Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum: Eclectic Museum, Infamous Heist

Corner of the frame which once held Vermeer's 1664 painting "The Concert"
sketch by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum:
Eclectic Museum, Infamous Heist
essay
by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          The empty gilded frames in the subdued light of the Dutch Room screamed at me. I felt violated, and could only imagine Isabella Gardner’s pain, had she been alive to witness the aftermath of the world’s largest unsolved art theft which occurred in March of 1990. Thirteen pieces of art were hauled away in the early morning darkness from the famous Boston museum that bears her name. The betrayal of her trust in the public would have shaken her to the core. The items, including paintings by Vermeer, Rembrandt and Degas, have never been found nor has anyone been charged with the crime. The theft was a huge loss for the museum, but the remaining art is a varied and broad collection, arranged in a unique setting designed by Isabella.

          Isabella Stewart Gardner (1840-1924) was born and married into the high-society circles of Boston. Throughout her life, she was known for her spunky, vibrant personality. As a child, she disobeyed her parents one summer and ran to see the circus, while the family butler followed in chase.



Isabella Stewart Gardner - 1888
www.gardnermuseum.org
 

          Her interest in the arts began as a teen-ager, and it continued to grow stronger in her adult life. She married John Lowell Gardner, Jr., another wealthy Bostonian, in 1860, and gave birth to a boy, John III. Then tragedy struck in 1865, when the boy died of pneumonia at the age of two. Isabella was distraught and struggled with depression and illness for the next two years. Her husband was concerned, and he recommended they take a trip to Europe to help her recuperate. Once there, she experienced the cathedrals, the Paris Exposition, as well as museums full of old masters paintings. Her passion for art grew and it became an addiction which she fueled with her family inheritance and her husband’s wealth.

          By the 1890s, Isabella snatched up European paintings from under the noses of East coast male collectors, outbidding the likes of J.P. Morgan and Andrew Mellon. She continued to enlarge her collection and dreamed of a gallery to share her art with the public.

          The second tragedy in her life occurred in 1894 when her husband died of a stroke at the age of sixty-one. After his death, Isabella threw her energy into creating a unique museum to display the collection of art and artifacts. Not wanting to build an antiseptic repository, she used her creative genius to help design and construct an Italian Renaissance-style building that turned inward towards a four-story courtyard that breathed life and light onto every floor of the museum.



Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum - view from Fenway Drive - Boston, MA
photo by William Peregoy
http//wperegoy.wordpress.com


          Each room or gallery became an experience in itself, a setting to view and appreciate art. Once the building was completed on a site adjacent to Boston’s Back Bay Fens, Isabella spent over a year arranging an eclectic mix of furniture, wall-covering, and artwork, spending countless hours creating the mix and ambience we see today. In her will, she stipulated that the museum, completed and opened in 1903, was never to be altered in any way.



The Dutch Room - Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum - Boston, MA
www.gardnermuseum.org

          On March 18, 1990, on a cold dark morning after St. Patrick’s Day, the peaceful co-existence between the museum and the Boston public was shattered. At 1:24 A.M., two men dressed as Boston police approach the side entry to the museum to notify one of the two guards on duty that they were responding to a disturbance. Without making a confirmation call to the police department, the guard allowed the two men inside. The imposters handcuffed the guards and tied them up in the basement. Free to roam, the thieves selected artwork from several galleries. The paintings, created on centuries-old canvas or wood backing, were cut from their frames. The most notable theft was a Vermeer titled The Concert. One of only thirty-six Vermeer paintings in existence, it is valued at $300 million. Included in the heist were two oddly selected pieces: an eagle finial removed from a Napoleonic flag, and a small Chinese beaker. Between 2:41 and 2:45 A.M., the thieves made two trips out the side door to load the items into an escape vehicle. It is assumed a second vehicle, probably a van, was waiting to deliver the stolen art to an undisclosed location. The thieves removed the security tapes during their exit, leaving scant evidence of the raid on the museum.

"The Concert" by Vermeer
www.essentialvermeer.com

          One of the prime suspects from day one has been Myles J. Connor, Jr., a quintessential New England bad boy. A motorcycle-riding rock-n-roller, Connor’s favorite outfit was a pair of blue jeans, an undershirt, and a black leather jacket. In the 1960s, he tucked his shock of Irish red hair under his cap and rode roughshod over the Massachusetts landscape, raising hell wherever he went. His persona was a toxic cocktail of genius IQ, pathological liar, and thief. He was a smart thief and he had no fear. His desire to own ancient artifacts caused him to begin his life of crime. The rush and exhilaration which he experienced during the execution of his thefts became addictive. With each heist from small museums and wealthy collectors across New England, he became more emboldened, and began associating with a group of thieves linked to the Mafia.

          Wearing disguises, Connor and an accomplice walked into the Boston Museum of Fine Arts in broad daylight in 1975. They yanked a Rembrandt painting from the wall, ran from the museum with the guards in pursuit, and successfully eluded the cops by driving the getaway car onto a sidewalk, squeezing around a Coca-Cola truck which blocked an escape street. Connor arranged the anonymous return of the painting as a bargaining chip to reduce the length of a looming prison sentence for his previous theft of some N.C. Wyeth paintings.
 

Boston Museum of Fine Arts
Fenway Drive Entrance where Myles J. Connor, Jr., exited in 1975
with stolen Rembrandt painting.
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          When the Gardner heist occurred in 1990, Connor was in prison in Illinois. That fact didn’t stop the FBI from interviewing him about the theft at the Gardner in Boston. There remains the possibility that he masterminded the crime from his prison cell. He openly admits that he always contemplated robbing the Gardner Museum, and made reconnaissance visits and stake-outs to watch the museum’s operation.

          Another top suspect is David Turner, Massachusetts good-guy-turned-bad. Turner ran in similar circles to Myles Connor, Jr. He linked up with local Mafia bosses and became ruthless to anyone who dared to double-cross him or turn as a witness against him. Several people who attempted to defy him, including his boyhood friend, were brutally murdered, but there was never enough evidence to convict Turner of any of the killings. A year and a half after the Gardner Heist, Turner was implicated and taken to trial for his alleged involvement in a $50,000 Labor Day weekend robbery of the Bull and Finch Pub on Beacon Street, the bar which was the pattern for the famous Cheers television show. The prosecution set up generous plea-bargain agreements with those who implicated Turner, but during the trial, Turner’s lawyer, Marty Leppo, was able to discredit the witnesses, and Turner was acquitted.

          At various times, the FBI clearly paved the way for leniency for both Connor and Turner, hoping they would assist in getting the Gardner art returned, but neither provided the information needed to crack the case. It’s very possible that either Connor or Turner was involved in the heist, or they know the individuals who stole the artwork.

          The higher echelons of the New England Mafia may have control of the paintings, but it is possible the thieves who carried out the original crime don't know what happened to the artwork after the van drove away from the museum in the dark of night.

          The FBI continues to investigate the Gardner heist and has posted a five million dollar reward for information leading to the return of the paintings. Their recent investigation has brought two more East coast Mafia names into the limelight: Robert Guarente, deceased, and Robert Gentile, currently serving unrelated sentences for gun possession and drug sales.

          Robert Guarente was a friend of David Turner and he frequented with associates who knew Myles Connor, Jr. Guarente died in 2004 while living on the coast of Maine. His wife, who was interrogated by the FBI, claimed she saw her husband put one of the stolen paintings into the trunk of Gentile’s car in 2002. Gentile flatly denied the statements by Guarente’s wife, but the FBI wasn’t dissuaded. They searched Gentile’s property and found a list of the stolen art and a 1990 newspaper clipping describing the heist. Gentile also failed a polygraph test. Although the FBI believes they are close to solving the case, it appears they have only circumstantial evidence that the two men were involved, and no one has provided information as to the whereabouts of the artwork.

          If the paintings are found and returned, it is unlikely they will be in good condition. Four-hundred year-old canvas which has been cut with a knife blade doesn’t repair easily. The paintings would suffer further deterioration if they have not been stored in a climate controlled space.

          Over twenty-four years have passed since the theft, which has been one of the most publicized crimes in history. The infamous heist has become a part of popular culture, spawning theories and fictional stories as to the whereabouts of the paintings. Copies of the artwork have appeared on walls of various episodes of popular television shows.

          Meanwhile, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum continues as a vibrant Boston institution. A new wing, designed by internationally famous architect, Renzo Piano, has been added. The delicate addition of steel and glass, which contrasts to the original building, serves as the main entry and includes a gift shop, lounge, cafeteria, meeting rooms and galleries.
 



Entry and new wing - Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          The museum remains hopeful the artwork will eventually be returned, while the empty frames, which are a daily reminder of the crime, hang on the walls in their original locations in the building designed by Isabella. Crowds pay homage to Isabella’s dream-come-true. But when they enter the galleries, they pause at the blank frames and stand in a worship-like state, viewing the voids with a mixture of curiosity, sadness, disgust and pain.

          During my visit to the Gardner Museum, I looked out onto the sunlit walls of the lush courtyard and felt Isabella's presence. What emotions would she harbor if she were with us? How would she cope with another tragedy?
 



Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum - courtyard
www.gardnermuseum.org

Sources:

Boser, Ulrich. The Gardner Heist: the true story of the world’s largest unsolved art theft. New York, NY: HarperCollins Publishers, 2009.

Connor, Myles J., Jr. and Siler, Jenny. The Art of the Heist: confessions of a master art thief, rock-and-roller, and prodigal son. New York, NY: HarperCollins Publishers, 2009.

Newcomb, Alyssa – via World News. Thieves in Half-Billion Dollar Art Heist Identified By FBI. ABC World News, March 18, 2013. website: http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/fbi-thieves-identified-1990-art-heist-isabella-stewart/story?id=18757276

Valencia, Milton J,- Globe staff. Alleged Mafia figure linked to Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist gets 30-month sentence. Boston, MA. Boston Globe Metrodesk, May 9, 2013.website: http://www.boston.com/metrodesk/2013/05/09/mafia-figure-linked-isabella-stewart-gardner-museum-heist-gets-month-sentence/wyZtsAMOiZDKXJ2qa7sb3O/story.html

Mahony, Edmund H. A Hartford Wise Guy And A $500 Million Museum Heist. Hartford, CT. Hartford Courant, May 18, 2013. website: http://articles.courant.com/2013-05-18/news/hc-gardner-gentile-0513-20130518_1_robert-guarente-robert-gentile-gentile-claims

http://www.essentialvermeer.com/catalogue/concert.html#.UzA8tcJOXmI

http://www.gardnermuseum.org/home

http://wperegoy.wordpress.com/category/north-america/usa/boston/
  




 


Jamaican Honeymoon Song

Jamaican Honeymoon Song
by Greg Larson

I dedicate this blog post to my Wife, Gretta, who is the love of my life.

       I can sing in public, but it is not my forté. It has to be a really special occasion, and I have to really believe in what I’m singing. Such is the case with the Jamaican Honeymoon Song, which I wrote when . . . you guessed it . . . Gretta and I were on our 2004 honeymoon.

       The Montego Bay airport had a book shop to which we gravitated. While browsing, I found a small booklet with Jamaican slang terms like ya-man, etc. I was intrigued by the term oo-man, so I looked at the definition, which was “wife or girlfriend.” I looked at Gretta and thought “she’s my oo-man!” But I wondered if it was pronounced ohh or ooo.

       On the flight back home, between naps of honeymoon memories, I wrote the short song in my head. I pictured the warm sand and the palm trees framing the deep blue ocean water. While relaxed, I could smell the Jamaican barbeque and listen to the steel drums playing the melody.

       It’s a great song for me to sing in my head while I ride the bike or mow the lawn. It’s always with me, just like Gretta.

       The first time I sang it, we were on a bike tour in Italy. One evening after a little wine, with people we hardly knew, I belted it out. The second time was the other night at our tenth-anniversary party, a most appropriate venue. You never know, I may sing it again, but probably just once in a Jamaican blue moon.

Now that I’ve put the words to paper, the lyrics are copyrighted, so I’m anticipating royalty checks:

Jamaican Honeymoon Song

by Greg Larson

          Oh man, she’s my oo-man

          Oo man, she’s my oh-man
          Oh man, she’s my oo-man
          And I love her all of my day!

          I love her in the morning                                             [point to the east]

          I love her in the evening                                              [point to the west]
          I love her in the afternoon                                           [point to the sky]
          And all night long!                                                      [fist pump to the sky]

         Oh-oh-oh oo-man, my pretty, pretty oo-oo-oo-man

         And I love her all of my day!                                      [kiss Gretta, crowd cheers]

 

All About Nothing

All About Nothing

commentary

by Greg Larson

I dedicate this article to my good friend and writer John Davis, who continually encourages writers to start writing, even when it seems impossible to think of anything to write about.

     Sometimes I try to write, but nothing comes to mind. It’s a common malady called writer’s block. But this time I’ve decided to write about nothing. In the doldrums of winter, it is a topic that I want to shy away from. Even the landscape seems empty and barren. Nothing . . . nada . . . absolute zero . . . a scary concept. Chasms of emptiness come to mind. Big voids unfilled . . . cold cavernous areas of nothingness from deep space to empty hearts. It gives me the shivers.

     But on further inspection, there’s more to the subject than meets the eye. I’ve concluded that nothing does not exist. Now there’s a double negative that puts a body slam to the old zippity-do-dah. Nothing is made of something. Even the pencil mark of zero was created by someone who smeared volumes of graphite molecules onto the paper. And what about those nano-bits of charged data particles that are seemingly nothing when filed away on the motherboard? Computers have the capability to store entire libraries in a space the size of a pinhead. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

     One might think the utter emptiness of outer space is a good definition of nothing, but scientists will tell you it is filled with quarks, dark matter, and even the God particle. Heady stuff. Einstein himself visualized riding a beam of light through the realms of glory and mathematically proved the time clock on Earth would not move if he took a spin around the cosmic block and returned to earth on his bucking-bronco wave of energy. Now that’s something. I don’t understand it, but it is something.

     What about Absolute Zero, the coldest of cold? To scientists, the word cold doesn’t exist. They call it “absence of heat.” So far, Absolute Zero (-273.15 degrees Celsius) is only a theory. It’s a temperature that has not been attained. They’ve come close, within a tiny fraction of a degree, but the atoms just don’t roll over dead. They act a little weird, but they keep on tickin’. You’d act a little weird, too, if your temperature was a fraction from Absolute Zero.

     The closest I ever came to absolute zero was when I loaned my Starbucks gift card to Gretta, my wife. She was going to a Starbucks, so I gave her the card which I’d been carrying for months. I told her I thought it had something on it. Well, the look on her face when she returned gave me a clue that the card had been used up. The value was zero. I felt like a zero. I figured she might think of me as such. But in all of her wisdom and beauty, she came and told me I was not a zero. To her, I was a hero. For me, it was a great day to be alive in the universe, even though the beings on that far-away galaxy have no clue to the beauty and magnificence of our captive Garden of Eden that we call Earth.

     So the next time the concept of nothing comes to mind, go find that honey-do list. If you think your refrigerator is empty, go clean it out. No telling what you might find. Just be sure to throw away the cheese with the fuzzy green stuff on top. If a wall looks empty, paint it a different color or hang a picture on it. It could be the beginning of a project that really becomes something.

     If there’s nothing on the calendar, don’t (in the words of Jimi Hendrix) let the traffic lights turn blue tomorrow. Call up a friend, or take your significant other out to the coffee shop. Fill those relationship voids with love and consciousness. Keep those atoms tickin’. Get cozy and enjoy a warm cup of coffee and chocolate croissant. Then, in a Seinfeld kind of way, revel in the magnificence of the concept that nothing is something.

     Now that reminds me of the time that . . .

A Scouting Life

memoir

by Greg Larson



Eagle Award and miscellaneous badges

“Hey! You guys need to quiet down in there and get some shut-eye.” My dad grumbled as he stuck his head into the teepee, “I don’t want to have to come back here again. It was ‘lights out’ over an hour ago.” We listened to the faint steps in the grass as he walked away. The snickering continued among the members of the Flaming Arrow Patrol of Troop 704, but nobody wanted my dad to come back again. We finally trailed off to sleep.

I grew up in a camping family, and was eager to progress from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts in 1962. My older brother was already a high-ranking scout. As a young boy, I concluded that my dad’s master plan was to be a leader in the scout troop so that he could keep watch over my older brother and me.

We attended weekly troop meetings and were given handbooks to read, but the most fun of being a scout was going on the campouts. Our troop was unique because of the large teepees we used instead of tents. It was possible for an entire patrol of eight to ten boys to sleep in one teepee, with its huge, circular base. The troop camped in Colorado every summer to collect the tall pine poles for the teepee frames. When it was time to add another teepee, some of the mothers sewed the canvas, patterned after the real teepees used by  Native Americans. We painted each teepee to identify the patrol. Ours had a flaming arrow, but others had bears, wolves and other insignia adorning the canvas.

 

The author next to a teepee at the Colorado camp

As I think back to my scouting days, I realize it was a great experience to prepare me for life after childhood. Immediately, it taught me how to work with other people and I became aware that we all have different attitudes and behaviors. Before every campout, we had a patrol meeting to plan a menu, buy the food, and calculate the cost for each person. We also planned activities that were designed to help us advance up the ranks. With the scout leaders watching us, we packed and repacked our camp gear, using checklists to confirm we had all that was required.

But all the planning in the world couldn’t hold back the unbridled enthusiasm and sense of freedom unleashed in each scout when we pulled into a campsite. As the teepees were unloaded and erected, many of the troop members were already exploring the area, throwing rocks in the creek, playing tag in the woods or finding good walking sticks. I quickly learned a life lesson of trying to keep some sense of order and sanity during the chaos that ensued, and found that I could have some fun mixed in with the chores.

I have fond memories of waking up to the smell of bacon on the campfire, then tossing a football around the campsite after breakfast (this was before frisbees were invented). The camping days were filled with hiking, swimming and numerous other activities. After a big dinner, each patrol would plan a skit for the evening campfire, which was a big bonfire that tended to hypnotize all of those gathered around it. I’m sure Mom enjoyed the peace and quiet at home, but when we returned she ordered us to pile all of our smoky-smelling clothes in the garage, then strip down and go take a shower.

During my first time at summer camp in Colorado, our troop went on an overnight survival hike. I was the lowest rank, a Tenderfoot, and every experience was new. Our five-mile hike followed a pipeline that was being installed in the national forest. In the heat of the afternoon, I began to choke on the dust. Blisters formed on my feet from negotiating the clumps of dirt along the pipeline trench. It seemed as if the hike would never end, and just as we arrived at a remote campsite in the lodge-pole pine forest, the typical afternoon deluge in the mountains began. Ponchos were pulled out of the packs, and we hunkered down under the trees.

I was exhausted, but it was time to fix supper, which required us to boil water for dehydrated soup and beef stroganoff. Before the hike, we were each issued two matches to carry in small waterproof containers. My two buddies and I tried to get a fire started, but all we could find were wet branches and sticks. In our foolish desperation we used two matches at once on our final try to get a lasting flame. With our matches gone, we approached our scoutmaster, Mr. Lein, and told him that we had failed. Oh, the shame.

Mr. Lein was not upset. He kindly showed us where to snap the dead, dry twigs from the lower trunks of the pine trees. He configured the twigs into a small teepee and lit them with one match. Although I was glad to see the fire grow, I was exhausted, and tears began to well up in my eyes. I felt even more embarrassed, as we huddled around the fire. Mr. Lein, noticing my predicament, poked me softly in the ribs and matter-of-factly commented, “That darn smoke gets in your eyes sometimes, doesn’t it?” After supper we built shelters with our ponchos and pine boughs. I slept well that night.

The next year in Colorado, one of the activities was a one-day, ten-mile hike to the summit of Mt. Ouray, a big mountain just shy of 14,000 ft. in elevation. I felt more like a veteran as I began the trek with five leaders and twenty boys after breakfast. We hiked for a couple of hours through the woods, then the path became rocky and less visible as we rose above the timberline. The cold wind and the ominous clouds forced us to put on our ponchos while we wolfed down our cheese sandwiches and apples.

The giant boulders and rock towers to the side of the ridge to the summit became our shelter from the wind and sleet as the storm blew past. I remember feeling quite small as the lightning flashed and the thunder shook the ridge. Once the rain stopped, we continued on, but many of the leaders and scouts had turned back, due to altitude sickness and the weather. Just six scouts (including me) and two leaders continued to the top of the mountain. When we got to the summit, I thought I could see all the way to Kansas.

My scouting path took me many places, from the boundary waters of Minnesota and Canada to the slopes of the mountains in southern Colorado, where I worked on the Spanish Peaks Scout Ranch staff for the first year of operation in 1967.

My brothers and I thrived in the scouting program, and we each obtained the Eagle rank. Although it is a significant achievement, I believe that by the time most scouts have the Eagle medallion pinned on their uniforms, they have learned that the process of learning will continue for their entire lives.

Three future Eagle Scouts (author with dog at right)

 

In 2007, I was returning from a business trip, flying back to Kansas City from California. I was worried about my dad, who was ill, and I was anxious to get home and drive to Wichita to see him. As a scout, I loved to look at maps and use them to determine my location. Many times while looking out the window of an airplane, I used those skills to identify certain features of the landscape and the cities below. That day was no different. The clouds over the Rocky Mountains were few, and I viewed the San Luis Valley below. Quickly, the jet flew over Mt. Ouray and for a few seconds I spied its summit where I had stood decades ago. I looked down on the vast forest of lodge-pole pines and remembered the long, exhausting hike. I also remembered the time Dad woke us up one night at the Mt. Ouray camp to see the beavers at work on the nearby ponds. With child-like excitement, he rustled us out of our sleeping bags to show us the beavers swimming and splashing in the moonlight. “Look, there they are!” he exclaimed as he pointed his battery searchlight at them.

The jet landed in Denver and I checked my phone messages while waiting for the plane to continue on to Kansas City. A message from my brother asked that I call him, and when we talked, he gave me the hard news that our dad had died within the hour. I realized that I had been looking down on Mt. Ouray about the time that Dad had passed away. The flood of memories came back to me.

Dad helped lead the troop for countless years. I realized that he volunteered as a leader because of his love for scouting and for each of the boys, including me. Now he was gone, but a smile came to my face. Dad and the other leaders taught us the scouting skills, and they taught us how to live, too. I’ll keep using those skills the rest of my life.

Toyland Heaven

 

Toyland Heaven

memoir by Greg Larson

 

            The 1962 Fall edition of the Sears and Roebuck catalog seemed to weigh a ton. I held it close to my chest, then threw it down in front of me on the sleek sofa, spread out my legs behind me, and began flipping the pages, one by one. The tinsel on the Christmas tree in front of the big picture window glistened in the sunshine. It was my afternoon ritual, part daydream journey into fantasy Christmas mornings and part mission to select important things to put on my list for Santa. Wasn’t the meaning of Christmas to seek out the favorite toys to get on Christmas morning, and then blissfully play hour after hour without thinking about school?

In the electric train section I looked at all the sepia-toned images of every train imaginable, from giant locomotives roaring across trestle bridges in the forest, to stubby-looking switch engines working the freight yards of big cities. The Great Northern Railway locomotive was my favorite, hauling Mesabi iron ore through tunnels in the birch forests. I closed my eyes and pictured small towns with wooden train stations and goose-necked lamps along the platform, with the countryside full of mirror-surfaced lakes and snow-capped mountains beyond.

The anticipation of Christmas was almost unbearable, but Christmas Eve finally came and we all gathered around the tree to take turns reading parts of the real Christmas story from the Bible. After our fill of sugar cookies and hot chocolate, we grabbed a flashlight and a wristwatch to keep under the bed covers. Mom had a rule: nobody gets up before 6:00 AM. The night went on forever. My brothers and I tossed and turned, checking the watch every ten minutes.

 

Christmas Eve 1962 - Brothers Tim, Dan, & Greg

At 5:50 AM we rousted our parents. Dad had to get up and position himself with the 8mm movie camera and floodlights before we ran down the hall and into the living room. The blinding light and the buzzing camera motor were the signal to see what Santa had brought during the night. Everything in the room was flooded with silver light, creating a surreal atmosphere. I thought it must be something like heaven, all silvery with shiny toys spread about the room.

There it was! Low-hanging tinsel fluttered as a Lionel train rolled on a track set up in front of the tree. Wow! New train cars; a Sunoco tank car, a double-decker car full of automobiles, and a boxcar with a Baby Ruth trademark on it. The camera lights, the train whirring along the track, and our yelps as we explored the room made for a heady experience and a great Christmas memory. Santa (aka Dad) was a smart cookie. He had not disappointed us.

Immediately, Dad began to talk of a project for the rec-room he had built in the garage. He wanted to build us a train table that would fold up into the wall. My older brother started planning a track layout that would fill a four-foot by eight-foot table top.

Over the next few days we watched Dad assemble the plywood table. At times, he allowed us to hold a piece of lumber when he ran it through the power table saw, or sweep the sawdust and pick up the wood scraps. He installed a big piano hinge along the table edge and wall box, and added folding legs for the outer corners of the table.



Brother Dan installing track

After a lot of discussion between my Dad and brother, they began to attach the trestle pylons and pieces of track to the table. My brother consulted with his friend across the street to determine how to maximize the track. Only one piece of track had to be cut and spliced.



In no time at all we had our Katy switch engine pulling train cars along the track. On our nearby blackboard, I created lists of train cars, and we spent hours rearranging the cars, using the sidetracks to create new trains to pull. We took turns controlling the train from the transformer, which became warm to the touch. Occasionally, we were able to run two trains at the same time, but that put our small transformer to its limit. On the busy days with the train, the room became warm and the engines emitted the fragrance of ionized electrons and three-in-one oil.

Before the end of the Christmas holiday, we had daily visits from our friends bringing their favorite Lionel engines and cars to run on the tracks. My friend Mike brought his silver Santa Fe engine and we had two trains running at full speed. I remember thinking it was the best Christmas ever for an eleven-year-old boy in Kansas.

The Getty Museum: Legacy of the World's Richest Man

The Getty Museum - Brentwood, California
public domain photo

The Getty Museum: Legacy of the World’s Richest Man

non-fiction

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

At the hilltop entrance plaza to the Getty Museum in Southern California, I listened to the soft hum and flow of vehicles on the 405 freeway, some 800 feet below. My eyes scanned the adjacent hillsides of Bel Air and Brentwood where modern mansions perched on the edges and tops of the Santa Monica Mountains. Farther out, the skylines of Hollywood and L.A., and the Pacific Coastline congealed with the haze on the horizon. My first impressions of the museum were its size, the modern design, and the unusual location. The complexities of the museum’s history, its bigger-than-life benefactor J. Paul Getty, and the massive campus designed by renowned architect Richard Meier, all seemed to melt away in the warm sunlight and the cool breeze.

 

J. Paul Getty’s life (1892-1976) had many phases and facets. Through cultivating his skills in the Oklahoma oil patch, he became a millionaire at the age of twenty-three. He briefly tried retirement, lived in Southern California and partied with the Hollywood set, becoming a womanizer and a bored bachelor. Eventually, he turned his focus back to the oil business in Southern California, where he began acquiring other oil companies. Unfortunately, his business acumen didn’t translate well to his family life. He married and divorced five times from 1923 to 1958. His focus was on the growing network of oil companies, as well as chasing women, and he had little time for his ex-wives and his children.
 

View looking south from the entry plaza
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

The three-quarter-mile-long funicular/tram ride from the valley removed me from the mundane burdens of the work-a-day world below and delivered me into the heart of the unusual campus. The building elements of canopies, stairways and overhangs created interplay of sunlight and shadows. I sensed this was a place of genuine cultural enlightenment, and quite possibly, a mecca for modern architecture. As I walked up the steps of the plaza to the main entrance, I felt I had been transported to a 21^st century version of one of the ancient hilltops of Rome.
 

Entry to The Getty Museum
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Getty’s interest in art began as a method to shelter his growing wealth from taxes. It was a simple business solution – not a deep love for the art. He acquired European antiquities of pottery, furniture and tapestries. The thrill was to find quality items for a bargain price using the same principles he used in growing the oil business.

The wealthier he became, the more time and interest he gave to the purchase of art. He surrounded himself with art critics, brokers and dealers, and absorbed as much information as he could about the world of art. In his autobiography As I See It, he admits that he became an art addict:

“My use of drugs doesn’t go beyond the aspirin and antibiotic level. Yet, I am an apparently incurable art-collecting addict. The habitual narcotics user is said to have a monkey on his back. I sometimes feel as though I had several dozen gorillas riding on mine.”

A journey to the Getty Museum is best described by the joy and energy seen on the faces of the visitors. Many come to see the collections of art, but quickly become enthralled with the experience of walking around the buildings, gardens, sculptures and fountains. The visit is transformed into a restful walk and the museum campus appeared as one giant piece of art. Couples and families picnic on the grassy hillside and school children laugh and play on the grassy slopes of the garden. 

Visitors relax and stroll at The Getty Museum
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

In his later years, Getty was shamed by the movers and shakers of the art world to spend sizeable amounts of money on significant works. Although Getty had become an expatriate U.S. citizen, living in various places about Europe, he facilitated tours of his art collection at his Malibu estate, which is a different location than the current Getty Museum.

In 1958, Fortune magazine listed him as the richest man in the world, and he realized it was necessary to find a permanent home in Europe which would provide a secure location and a place to display some of the additional art he had acquired. In 1959, he purchased the estate of The Duke of Sutherland, Sutton Place, in Surrey, England. Other than brief travels in England and continental Europe, he stayed in Sutton Place for the remainder of his life.

In the late 1960s, with growing demand that he display more of his art collection, he bucked the art world and executed his own idea for a museum, a recreation of a Roman Villa, built adjacent to his former home in Malibu. The $17 million museum was the repository for art and artifacts worth over $200 million ($1 billion in 2013 dollars). A $55 million charitable trust supported the operation. The reviews of the controversial museum, which opened in 1974, were mixed, making Getty feel that he had not yet been embraced by the art world. He never made the trip from his English estate to see his pet project first-hand.
 

The Getty Villa in Malibu, California
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Upon his death in June of 1976, the wills of his personal fortune and the Sarah Getty Trust (named for his mother) were read. The art world was rocked with the revelation that J. Paul Getty had bequeathed the bulk of his personal estate, over $660 million, to the Getty Museum. Overnight, the museum had become the wealthiest art institution in the world.  The intent of the $1.2 billion Sarah Getty Trust was to provide for future generations of the family, but both wills were contested and tied in litigation for years, due to the complex business interests and the abstract family tree created by Getty and his wives.

The visit began in the morning with an architectural walking tour led by one of the docents. I shared that I was an architect, which caused her to add to the end of her comments at each stop, “Does the architect have anything to add?” Each time I tried to respond with something that sounded halfway intelligent.

Impressionist gallery at The Getty Museum
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

 

After lunch at the restaurant with a view of the adjacent hillside neighborhoods, I visited the temporary exhibit “Overdrive,” which presented the Los Angeles architecture and urban design of the 20^th century. I wandered the fountain plaza between museum buildings on the way to view the Van Gogh “Irises” painting and the other impressionist works. The building shapes and textures revealed themselves while I walked slowly outside. It was a veritable candy land of modern architecture.

The Getty Museum Courtyard
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Once the litigation involving the Getty Trust was complete in 1982, the board members of the trust determined that a larger, new museum was necessary to support the collection and the ongoing acquisitions.

The facts surrounding the design and construction of the $1.3 billion Getty Center are staggering. It has been called the “project of the century” and a project “bigger than life.” The 742 acre site in the Santa Monica Mountains in Brentwood was purchased in 1983 for $25 million, and the board began a year-long process to select a design architect. A beginning list of 110 architects was eventually pared to three: Richard Meier, James Sterling, and Fumahiko Maki. Richard Meier, a modernist architect who had gained international recognition was the final selection. It was the commission of a lifetime, and it demanded the majority of Meier’s attention for the next thirteen years.

After a thorough investigation of the site, Meier decided to place the buildings on two intersecting ridges, one of which paralleled the freeway below. According to Meier, his buildings embraced the abstract and became forms in light, playing with volume and surface. He believes good design must have a timeless look and feel. Meier is a true modernist. His favorite architect was Le Corbusier, considered one of the fathers of modern architecture.

As I walked the plazas, balconies and stairs, many planned and unplanned vistas and nodes came into view around the corners and spaces between the campus buildings. At the extreme south end of the complex, I viewed a large, circular cactus garden, a symbolic exclamation point where the ocean breeze was stiff and the panoramic view displayed the freeway, the L.A. basin, and the ocean beyond.
 

South promontory - Cactus Garden
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Two of the biggest design challenges to the museum design came from the community of Brentwood. Residents of the toney neighborhood had extreme concerns about the height and color of the proposed museum. No building was allowed to be 64 feet higher than the hilltop, and the nearby residents complained they did not want the color to be the stark white used by Meier on most of his projects. Meier’s solution was to use both travertine marble and enamel-coated aluminum panels of travertine color for the building surfaces. When the campus design was unveiled, Meier’s solution launched him to “rock star” status among the design world.

Construction began in 1989 and continued beyond the grand opening in December of 1997. For years the daily commuters on the freeway below watched the slow building progress. The mountaintop location was formidable, and created havoc with the construction due to the limited access. Steel, concrete, marble, and glass; all had to be transported up the narrow road on the steep mountainside.

Over 16,000 tons of travertine marble were quarried in Bagni di Tivoli, Italy, the same quarry used for the Coliseum in Rome and for the Colonnade at St. Peter’s at the Vatican. The marble was sliced and cut into 30” square panels, then shipped to California.

View of The Getty Museum looking northwest from south promontory
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

I touched both the rough and smooth travertine surfaces of the buildings, inspecting the layers of sea floor created over millions of years. It was a peek into the past, unlocked by the stone cutter. This was permanence – somewhat different than the temporal feel of  L.A.’s urban landscape.

Meier’s design ego has caused him to disagree with some decisions made by the museum board, most notably their decision to hire Robert Irwin to design a garden/park for the south end of the complex. Although Meier does not approve of the park design, he believes the total museum experience is a success, creating “order out of chaos.”

The Getty Museum Central Garden and Azalea Pool
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

The walk through the garden was a fitting way to end the day at the museum. I sat under the metal-sculptured trees, which were individual trellises for the crepe myrtle. There were smiles on the faces of young and old as they passed. Most had a peaceful, happy look, as if they knew this was a time of respite and a place to forget about the daily world below, a place to appreciate art and nature on the same day.

Robert Irwin, a modern artist, had accomplished very few gardens when asked to design the garden space at the Getty Center. The controversial garden, which included a pool with a maze of azaleas has become a favorite spot for museum visitors. The stream begins with a fountain at the edge of the entry plaza, and takes advantage of the natural south slope of the space between the Getty Research Institute and the Getty Museum buildings. The London Plane trees which line the stream create a micro-climate through which the public passes several times on the path to the azalea pool.

As I walked the plaza steps to board the funicular/tram and exited the museum, I realized that J. Paul Getty, a legendary tightwad and the world’s richest man, had finally opened up his money bags one last time. The giving gesture at his death was, in some way, a final attempt to be accepted by the art world. The campus and museum, an enclave of enlightenment and a space free to the public, is proof that his legacy will continue on much longer than his life.

 

Sources:

Getty, J. Paul, autobiography, As I See It, Englewood Cliffs, NJ, Prentice Hall, 1976.
 

Lenzner, Robert, The Great Getty – The Life and Loves of J. PAUL GETTY – Richest Man in the World, New York, NY, Crown Publishers, 1985.

Panich, Paula, The California Garden – Robert Irwin still marvels at Getty Gardens 10 years later, Los Angeles Times, style section, July 24, 2008.

Video, Building the Getty Center, The Getty Museum, February 2, 2012:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pqXk1mL3sY

Video, Richard Meier, The Getty Center, Web of Stories, December 23, 2008: http://www.webofstories.com/play/richard.meier/17

 

The Getty Museum – Architecture Tour, June 19, 2013.