The New Whitney

The Whitney family, long doyens of contemporary American culture, have presented New York City with its first “camp” museum—a place where Jacqueline Kennedy’s haut gout is consanguineous to Andy Warhol’s Elizabeth Taylor Period and Stephen Antonakos’ multicolored, neon gargoyles. The new Whitney Museum of American Art, which opened its doors to the public in September, is a monument to the ephemeral and deciduous taste of its jet-set patrons; a $4-million rebellion by Marcel Breuer against the prevailing architecture of Madison Avenue—his bid to surpass the apocalyptic excesses of the late Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum; and a closet in which the emperor’s new clothes and, on occasion, the emperor, will hang with sublime familiarity.

But there is more to the new Whitney than ostentatious braggadocio. The Whitney is an idea about the possibilities of American art which transcends all the chatter about Marcel Breuer’s tenuously balanced inverted pyramid, and forces the critic to ask certain basic questions. For example, is there now, or has there ever been, such a thing as great—or even unique —American art? The Whitney’s answer to such a question is, of course, yes. American art, such as it is, is the Whitney’s only reason for existence; it is the stimulus that led the foundress, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whit-

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Peter P. Witonski

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The Whitney family, long doyens of contemporary American culture, have presented New York City with its first “camp” museum—a place where Jacqueline Kennedy’s haut gout is consanguineous to Andy Warhol’s Elizabeth Taylor Period and Stephen Antonakos’ multicolored, neon gargoyles. The new Whitney Museum of American Art, which opened its doors to the public in September, is a monument to the ephemeral and deciduous taste of its jet-set patrons; a $4-million rebellion by Marcel Breuer against the prevailing architecture of Madison Avenue—his bid to surpass the apocalyptic excesses of the late Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum; and a closet in which the emperor’s new clothes and, on occasion, the emperor, will hang with sublime familiarity.

But there is more to the new Whitney than ostentatious braggadocio. The Whitney is an idea about the possibilities of American art which transcends all the chatter about Marcel Breuer’s tenuously balanced inverted pyramid, and forces the critic to ask certain basic questions. For example, is there now, or has there ever been, such a thing as great—or even unique —American art? The Whitney’s answer to such a question is, of course, yes. American art, such as it is, is the Whitney’s only reason for existence; it is the stimulus that led the foundress, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whit-