The building's original plans—by the firm of Pei Cobb Freed & Partners, with John Sullivan '62, BArch '63, as architect-in-charge—included an underground portion that would have stretched north into the adjacent gorge. At the time, it was eliminated for financial reasons; today, environmental regulations would prohibit it. But the expansion now under way echoes that design, with a three-floor, above- and below-ground addition that will add some 16,000 square feet to the existing 61,000. "We want to keep the integrity and artistic unity of the old building intact," Robinson says. "We're trying to move forward but respect the past." He notes that, fortuitously, all the principals behind the design four decades ago remain at the firm—including Pei himself, now ninety-four. "If we had waited five years," he notes, "it couldn't have been done."
'It was shown at a big exhibition in Paris, which A. D.White attended; in his diary he said the best work of art was The Communion by Gari Melchers, an American expatriate. Twenty-two years later the work was given to Cornell, and the artist was persuaded to come place it on campus. He put it in Goldwin Smith, and it was there until around twenty years ago. It's a beautiful example of the cult of the peasant in nineteenth-century art. It's a Dutch scene; Melchers had a summer home in the Netherlands. It's a very simple church, unlike what you might expect of a Roman Catholic church—a chair, a bench, real people.'
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The additional space has allowed the museum to reconfigure its fifth floor—popular not only for its much-admired Asian collection, but its sweeping views. (During construction, the trustee meeting room on the sixth floor—which boasts some more-than-respectable views of its own—has been open to visitors; the fifth floor will reopen in time for Commencement and Reunion.) By relocating curatorial and storage areas, the amount of gallery space will increase by half—allowing, for example, Japanese screens to be displayed in pairs rather than singly. In a renovated room in the original building, an "open storage" area will put hundreds more objects on public view. ("Open storage is a big thing now," Robinson says, noting that the Metropolitan Museum's American Wing now has such a facility.) Other features of the expanded museum will include an outdoor Japanese garden, a photography center, designated space for contemporary art, two viewing rooms for video installations, and a 150-seat lecture hall. "We've been talking about a new wing," he says, "but really it's a new museum."
Ask Robinson to identify his favorite works in the Johnson collection, and he'll start off by saying that there are so many wonderful things—but ultimately admit that some are particularly dear to him. Even after a lifetime in the art world, he marvels at the fact that a few steps from his office are more than thirty etchings pulled from their copper plates by Rembrandt himself nearly half a millennium ago. "From the plate he would take fifty or sixty impressions," Robinson says, admiring a self-portrait from 1639. "Many of them disappeared, decayed, or were destroyed, but here we have one of them in Ithaca, New York. It's unbelievable. It's staggering."
{mosimage}Another of the director's most beloved pieces: Alberto Giacometti's Walking Man II. Given to the museum by the Uris family in 1976, the bronze encapsulates the horrors of World War II in a single tortured figure. For Robinson, the sculpture is not just a remarkable work of art; it's evidence of the University's commitment to the museum. In February 2010, he explains, another cast of Walking Man sold at auction in London for $104 million. A reputable dealer called Robinson and offered to pay the same whopping sum for the Johnson's piece. "I said, after talking with people here, 'If we had $104 million, we'd go out and buy something really great—like Walking Man,' " he recalls with a smile. "So the answer was no." A week or so later, the dealer repeated his offer in writing—directly to President Skorton. "Skorton, to his eternal blessed credit, consulted me," Robinson says, smile broadening as he gazes at the Giacometti masterwork. "He had the senior vice provost [John Siliciano '75] write back; he didn't write back himself, because that would dignify the offer. And he said, 'We really believe in art and we're not going to sell. No matter what it's worth, we're going to keep this.' " Yes, Robinson admits, an infusion of $104 million "could have solved a lot of problems"—but selling an artistic treasure is no way for a museum to pay the bills.
It's a striking anecdote—particularly in an era where some institutions (most infamously, Brandeis), have sought to balance the budget by putting their art collections on the auction block. Depending on your point of view, turning down a quick $104 million is either an act of artistic valor or the most quixotic fiscal foolishness. So all things considered, is Robinson comfortable sharing the tale with the public? Does he wish he'd stipulated it was off the record? "Go ahead and tell it," he says. "Everybody in this building knows that story. It's a wonderful story."
{mp4remote}http://www.cornell.edu/mediavolume/events/2010/20101208_robinson_awc_dl.mp4{/mp4remote}
Alumni Q&A with Frank Robinson (56:00)