The first
was J. P. Morgan and
his library, which
fittingly is in midtown—on 36th street. He was, after all, the older
man, and his instruction to the architect Charles McKim was
simple and direct—“build me a gem.” Right, so McKim got down to work and did
just that, and the result is a truly grand space, housing a magnificent collection.
It also is a space that seems truly personal; on his desk was an ornamented box
that I was convinced had held cigars, and perhaps still did. It was the only
thing I longed to touch, but the steely eyes of the guard seemed always upon
me. But I read in Wikipedia
today that in fact he smoked dozens of large Havanas every day. Was any trace
of the smoke lingering in the room? Probably not, but the imagination easily
supplied it….
And Morgan,
of course, died a rich man—as he had been born. Here’s Wikipedia:
At the
time of his death, he only held 19% of his own net worth, an estate worth
$68.3 million ($1.39 billion in today's dollars based on CPI, or
$25.2 billion based on 'relative share of GDP'), of which about
$30 million represented his share in the New York and Philadelphia banks.
The value of his art collection was estimated at $50 million.
Upon his
death, the majority of Morgan’s art collection went either to the Metropolitan
Museum of Art—which curiously had just happened to make him president in
the years before his death—or was sold to pay estate taxes. OK—so who bought
it? Enter the second rich guy….
Henry Clay Frick,
unlike Morgan, was born with only a pewter spoon in his mouth. From a Mennonite background growing
up near Pittsburgh, he had a good head for numbers. He also had a vision, and
managed to team up with a good friend, Andrew W. Mellon, to
buy some beehive ovens to turn coal into coke. And that was useful because the
country needed coke to power the steel industry, which was booming. And so, on
his honeymoon, Frick took a little time off—business is business, after all—to
meet a guy named Andrew
Carnegie. Yes, that Carnegie. In one of the interesting glimpses of
how Wikipedia works
or doesn’t work, here’s
its description of their relationship:
This
meeting resulted in a partnership between H. C. Frick & Company and Carnegie Steel
Company, and was the predecessor to United States Steel.
This partnership ensured that Carnegie's steel mills had adequate
supplies of coke.
Frick became chairman of the company. Carnegie made multiple attempts to force
Frick out of the company they had created by making it appear that the company
had nowhere left to go and that it was time for Frick to retire. Despite the
contributions Frick had made towards Andrew Carnegie's fortune, Carnegie
disregarded him in many executive decisions including finances.[7] Henry Clay Frick and Andrew Carnegie developed
a relationship when working together.
Am I the
only one thinking that “Frick and Carnegie developed a relationship when
working together” is somewhat at war with the earlier statement “Carnegie made
multiple attempts to force Frick out of the company they had created?” At any
rate, I was curious enough to run over to the Frick
collection history page to hear a more biased / less sanitized chronicle of
the affair. And here it is:
Frick
grew disenchanted with Carnegie and became honorary chairman of the board in
December 1894. Five years later, Carnegie abolished Frick's position as
chairman of the H. C. Frick Coke Company and the two went to court over the
value of Frick's interest. In March 1900 a settlement was reached in which
Frick received $30 million in securities. In 1901, having moved from Pittsburgh
to New York, Frick became one of the directors of J. P. Morgan's newly
incorporated United States Steel Corporation; his official biographer noted
that he was the largest individual railway stockholder in the world.
OK; here’s
the time to say it. Henry Clay Frick was a true son of a bitch. Nor am I the
only one to say it: portfolio.com
ranked him as number 11 of the worst CEOs in American history. And what did he
do that was so objectionable?
Well, we
can start out with the Johnstown Flood of 1889. Johnstown, Pennsylvania, sits
at the bottom of a wedge of mountains, which at one time had a river run
through it. So sometime in the early part of the 19th century, The
Commonwealth of Pennsylvania had built a dam above the city; the resulting
reservoir, the land around it, and the dam itself was then sold to a group of
rich guys—some connected to Carnegie Steel—who made
a lovely little resort up there, overlooking the town. What didn’t they do?
Well, the engineer of the steel mill in the town kept telling them—do some work
on that dam. But things got a little busy, and there was heavy rain and a big
snow melt off, and guess what happened? Right—one of the largest natural
disasters in US history: here’s
you-know-who on the subject:
The total
death toll was 2,209, making the disaster the largest loss of civilian life in
the United States at the time. It was later surpassed by fatalities in the 1900 Galveston
hurricane and the September 11, 2001
terrorist attacks. Some historians believe the 1928 Okeechobee
hurricane and 1906 San
Francisco earthquake killed more people in the U.S. than did the
Johnstown Flood, but the official death toll was lower.
Right, and
an earlier sentence from the same Wikipedia article has the chilling information:
Henry Clay Frick led a
group of speculators, including Benjamin Ruff, from Pittsburgh
to purchase the abandoned reservoir, modify it, and convert it into a private
resort lake for their wealthy associates.
OK—so what
to do? Frick and his friends organized a little group to throw some money at
the victims. Here’s Wikipedia
again:
When word
of the dam's failure was telegraphed to Pittsburgh, Frick and
other members of the club gathered to form the Pittsburgh Relief Committee for
assistance to the flood victims, as well as determining never to speak publicly
about the club or the flood. This strategy was a success, and Knox and Reed
were able to fend off all lawsuits that would have placed blame upon the club’s
members.
Oh yes, and
Carnegie built the town a library….
Things were
even uglier in the Homestead
Strike of 1892, when Frick sent 300 Pinkerton agents up the river to crash
through the pickets and stop the strike. What happened? At least nine people
were killed, a riot ensued, and the state militia had to send 8000 guys to
break up the affair. Understandably, people felt that this was all a bit
excessive, and Frick became known as the most hated man in America. No surprise
that Emma Goldman’s lover tried unsuccessfully
to kill the guy in July of that year. And so it’s not for nothing has “frick
you” become a substitute for a harder, though one-letter-shorter, epithet.
And one
feels it, walking into the museum. There’s
a chilliness that no heat can burn off—the granite or limestone or
whatever-it-is seems to exude cold. But what is there, in that museum, is meant
to impress.
Well, it’s
Art History 101—so anyone who wants to skip the Met but still see the great
Masters in a couple of hours now has that alternative. True, some rooms make me
want to run screaming out of them—why is it that Fragonard
always stimulates the gag reflex. And there is an especially large and gauzy Renoir that has to
live in a hallway (along with a Degas and assorted
other masters). But consider—I went to visit a show that had one Vermeer: The Girl with the
Pearl Earring. But the museum? It has three
Vermeers, and if memory serves, there are only about 70 works of the master
left on the planet.
For all his
bastardry, I can’t help thinking that Frick had an edge over the modern
equivalent, the hedge fund mogul. Because what greeted me this morning, over
the print edition of The New York Times? Here
it is:
Grisly
Warhol Painting Fetches $104.5 Million, Auction High for Artist
It is,
Astonished Reader, a silkscreen
diptych of a car crash. And also this week, a Francis Bacon
triptych Three
Studies of Lucian Freud sold for over 140 million bucks. And to whom?
Here’s what Roberta Smith,
in another article
in The Times, had to
say:
Auctions
have become the leading indicator of ultra-conspicuous consumption, pieces of
public, male-dominated theater in which collectors, art dealers and auction
houses flex their monetary clout, mostly for one another. The spectacle of
watching these privileged few (mostly hedge fund managers and investment-hungry
consortiums, it seems) tossing around huge amounts of money has become a
rarefied spectator sport. These events are painful to watch yet impossible to
ignore and deeply alienating if you actually love art for its own sake.
Emblematic,
isn’t it? Frick was at least a real life, fire-breathing, sulfurous-stenching
bastard. But a hedge fund manager?
Please….
