case, then the trustees had decided they needed a man who could wield a new broom and sweep their museum clean of its cobwebs. If that was the case, then the trustees had decided they needed a man who could wield a new broom and sweep their museum clean of its cobwebs.

THOUGH HE OFFERED THE FAMILIARITY OF A GOOD FAMILY BACKGROUND, Francis Henry Taylor was a breath of fresh air. He agreed to replace Winlock (or rather, acting director Ivins) early in 1940 after a six-month courts.h.i.+p that had extended the museum staff's agony. A lot of what Thomas Hoving is credited with doing for the Metropolitan, Taylor actually began, cus.h.i.+oned by the likes of Morgan and Rockefeller and primed by Robert de Forest, the patrician who'd foreseen the need to popularize the museum. But in the ranks of the museum's directors, its fifth was the first revolutionary, combining, one friend said, the administrative skills of a general with "the scheming patience of Machiavelli" in an impressively enormous, surprisingly graceful five-foot eleven-inch, two-hundred-plus-pound body topped by an oversized head with a prominent, beakish nose. (People compared his profile to everything from the British cartoon character Mr. Punch to a bust of Louis XVI.23) Witty and articulate, as opposed to his two predecessors, Taylor was able to get away with insulting trustees. He played the part of the Bourbons he was said to resemble, wrote Nathaniel Burt, alternating "captivating charm," "temperamental fury," and an "att.i.tude of casual and caustic superiority," a natural arrogance that "disconcerted the trustees, used as they were to stubborn but still subservient scholars."24 It was telling that one of Taylor's first acts was to abolish a long-established policy of distributing clothing cast off by the wives of trustees among those of the curators. He was like a hurricane blowing through the museum. "I don't relax," he would say. "I just collapse. It's pretty much of a rat race." It was telling that one of Taylor's first acts was to abolish a long-established policy of distributing clothing cast off by the wives of trustees among those of the curators. He was like a hurricane blowing through the museum. "I don't relax," he would say. "I just collapse. It's pretty much of a rat race."25 Taylor's parents were modest and unostentatious despite a certain social standing. Raised by French and German governesses in his strict Episcopalian family, and educated in exclusive private schools, Francis spent many summers abroad and developed a taste for fine food and a keen facility for languages. He spoke French, Spanish, and Italian and read medieval French and German.

After an abortive attempt to follow his father into medicine, Taylor turned to art. His interest had been sparked by the erection of a neo-Gothic cathedral near his childhood home. A chronically overweight underachiever, Francis moved to France, where he'd spent summers as a child, to become an English teacher in Chartres, and spent a year studying medieval art at the Sorbonne before finally buckling down and enrolling in graduate school at Princeton. He returned to Europe as a Carnegie fellow in 1926 and two years later got married and dropped out of Princeton to become the medieval curator at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Though he clearly had fun there, Taylor found Philadelphia stuffy and got out as soon as he could. He was named, at age twenty-eight, the director of the art museum in Worcester, Ma.s.sachusetts. "They wouldn't put his age in the paper, because they were embarra.s.sed by how young he was," says his daughter Pamela Taylor Morton. He made only a modest salary (his wife, Pamela, made more than he did as a poetry and fas.h.i.+on editor of the Ladies' Home Journal) Ladies' Home Journal) but made a large reputation as a popularizer and showman. He believed a museum should be a liberal arts university for the common man, not a treasury, a "safety deposit box for archaeological treasures," or "a three-ring circus," he told the but made a large reputation as a popularizer and showman. He believed a museum should be a liberal arts university for the common man, not a treasury, a "safety deposit box for archaeological treasures," or "a three-ring circus," he told the Times Times on his arrival at the Met. "His regret at not going into medicine was expressed in his feeling that museums could function as places of healing, places where people could learn about the world," says another daughter, Mary. Though he wasn't rich, she adds, he'd been raised as if he were and thought everyone "should have the opportunities he'd had as a child." on his arrival at the Met. "His regret at not going into medicine was expressed in his feeling that museums could function as places of healing, places where people could learn about the world," says another daughter, Mary. Though he wasn't rich, she adds, he'd been raised as if he were and thought everyone "should have the opportunities he'd had as a child."

"I give him credit for really making museums audience focused, not mausoleums, but community centers," says Jim Welu, now the Worcester's director. Taylor strengthened Worcester's education and outreach programs, sought to bridge the then-yawning and still-cla.s.sic divide between arcane art scholars and what they generally derided as a sensation-seeking public, quadrupled annual attendance, doubled the size of the museum, organized pacesetting loan exhibitions, bought new objects with a strategic eye, and attracted both Carnegie grants and sixth-grade cla.s.s trips.

"He was famous for saying showmans.h.i.+p shouldn't show, but without it you're dead," says Welu. "We didn't want museums to be stuffy." So un-stuffy was he that Welu once saw him pinch a woman's bottom on a Met elevator. "He loved to shock." He also had a biting wit. "He would say, 'Kunstgeschichte Horsegeschichte,' " 'Kunstgeschichte Horsegeschichte,' " the curator Hyatt Mayor recalled. the curator Hyatt Mayor recalled.26 (Kunstgeschichte (Kunstgeschichte means "history of art," which he equated, phonetically at least, with horse manure.) He also loved Worcester's trustees "because they let him do what he was hired to do," Welu says. Many, including the moguls who ran the Met, were watching. means "history of art," which he equated, phonetically at least, with horse manure.) He also loved Worcester's trustees "because they let him do what he was hired to do," Welu says. Many, including the moguls who ran the Met, were watching.

Taylor was viewed as an innovator who focused like a laser on the museum-going experience and was convinced that if collections were made more entertaining and accessible, the public would respond. He first met with William Church Osborn in the summer of 1939 and by winter had been offered the job. But it is likely that he'd piqued the Met's interest earlier that year, when it started planning a show called Life in America, ordered up by the board of trustees to appeal to the tourists in town for that year's World's Fair.

The influential exhibition of about three hundred pictures-many of them loans-celebrated American life through the centuries. Taylor's Worcester Art Museum had, on loan, an American primitive painting, Elizabeth Clarke Freake and Baby Mary Elizabeth Clarke Freake and Baby Mary, that Hyatt Mayor and William Ivins wanted for the show. "So I was delegated to ask Francis if he would lend it," Mayor recalled. "He said it was on loan to the Worcester Museum but he knew the owners very well and they would do exactly whatever he said to them, so there was no use in the Metropolitan Museum going to them direct; the only way to do it was through him; and he would consent to persuade the owners to lend it if if the Metropolitan would lend to his Flemish show which he was gathering together the Van Eyck painting of the Metropolitan would lend to his Flemish show which he was gathering together the Van Eyck painting of The Last Judgment and The Crucifixion The Last Judgment and The Crucifixion and some other great early thing we have ... In other words, he was wanting to swap [a] Man o' War for a cab horse. And I with complete seriousness said I would relay this proposal at home. And naturally n.o.body at the Metropolitan Museum had the least interest in the exchange. So we didn't get and some other great early thing we have ... In other words, he was wanting to swap [a] Man o' War for a cab horse. And I with complete seriousness said I would relay this proposal at home. And naturally n.o.body at the Metropolitan Museum had the least interest in the exchange. So we didn't get Mrs. Feake [sic] Mrs. Feake [sic] and he didn't get the Van Eyck. He always believed in trying a horse trade like that." and he didn't get the Van Eyck. He always believed in trying a horse trade like that."27 His nervy demand may well have been calculated to attract the Met trustees' attention. With uppity newcomers like the Modern and the Whitney nipping at its run-down heels, the Met needed its own upstart. His nervy demand may well have been calculated to attract the Met trustees' attention. With uppity newcomers like the Modern and the Whitney nipping at its run-down heels, the Met needed its own upstart.

In June 1939, Taylor spelled out the philosophy that was about to win him the Met in a paper he read at a meeting of the American a.s.sociation of Museums. It was later expanded into a short book called Babel's Tower: The Dilemma of the Modern Museum Babel's Tower: The Dilemma of the Modern Museum. For Taylor, the seeds of the modern museum had been planted in the Italy of the Dark Ages. The great Italian collections of the fifteenth century were formed to celebrate "the pleasures of this world" by people who "admired art for its own sake, and more than that ... accepted it as part of ... daily life." Taylor argued that the promise made by the Metropolitan's founders to similarly create "free and ample means for innocent and refined enjoyment" had been betrayed by high-handed scholars.h.i.+p that insulted the intelligence of the general public. "The public are no longer impressed and are frankly bored with museums," he wrote.

Taylor argued that museums could no longer afford to be "remote from life ... Like muscle, taste can be developed only through exercise. The art museum is nothing more than a gymnasium for the development of these muscles of the mind ...Objects which at first appear to be mere curiosities emerge with new meaning, to explain the social and political progress of mankind and to a.s.sist us in forming our judgment and in refining our opinions and beliefs ... The museum is no longer, then, the rich man's folly. It is the great free public inst.i.tution to which the humblest citizen may turn for spiritual regeneration."

Despite that crack about the rich, Taylor's ire focused more on curators than on trustees. He felt most trustees were humble stewards who understood the world in a way that a cloistered curator ("a highly polished introvert who exists only for himself and his own intellectual pretensions") did not. But all of them needed to understand "that we have emerged from the pre-war frenzy of acquisition for acquisition's sake and must digest what we already have." Only if museums could "be articulate without being intentionally obscure" would they justify themselves, he concluded.

It was no wonder that Taylor's arrival set off as many alarm bells as it did cheers. The board had, in fact, split on the choice. One faction, led by Osborn, wanted someone more staid and scholarly; Osborn actually offered the job to a curator who'd worked with Taylor in Philadelphia, Horace H. F. Jayne, who was a few years older, at the same time Blumenthal approached Taylor.28 Blumenthal wanted a director who shared his love of medieval art, so the younger man got the top job and Jayne was induced to take a new position as vice director, sharing not just the administrative burden but the need to gain the confidence of a staff bound to be suspicious of the two young outsiders. One of the unhappy staffers was James Rorimer. Having created the Cloisters, he had visions of being director himself. Blumenthal wanted a director who shared his love of medieval art, so the younger man got the top job and Jayne was induced to take a new position as vice director, sharing not just the administrative burden but the need to gain the confidence of a staff bound to be suspicious of the two young outsiders. One of the unhappy staffers was James Rorimer. Having created the Cloisters, he had visions of being director himself.29 Two days before Taylor's appointment was announced that January, R. T. H. Halsey wrote Nelson Rockefeller worrying correctly that "the appointment of our Philadelphia friend" would adversely affect "the morale of our curatorial staff, some of whom are very able and have given their lives to the museum." Two days before Taylor's appointment was announced that January, R. T. H. Halsey wrote Nelson Rockefeller worrying correctly that "the appointment of our Philadelphia friend" would adversely affect "the morale of our curatorial staff, some of whom are very able and have given their lives to the museum."30 Congratulations poured in, too, though, with some friends expressing the hope that Taylor would breathe fresh life into the Met and others warning that the job, though important, would not be easy. Taylor knew he faced a formidable challenge and would have to make changes, but slowly, so as to cure the patient without harming or killing it. All the same, his humor, youthful vigor, and optimism always showed. He would not be serving tea to visitors, like Herbert Winlock had. He wanted his museum to offer up more potent stuff.

Midway through the four months between the announcement of his hiring and his arrival in New York, Taylor was greeted by a three-part series in The New Yorker The New Yorker, a profile of the museum at age seventy that highlighted its quirks as well as its facts: Twenty-three of the twenty-eight elective trustees held about 120 corporate directors.h.i.+ps, although their "Metropolitan is inclined to ignore its trustees' ventures into the world of affairs" when discussing them publicly, the magazine said. Beneath the trustees were ten curators, forty a.s.sociate and a.s.sistant curators and curatorial a.s.sistants, and a staff of more than five hundred others, including "two hundred and fifty attendants, dozens of secretaries and cataloguers, a chemist, a registrar, a building superintendent, and a head librarian"-not to mention the termites in the bas.e.m.e.nt and moths in the linings of the cases that held the Crosby Brown Collection of Musical Instruments, about which the current trustees were said to be somewhat less than enthusiastic. Beneath them all, in a subbas.e.m.e.nt, remained the sixty-foot pistol practice range.31 Though Winlock had always refused to value the collection, "arbitrary fools in art circles" had claimed it was then worth more than $2 billion, presumably including the "enormous number of Museum articles ...hidden away in storerooms in the bas.e.m.e.nt." Though Winlock had always refused to value the collection, "arbitrary fools in art circles" had claimed it was then worth more than $2 billion, presumably including the "enormous number of Museum articles ...hidden away in storerooms in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

Many wondered how Taylor, who was, formally speaking, a medievalist, would deal with modern art. It was known he had his quarrels with it, but he also admired the Museum of Modern Art's director, Alfred Barr, who'd supported his candidacy, and he hoped that with Nelson Rockefeller's a.s.sistance, the two museums would find a way to cooperate more with each other. Hostility to modern art remained strong at the Met, the Havemeyer paintings notwithstanding. In 1930, Bryson Burroughs told the purchasing committee there were no generally agreed-upon living artists "of outstanding merit." The next year, when Lillie Bliss died and left most of her art to the Modern and only thirteen works to the Met, one newspaper grumbled that instead of making "intelligent use of the millions left to it," the Metropolitan had "swallowed the millions and gone to sleep again."32 In 1933, Harry Wehle had refused a proffered loan of a Pica.s.so and, when offered a gift of one of Cezanne's Card Players Card Players paintings, said he'd take it but wouldn't promise to hang it. In 1934, the Modern's Barr had pointed out publicly that the Met had no Gauguin, Seurat, Signac, Toulouse-Lautrec, Rousseau, Matisse, Derain, Pica.s.so, Modigliani, and on and on. "Do you not think it would be a good idea if we got some?" Winlock wrote Burroughs, who replied that the trustees were against it and those painters were already "old hat." Some years, no pictures were purchased. And even when the Hearn Fund bought seventeen in 1937, Henry Kent wrote that "to buy the modern in haste is to repent at leisure." paintings, said he'd take it but wouldn't promise to hang it. In 1934, the Modern's Barr had pointed out publicly that the Met had no Gauguin, Seurat, Signac, Toulouse-Lautrec, Rousseau, Matisse, Derain, Pica.s.so, Modigliani, and on and on. "Do you not think it would be a good idea if we got some?" Winlock wrote Burroughs, who replied that the trustees were against it and those painters were already "old hat." Some years, no pictures were purchased. And even when the Hearn Fund bought seventeen in 1937, Henry Kent wrote that "to buy the modern in haste is to repent at leisure."

Modernity's fans on the board were no help, either. The trustee Stephen Clark suggested avoiding "the lunatic fringe," but added that if it proved politic to buy bad paintings, they could always be given "a decent burial in the cellar."33 In that same 1940 In that same 1940 New Yorker New Yorker trilogy, the writer Geoffrey T. h.e.l.lman noted drily, "At the present rate, in fifty years several hundred Hearn purchases will be downstairs." trilogy, the writer Geoffrey T. h.e.l.lman noted drily, "At the present rate, in fifty years several hundred Hearn purchases will be downstairs."34

CHANGES BEGAN EVEN BEFORE T TAYLOR MOVED TO N NEW Y YORK IN the summer of 1940. Nelson Rockefeller and his allies agreed they had to immediately commission the study they'd suggested so it wouldn't be delayed or canceled by Taylor's arrival. the summer of 1940. Nelson Rockefeller and his allies agreed they had to immediately commission the study they'd suggested so it wouldn't be delayed or canceled by Taylor's arrival.35 Moses must have been pleased by this; his 1940 Parks budget included money for museum roof and skylight repair and a new freight elevator, though museum officials would remain unhappy with the slow-moving appropriations process. Moses must have been pleased by this; his 1940 Parks budget included money for museum roof and skylight repair and a new freight elevator, though museum officials would remain unhappy with the slow-moving appropriations process.36 No wonder; after a decade of neglect, the building was simply obsolete. No wonder; after a decade of neglect, the building was simply obsolete.

Such was the state of things when Taylor, thirty-seven, arrived for his first day at his new job with what should have been a slow summer ahead in which to get his bearings. But immediately demands were made. A purchase of about a dozen paintings by contemporary artists led some to ask why the museum bought so few. Although the Met had hired a consultant, Lloyd Goodrich, in 1937 to work with Stephen Clark and Bryson Burroughs on Hearn Fund purchases, he'd made little difference. The Times Times even printed a list of about four dozen artists with no work in the collection and suggested that Juliana Force and Gertrude Whitney, the former a friend of Taylor's, might be better equipped to spend the Hearn income than the Met's curators. even printed a list of about four dozen artists with no work in the collection and suggested that Juliana Force and Gertrude Whitney, the former a friend of Taylor's, might be better equipped to spend the Hearn income than the Met's curators.37 The argument raged in the newspaper's letters column all summer long. Three weeks after Taylor reported to work at the Met, the American modernist Stuart Davis published a blistering attack on the museum, accusing it of "artistic myopia ...It would seem that the Metropolitan suppresses modern and abstract American art in its policies as effectively as would a totalitarian regime." The argument raged in the newspaper's letters column all summer long. Three weeks after Taylor reported to work at the Met, the American modernist Stuart Davis published a blistering attack on the museum, accusing it of "artistic myopia ...It would seem that the Metropolitan suppresses modern and abstract American art in its policies as effectively as would a totalitarian regime."38 Despite his populist urges, Taylor, like every director before him, and like most trustees before Nelson Rockefeller, was skeptical of modern art. In his address to the museum directors he'd mocked those who thought of "joining the chorus boys of surrealism in singing 'My Heart Belongs to Dada.' "39 And in And in Babel's Tower Babel's Tower he'd condemn modernism as a "ba.n.a.l" expression of the "chaos of the present time." he'd condemn modernism as a "ba.n.a.l" expression of the "chaos of the present time."

A show of twenty-one pictures bought with Hearn funds opened the August after Taylor's arrival and kept the argument alive. The Times Times critic Howard Devree judged them "trivial, merely decorative, or lacking in any significance for our time," if not "downright immature," but praised a recent decision by the board, prompted by that critic Howard Devree judged them "trivial, merely decorative, or lacking in any significance for our time," if not "downright immature," but praised a recent decision by the board, prompted by that New Yorker New Yorker series, to make all the Hearn paintings available for loans. "This project will do away with the charge that pictures once bought go largely into the Metropolitan's capacious cellars, where, unlike wine, most of them do not improve with age," Devree said. series, to make all the Hearn paintings available for loans. "This project will do away with the charge that pictures once bought go largely into the Metropolitan's capacious cellars, where, unlike wine, most of them do not improve with age," Devree said.

Change was in the wind, though. Shortly after he arrived, Taylor impressed Moses by suggesting that the museum needed to do more outreach to the public. Taylor, Moses told an aide, "seems to be an alert, progressive and cooperative fellow. I want to keep the new man in this frame of mind before he gets a chance to settle down and follow in the footsteps of some of his stiff s.h.i.+rt predecessors."

The stiff-s.h.i.+rt era was pa.s.sing fast. The museum's business manager leaned back in his chair and died of a heart attack in the staff lunchroom in September; Henry Kent retired in October; and a committee headed by William Church Osborn proposed an entire reorganization of the staff that month. A month later, a committee was formed to finally dispose of the unloved plaster casts. (When a proposal was floated that the city provide a building for a museum of these casts, Robert Moses was blunt: "Not on your life."40) In December, Taylor proposed to abolish pay days and make admission free whenever the doors were open (museum insiders joked he did so because he was too heavy to pa.s.s through the turnstiles), and at his first annual meeting in January 1941 he announced that he would be proposing a reorganization of the collections as well.

But some things stayed the same. The synergy between the museum and New York society for one: the executive committee approved the sale to Mrs. Henry Carnegie Phipps of furniture and furnis.h.i.+ngs willed to the museum by the banking heir and former Treasury secretary Ogden Mills, with the proceeds going to redecorate the director's lunchroom. Also unchanged was the annual call for the trustees to meet the deficit, even after income from more than twenty endowment funds was diverted to pay operating expenses. Although Nelson Rockefeller had taken a leave from the board to work for President Roosevelt coordinating relations with Latin America (a job he'd stay in through the war), he still wrote his annual check for $3,000.41 And on December 3, the museum asked the Parks Department for a special appropriation of $4.8 million over the next six years; they planned to renovate the entire place. And on December 3, the museum asked the Parks Department for a special appropriation of $4.8 million over the next six years; they planned to renovate the entire place.42 Even though they soon cut that request in half, Robert Moses wasn't ready to say yes yet. Even though they soon cut that request in half, Robert Moses wasn't ready to say yes yet.

Moses's displeasure would be evident in 1941 after Blumenthal asked Lamont, Halsey, and Redmond, who was rapidly emerging as a force on the board, to begin casting about for two new trustees. All through the preceding year, Moses's representatives had pushed for the election of a woman, but each time the issue was raised, the discussion was postponed. Finally, Moses pressed and was "politely informed that it could obviously not elect one until it could elect two, because one would be lonesome, and it was also hinted that the jolly, informal stag atmosphere would never be the same," Moses later recalled. He also wanted to elect a trustee conversant with modern art to replace the absent Rockefeller since "the dictum of George Blumenthal," he continued drily, "that nothing significant has been painted, moulded, or wrought since 1900 is still regarded by some of his a.s.sociates as a sage observation."

At an executive committee meeting on January 31, Blumenthal made it clear that he would not allow the election of a woman. The battle lines were drawn. Moses asked an aide for a list of second-and third-generation trustees as well as a list of the trustees' addresses, which showed up the group's diversity-all but one of them (Whitridge at Yale) lived within a few blocks of each other on Manhattan's East Side. With that knowledge in hand, Moses drafted an incendiary memo to Mayor Fiorello La Guardia,43 excoriating the museum leaders.h.i.+p for being stuck in an "aristocratic tradition" that was "withering" and exhorting for change that would put "less emphasis on wealth, old family, and big game hunting, and more on representing great ma.s.ses of people." excoriating the museum leaders.h.i.+p for being stuck in an "aristocratic tradition" that was "withering" and exhorting for change that would put "less emphasis on wealth, old family, and big game hunting, and more on representing great ma.s.ses of people."44 Moses soon filled two files with letters of praise of what one fan called his "blast on the decadence of museums." Dorothy Draper, a decorator, praised "the stand that you are taking on the ridiculous pomposity and stuffiness of the City's museums." Adelaide Milton de Groot, just elected a fellow for life, sent a telegram from Palm Beach saying the memo was "splendid" and signed it as a "benefactress of the following inst.i.tutions: Metropolitan, Natural History, Historical Society, City of New York, Cooper Union." But his eloquence and pa.s.sion notwithstanding, Moses would soon find out just how hard a task he'd set for himself.

A few days later, Moses suggested that George Biddle and Joseph Medill Patterson be elected trustees. Patterson, the founder of the tabloid Daily News Daily News, was a member of the upper cla.s.s, but also a progressive who wanted to reach the lowest common denominator (art, to the News News, was comic strips). He "has a very good idea of what people are thinking about in New York," Moses wrote, while Biddle was not only a living American artist but also a champion of artists and a first-name-basis friend of President Roosevelt's. "I have a very real belief that artists should have at least a minority representation in art inst.i.tutes and art organizations," he told Moses. "I am glad you feel the same." Patterson wrote directly to the museum's new secretary, "to inquire what sort of job I am being nominated for," he reported to Moses. "I am told that is a secret, but, nevertheless, I cannot withdraw my name for nomination. This is, therefore, to notify you that in the unlikely event I should be elected, I will not serve."45 Incredulous, Moses sent copies of the whole exchange to the president of the City Council, "as an example of the stuffiness of the Metropolitan Board," he wrote. He also complained to each of the trustees, who delayed the election and went looking for more candidates. Incredulous, Moses sent copies of the whole exchange to the president of the City Council, "as an example of the stuffiness of the Metropolitan Board," he wrote. He also complained to each of the trustees, who delayed the election and went looking for more candidates.

Ruminating on a brief vacation about "snooty trustees who do not know and care what the public is thinking," Moses saw an alternative (one it would take the museum decades to see itself): "to get so large a private endowment that an inst.i.tution can live without recourse to the public treasure," he wrote. "Perhaps in such a case the inst.i.tution can patronize the public and even tell it to go to h.e.l.l. Even in this case, I don't think that would be a wise procedure."46 A few days later, he got a letter from Taylor, saying he was making changes he was certain Moses would like and suggesting they lunch at the museum on a Thursday, "when we have the twenty-two department heads together and none of the trustees." A few days later, he got a letter from Taylor, saying he was making changes he was certain Moses would like and suggesting they lunch at the museum on a Thursday, "when we have the twenty-two department heads together and none of the trustees."47 Moses opted instead to lunch alone with Taylor and ask that the museum and the city get off to a fresh start. In response, Taylor performed triage on the Met's outstanding requests and submitted a five-year plan for the most urgent building repairs at a total cost of $849,000. Moses would approve some of them-eventually. Moses opted instead to lunch alone with Taylor and ask that the museum and the city get off to a fresh start. In response, Taylor performed triage on the Met's outstanding requests and submitted a five-year plan for the most urgent building repairs at a total cost of $849,000. Moses would approve some of them-eventually.

Whether it was the strain of the ongoing argument, old age, or both is unclear, but George Blumenthal chose that moment to end his career at the museum. At the May 1941 board meeting, he revoked all conditions on his gifts to the Met. Though he'd been ailing for some time, Blumenthal rarely missed a board meeting, but he did send his regrets on June 9. After spending the next few weeks semi-comatose, he died on his own silk sheets at age eighty-three. His funeral was conducted by an Episcopalian reverend. Within days, the board unanimously elected William Church Osborn, seventy-eight, its eighth president, signaling that there were limits to its tolerance for change. "Bill didn't know a drawing from a painting," says Redmond's daughter Cynthia Mead. "Art was not his thing. You wanted a well-connected New Yorker to lend importance, credence, to ask for money, to set an example."

John D. Rockefeller Jr. wrote Osborn to express the "hope that, with the efficient new Director of the Museum, the duties of the President can be made as light as possible."48 But the board still needed new trustees to replace Blumenthal, Harkness, Arthur Curtiss James, and Howard Mansfield, who'd all died in the preceding year. But the board still needed new trustees to replace Blumenthal, Harkness, Arthur Curtiss James, and Howard Mansfield, who'd all died in the preceding year.

Though he'd hoped for some time off to edit Babel's Tower Babel's Tower, Francis Henry Taylor returned to work in August when his new vice director collapsed in the street and was hospitalized. One of Taylor's priorities was to deal with Blumenthal's last gift to the museum, his house. Though at first he'd thought to give it as a branch museum, he'd later reconsidered and suggested the museum take his art, Spanish patio, and other architectural features and then demolish the mansion and sell the land. Taylor disagreed; he wanted to move the Arms and Armor Department there. Moses wrote to Osborn saying he was "emphatically opposed."49 In November, Blumenthal's wife moved out, but chimed in to ask that the house be left standing and "put to some useful purpose rather than taking it down ...His desire was always to have it perpetuated." In November, Blumenthal's wife moved out, but chimed in to ask that the house be left standing and "put to some useful purpose rather than taking it down ...His desire was always to have it perpetuated."50 But like a dog with a bone, Moses wouldn't let go. On the same day the j.a.panese attacked Pearl Harbor, propelling America into World War II, Moses demanded to know why the house had not yet been torn down, considering that wages might go up sharply in wartime. War also meant that the salvage value of the metal in the house would be high. But like a dog with a bone, Moses wouldn't let go. On the same day the j.a.panese attacked Pearl Harbor, propelling America into World War II, Moses demanded to know why the house had not yet been torn down, considering that wages might go up sharply in wartime. War also meant that the salvage value of the metal in the house would be high.

When the trustees pet.i.tioned a court to stall demolition until after the war, Moses realized he'd been licked and helped get the museum a tax exemption (for the Velez Blanco patio as a cultural relic). By July, the museum had stripped the house of much of its art (which went on display at the museum proper in December 1943) and in its place installed an arms and armor exhibit in the patio and opened it as a branch museum. Taylor had hired a Viennese lawyer, Emanuel Winternitz, as keeper of the musical instruments collection, and he'd won the trustees' favor by arranging concerts using them during the war, attracting crowds to the house and many new members.

The fate of the house remained in question until just after the war. Moses considered a bid of $300,000 made in the fall of 1944 by the builder Sam Minskoff insufficient, but he finally acquiesced. The house was demolished in 1945. An apartment building, 710 Park Avenue, finally went up on the lot in 1947.

Thirty years later, Moses wrote to Thomas Hoving, reminiscing about his days on Blumenthal's board. "I went to see George once at his Gothic mansion on Park Avenue," he wrote.

A lovely little French maid in a brief, trim, black uniform and a little white ap.r.o.n was sitting on George's lap. She jumped up and discreetly melted away. Said George, "You caught me off guard." George didn't like me among other things because ... I paid his Museum bills. "No, George," said I, "you remind me of Samuel Johnson, the great lexicographer. In a similar contretemps his indefatigable biographer Boswell said, 'Dr. Johnson, I am surprised.' Said the old curmudgeon, never at a loss for the right word, 'Boswell, you're astonished, I'm I'm surprised.' " surprised.' "51

LIFE AT THE MUSEUM DID NOT RETURN TO NORMAL AFTER B BLUMENTHAL'S death. Instead, Moses kept pus.h.i.+ng, and the trustees lacked a strong leader pus.h.i.+ng back. Moses knew enough to alternate the carrot and the stick. In 1939, for instance, he'd agreed to have the water mains in the tunnel beneath the museum removed to create a four-block-long, twenty-six-foot-wide, and ten-foot-high storage s.p.a.ce. In mid-1941, with war approaching, Osborn proposed turning some of it into a bomb shelter. After Moses talked them out of "their crazy scheme" to do that, he actually got the funds to remove the mains on the condition that the museum itself would pay to convert the s.p.a.ce to storage. A year later, after the tunnel was cleared by WPA workers and the city got the proceeds of the sale of a thousand tons of sc.r.a.p metal, the trustees appropriated $76,000 to create 160,000 cubic feet of storage rooms that, due to their position, remained at a constant seventy degrees, perfect for storing art. death. Instead, Moses kept pus.h.i.+ng, and the trustees lacked a strong leader pus.h.i.+ng back. Moses knew enough to alternate the carrot and the stick. In 1939, for instance, he'd agreed to have the water mains in the tunnel ben