the university of north carolina press fall-out shelters for the human spirit american art and the cold war jun 2005

FALL-OUT SHELTERS
FOR THE HUMAN SPIRIT
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FALL-OUT SHELTERS
FOR THE HUMAN SPIRIT
American Art and the Cold War
michael l. krenn
the university of north carolina press
chapel hill and london
∫ 2005 The University of North Carolina Press
All rights reserved. Designed by Rebecca Giménez.
Set in Minion by Keystone Typesetting, Inc.
Manufactured in the United States of America
The paper in this book meets the guidelines
for permanence and durability of the Committee
on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity
of the Council on Library Resources.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Krenn, Michael L., 1957–
Fall-out shelters for the human spirit : American art and the
Cold War / by Michael L. Krenn.
p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 0-8078-2945-5 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Art and state—United States. 2. Art, American—
20th century. 3. United States—Cultural policy.
4. Cold War. 5. Propaganda in art. I. Title.
n8835.k74 2005 701%.03%097309045—dc22
2004027173
0908070605 54321
CONTENTS

Preface : ix
Acknowledgments : xi
Introduction : 1
1 Advancing American Art : 9
2 Art as a Weapon : 50
3 A Delightful Political Football : 75
4 Success at Brussels : 111
5 A Little Too Strange for the Average Russian : 147
6 New Frontiers for the Government and the Arts : 179
7 See Venice and Propagandize : 207
Conclusion : 233
Notes : 245
Bibliography : 281
Index : 289
ILLUSTRATIONS
Major General Lemuel Mathewson at
the 1951 Berlin Cultural Festival : 72
Works of Yasuo Kuniyoshi at the
1952 Venice Biennale : 81
Highlights of American Painting
exhibit in Santiago, Chile, 1955 : 123
Arshile Gorky, Betrothal II (1947) : 150
Jackson Pollock, Cathedral (1947) : 171
Nikita Khrushchev at the American
National Exhibition in Moscow, 1959 : 172
Italian students protesting the opening
of the 1968 Venice Biennale : 225
Henry Hopkins, Margaret Cogswell, and
others plan the U.S. exhibition at the

1970 Venice Biennale : 228
William Weege demonstrating printmaking
techniques at the 1970 Venice Biennale : 231
Communication Through Art exhibit
in Lahore, Pakistan, February 1964 : 241
Seminar from the Communication
Through Art exhibit in Lahore,
Pakistan, February 1964 : 242
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PREFACE
In the past, whenever I found myself in Washington, D.C., I in-
evitably ended up at the National Gallery of Art. Like the thou-
sands of people who visit the museum every day, I wandered
from gallery to gallery, stopping here to admire the fabulous
skies of Turner, there to take in the beauty of Monet. I always
finished up in the same place, however, the American section.
From the early portraits, to the landscapes of Cole and Moran, to
the often stark realism of Eakins and Homer, I made my way to
the early-twentieth-century room and found a good viewing
spot on one of the benches. I was sometimes there for more than
an hour, drinking in my favorite artists. There was The City From
Greenwich Village, by John Sloan, capturing the vibrancy of
the city he loved. Edward Hopper’s Cape Cod Evening has that
instantly recognized sense of loneliness, and perhaps unseen
danger, so characteristic of many of his works. And then there
were the works of George Bellows. The Lone Tenement and Blue
Morning capture both the beauty and the sense of alienation to
be found in America’s largest city. Finally, there was Both Mem-
bers of This Club, which portrays the brutality, ugliness, and
beauty of the sport of boxing better than any painting (or photo-

graph) ever will. Reveling in the loveliness of these works, I often
found it di≈cult to imagine how the artists, and many others of
their time, inflamed the passions of art lovers, critics, and the
general public, many of whom condemned the art as ‘‘too mod-
ern,’’ too unconventional, or as not ‘‘American’’ enough.
During the writing of this book, however, I often went to the
‘‘newer’’ part of the National Gallery. To be perfectly honest, I
had never really understood or cared much for the works of the
modernists and abstract expressionists. As I studied, researched,
and wrote on the role of art in U.S. cultural diplomacy during
the Cold War, I was struck by the continuities in the debates
x
PREFACE
over ‘‘new’’ forms of art. As with their predecessors in the field of Ameri-
can art, Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, Robert Motherwell, and many
others found themselves at the center of controversy. Their art, too,
seemed too wild, too indulgent, too subversive, too ‘‘un-American.’’ Then
one day, as I stood in front of Pollock’s Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist),
the beauty and power of his work began to make their first real impres-
sions on me. And suddenly the politics, the ‘‘isms’’ of the Cold War, the
debates over what was or what was not ‘‘good’’ art became, at least for a
moment, of little interest to me.
Just as the finishing touches were being put on this manuscript, I
visited the National Gallery one more time. To my dismay, Bellows,
Sloan, Hopper, and many other early-twentieth-century American artists
were no longer in their familiar homes. A query at the information desk
elicited the answer that the Hopper was not currently on display and that
the other works had been moved to the East Building with the other
‘‘contemporary’’ and ‘‘modern’’ works of art. I hurried over and there
they were, looking as beautiful as ever and quite comfortable in their new

surroundings. I was struck by the long, strange journey of these works of
art: from ‘‘radical’’ visions, celebrated and condemned with equal vigor
in the early 1900s; to ‘‘traditional’’ paintings, far removed from the world
of ‘‘modern’’ art and housed in the marble halls of the West Building of
the National Gallery of Art; and now, in the first years of the twenty-first
century, housed with the works of Pollock and Rothko—the ‘‘radicals’’ of
the 1940s and 1950s who felt the very same slings and arrows from the
American public and critics.
Downstairs from Bellows and Sloan, one could catch a glimpse of the
large new exhibit of Rothko’s murals and, a little farther on, Pollock’s
Lavender Mist. It seemed entirely appropriate that they had been brought
together under one roof. As I reluctantly left the National Gallery until
my next trip to Washington, I remembered the words of one of my
favorite authors, Henry James, when he said, ‘‘It is art that makes life,
makes interest, makes importance . . . and I know of no substitute what-
ever for the force and beauty of its process.’’ Of course, the angry denun-
ciation of new art forms continues in our contemporary society, as self-
appointed art critics try to decide what is ‘‘tasteless,’’ what is ‘‘porno-
graphic,’’ what, in fact, is art. Now decades removed from the similar ugly
and squalid debates surrounding American art in the post–World War II
period, it is perhaps just as well that we also remember the words of
Hippocrates: ‘‘Life is short. Art is long.’’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many people I wish to thank for their absolutely es-
sential assistance during the course of researching and writing
this book. First, of course, are the archivists and librarians who
helped this neophyte find his way through the worlds of both
cultural diplomacy and American art: Elizabeth Andrews, In-
stitute Archives and Special Collections, mit Libraries; Michelle
Harvey, Museum Archives of the Museum of Modern Art; Anne

Ritchie, Gallery Archives, National Gallery of Art; Karen Schnei-
der, Phillips Collection; and Kenneth Heger, National Archives.
In particular, I would like to thank the sta√ of the Smithsonian
Institution Archives, Kathleen Williams, Bill Cox, and Bruce
Kirby, who provided monumental amounts of support and con-
stant encouragement. It was a pleasant surprise for me to find
that Bruce Kirby had moved to the Library of Congress Manu-
script Division, where he again provided much needed assis-
tance. The same must be said of Judy Throm and her sta√ at the
Archives of American Art, including Annie Bayly, who helped
me secure permissions for use of some of the restricted oral
interviews. And finally, my very great thanks to Martin Man-
ning, who at the time of the research for this book was the head
of the United States Information Historical Collection. Martin is
one of those truly unsung heroes for historians, one who has
always gone the extra mile to assist any and all researchers.
I also owe thanks to two universities. The work on the book
began during my last years at the University of Miami. I would
like to thank the O≈ce of Research and Sponsored Programs at
the university for providing much needed research and travel
money that helped sustain this e√ort. A special thanks must go
to Darby Bannard, who very kindly let me be a ‘‘student’’ in his
graduate seminar on abstract expressionism at the University of
Miami. In the middle of the project, I took up a new position as
xii
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
chair of the Department of History at Appalachian State University. Both
the department and university have been generous in their support of my
attendance at conferences, during which early drafts of many of the
chapters of this book were presented. Most of all, I would like to thank

my colleagues in the Department of History. While chairing a depart-
ment of thirty people has certainly proved challenging, it has also been
the most rewarding experience of my professional life. In particular, I
would like to o√er my very great appreciation to Tim Silver, who read the
manuscript from top to bottom and made numerous suggestions for
improvement.
Sian Hunter of the University of North Carolina Press has been one of
those editors that authors dream about. She was encouraging, helpful,
quick to respond, and receptive to new ideas and suggestions, and she
provided a sympathetic ear when my doubts about completing the proj-
ect were at their highest. The two outside readers provided perhaps the
best evaluations I have yet had as an author, not because they were overly
e√usive with praise, but because they o√ered clear, substantive, and sig-
nificant suggestions for improvement. Any problems or errors that re-
main, therefore, must remain the sole responsibility of the author.
Last, but certainly not least, I would like to thank Margaret Cogswell.
The interview I did with her in the early stages of researching this book
changed its direction and focus, and very much for the better. Through
that interview, I finally grasped the immense amount of passion, emo-
tion, and pure love of art that sustained so many of the people who
worked to make a U.S. international art program a reality. Yet she went
beyond this by reading the manuscript not once, but twice, with some of
the sharpest editorial eyes it has been my pleasure to know. She looked
over documents and photos and gave me feedback and information.
Most important, perhaps, she gave me constant encouragement, espe-
cially when the project seemed to be slowing down to a crawl. Now if
I could only get her to write her autobiography!
INTRODUCTION
In 1962, Lloyd Goodrich, director of the Whitney Museum of
American Art and chairman of the National Committee on

Government and Art, reflected on the ominous times in which
he lived. The Soviets were ‘‘making every e√ort to diminish our
will to resist by a rain of threats of mass destruction.’’ Russian
leader Nikita Khrushchev declared that ‘‘he holds a ‘sword of
Damocles’ over our heads.’’ In response, the U.S. government
was ‘‘considering the appropriation of substantial funds to help
in the construction of fall-out shelters.’’ In Goodrich’s opinion,
‘‘The individual has a feeling of helplessness, with or without
these shelters, to protect himself from destruction or to foresee
the conditions under which he and his family will have to strug-
gle to survive.’’ In these chaotic and frightening times, he con-
tinued, ‘‘the arts provide fall-out shelters for the human spirit
vastly more essential, more urgently needed and at infinitely less
cost than those for the human body.’’ As such, he called upon
Congress and the American people to ‘‘consider government aid
to the arts in an entirely new light, as an integral part of the
defense of our civilization.’’
∞
During the post–World War II period, the American govern-
ment—and American art world—followed Goodrich’s prescrip-
tion and considered the relationship between government and
art in ‘‘an entirely new light.’’ Recognizing both the power of art
in terms of delivering political messages and the need to win the
‘‘hearts and minds’’ of the world’s people, U.S. o≈cials began to
more carefully and thoroughly consider the idea of cultural
diplomacy as part of the nation’s Cold War arsenal. Starting
from extraordinarily humble beginnings, the United States em-
barked on this new form of diplomacy by sending American art
and culture around the globe. Jazz became a staple on the Voice
of America radio broadcasts; later, rock and roll would also

2
INTRODUCTION
be featured. Jazz artists such as Dizzy Gillespie and Louis Armstrong
were among the musicians highlighted in American propaganda, and the
United States Information Agency (usia) promoted and funded tours by
them and other artists. Productions of American plays were also mounted
overseas, such as the popular Porgy and Bess (which simultaneously
served to showcase American culture and to counteract criticisms of
America’s treatment of its African American population). ‘‘High’’ culture
was also well represented, as American symphonies and opera companies
circled the globe. Naima Prevots, in her 1998 study, explains that Ameri-
can dance companies—both classical and modern—were also the recipi-
ents of government support so that they might tour overseas. Hollywood
got in on the act as well, and American films were soon prominently
shown in numerous foreign markets.
≤
Much less is known about the e√orts to send American painting for
display to foreign audiences. Aside from studies of the disastrous Depart-
ment of State–sponsored Advancing American Art show in 1946, a collec-
tion that came in for harsh criticism from U.S. congressmen and others
for its ‘‘un-American’’ and potentially ‘‘communistic’’ modern art, little
has been written about this important and extremely controversial com-
ponent of America’s Cold War cultural diplomacy. This is surprising
since during the two and a half decades following the end of World War
II, the Department of State, the usia, and even the Smithsonian Institu-
tion saw to it that hundreds of exhibitions of American paintings found
their way to Europe, Latin America, Asia, and Africa, and eventually into
the heart of the communist bloc. Requests for showings of American art,
particularly modern art, flowed in from around the world. American
paintings were on display at world’s fairs and at the large and prestigious

international art shows in São Paulo and Venice, as well as in small urban
areas in Guatemala, Iran, Senegal, and Cambodia. By the late 1960s and
early 1970s, however, the program was in disarray, floundering without
direction or focus, functioning on an ever-shrinking budget. Even during
its periods of greatest success, the art program was a constant lightning
rod for controversy; U.S. government support waxed and waned in re-
sponse to criticisms from art groups, congressmen, and, in the end, the
very foreign audience to which the program was directed.
In a very direct fashion, Goodrich’s metaphor serves as an explanation
as to what went wrong with the U.S. government’s attempt to construct a
workable and e√ective international art program during the Cold War.
His call for ‘‘fall-out shelters for the human spirit’’ illustrated the di-
lemma that both government o≈cials and supporters of the program in
INTRODUCTION
3
the private sector faced. For many art lovers across America—artists,
museum directors and curators, gallery owners, private collectors, orga-
nizations and agencies dedicated to the arts—it was the ‘‘human spirit’’
that mattered most. Art, for them, was not a means to an end, but an end
in and of itself. It was an international language of peace, understanding,
and spirituality in a world that seemed in short supply of all of these
qualities. Works of art would speak across borders, across political ide-
ologies, and across racial, ethnic, and national di√erences and serve as a
bridge to further understanding between the earth’s peoples. O≈cials in
the Department of State and the usia, however, generally focused on the
need for ‘‘fallout shelters.’’ For those interested in winning the propa-
ganda war with the communists, art was an attractive tool. It could be
used to reflect American diversity, dedication to culture, and artistic
freedom. American art—particularly the more modern and abstract ex-
pressionist styles—would say to the world that in the United States the

artist was free to paint what he or she wished, without censorship or fear
of retaliation. Thus, it would stand in stark contrast to the strict ‘‘socialist
realism’’ dictated by the government of the Soviet Union. And American
attention to the arts would serve as an antidote to the criticisms—from
friends and foes alike—that the nation and its people were uncultured,
unsophisticated, materialistic, and militaristic.
At least initially, U.S. o≈cials and interested members of the American
art community felt that they might work together in the e√ort to bring
the nation’s art to a world audience. In fact, it was so obviously necessary
that they cooperate that the idea seemed a natural. The government
could provide the funds for what was a relatively costly operation, and its
overseas personnel would facilitate local arrangements. The American art
world would provide much-needed expertise in the area of aesthetics,
and their contacts with peers in foreign nations could prove valuable.
Almost from the beginning, however, the conflict between these two
groups became apparent. For, in truth, they saw the international pro-
gram in very di√erent ways. Both sides believed that American art had an
important role to play in the Cold War world. The one side sought to use
art as a salve for a scarred and uncertain world; the other saw in art
a valuable weapon in the ongoing propaganda battle with the Soviet
Union. Thus, when government o≈cials tried to provide ‘‘policy guide-
lines’’ or requested that this or that piece of art or artist be excluded from
a particular exhibition, members of the art community cried censorship.
Similarly, when the nation’s art lovers demanded complete freedom of
artistic expression, the Department of State and usia calmly observed
4
INTRODUCTION
that if the government was footing the bill, it naturally expected results—
in this case, propaganda victories. Unfortunately for both sides, they
were never able to discover a happy medium between art as art and art as

propaganda.
A number of interesting studies have appeared in recent years regard-
ing American art and politics in the wake of World War II. To a large
extent, however, these works have either focused on the internal dy-
namics of the struggle (debates between the more conservative and ‘‘rep-
resentational’’ artists and the more ‘‘radical’’ abstract expressionists), or
have tried to understand that debate as largely a reflection of Cold War
frictions within the American art world and society at large.
≥
Other
scholars, more interested in the political/diplomatic context, have turned
their attention to the ‘‘covert’’ side of America’s cultural diplomacy. A
number of important recent studies examine the links between ‘‘state’’
and ‘‘private’’ institutions and individuals in creating networks for carry-
ing out the business of promoting American culture (and politics) over-
seas. As Giles Scott-Smith has demonstrated in his examination of the
Central Intelligence Agency (cia)–funded Congress for Cultural Free-
dom (ccf), which numbered many prominent American intellectuals
and artists among its members, the agency was certainly well aware of the
potential power of culture and ideas in the war against communism and
did not hesitate to put resources into initiatives such as the ccf. Turning
their attention particularly to America’s overseas art program during the
Cold War, some writers, such as Frances Stonor Saunders, have suggested
that the relationship between an influential handful of individuals in the
American art world and the U.S. government was primarily an under-
ground e√ort, funded and supported by the cia. Arguing that the Ad-
vancing American Art fiasco left the Department of State gun-shy about
supporting an overseas art program, these historians suggest that the cia,
working mostly through the Museum of Modern Art (moma), arranged
for ‘‘private’’ showings of the controversial modern and abstract Ameri-

can art abroad (mostly in Western Europe). Few of these studies of
American art overseas extend beyond the 1950s or early 1960s.
∂
While these earlier works have raised some interesting and controver-
sial questions concerning America’s Cold War cultural diplomacy, the
focus on the ‘‘covert’’ side of this e√ort—particularly when applied to the
overseas art program—is problematic. A much more dramatic illustra-
tion of the complex interrelationship between art and government dur-
ing the Cold War was the ‘‘overt’’ international art programs run through
INTRODUCTION
5
the State Department, the usia, and the Smithsonian Institution, which
have been to a large extent ignored. The American Federation of Arts
(afa) actually played a larger, and more important, role in the inter-
national art program than moma, and its e√orts were openly funded and
supported by the Department of State and, later, usia. By 1951, before
moma even got seriously involved in overseas exhibits, the afa and the
State Department were already working together to organize a show that
included modern and abstract art for exhibit in Berlin. By 1953, an afa
show—supported now by the usia—went to India; and a 1954 exhibit of
modern watercolors was sent to France. Dozens of other exhibitions soon
followed.
∑
What is perhaps most overlooked in analyses that suggest a covert
working relationship between the American art world and agencies such
as the cia is that what held true for the American government did not
necessarily hold true for the art community. As Eloise Spaeth, a noted
collector and vice president of the board of trustees for the afa, explained
to an audience (which included usia o≈cials) in 1951, ‘‘You and I have
di√erent reasons for wanting our visual arts known abroad. We are not

primarily interested in using art as an instrument of propaganda. We love
this particular art form (or we wouldn’t be gathered here today). Loving,
we want to share it.’’
∏
Understanding these di√ering viewpoints, and how
they came together to first create and then eventually derail the inter-
national art program, is a key element of this study. My research suggests
a complex picture, one in which the American art world was not merely a
willing (or unwilling) dupe in a cia plot; nor was the U.S. government,
with Machiavellian ruthlessness, simply ‘‘calling the tune’’ to which the
art world danced. Both sides had their goals; both sides saw the need for
compromise; and both sides, operating within the confines of the Cold
War, were unable to bridge the gap between their di√ering aims.
The central purpose of this book is to explain how and why the
program to send American art abroad, a program vigorously supported
by so many members of the American art world and a handful of o≈cials
in the U.S. government, had virtually collapsed by the early 1970s. Why,
even when the U.S. art world and government agreed on the importance
of sending the nation’s art overseas, when American art was finally reach-
ing a maturity that established it as a leading force in world culture, when
o≈cial reports and the responses from foreign audiences suggested that
the art was making a dramatic impact, wasn’t the program able to sustain
itself at the same level after the 1960s? In short, despite their shared
6
INTRODUCTION
interest in exhibiting America’s art to foreign audiences, why were the
U.S. government and art world unable to maintain an apparently success-
ful e√ort in cultural diplomacy?
Answering those questions leads to a broader understanding of the
cultural dimensions of the Cold War. The controversies that the inter-

national art program engendered in the United States involved much
more than simply matters of ‘‘taste’’ (though, to be sure, this rather vague
term was always used). Art, and the artists who produced the works,
found themselves enmeshed in sometimes confusing, sometimes ugly,
sometimes contradictory political and ideological battles. The Cold War
mind-set in the United States certainly created a distinct ‘‘us versus them’’
mentality; it also helped, at times, to create a climate of fear and anxiety.
Why would art find itself pulled into these matters? For most of the
artists, their work was primarily an expression of self or deep emotions;
an exploration of the new and the unknown. For many viewers, however,
the art spoke directly to what it meant to be ‘‘American.’’ For these
individuals and groups, there was a distinctly American art, expressive of
what were defined as innate American values. Modern art, and abstract
expressionism in particular, challenged that perspective by moving away
from works that were representational or that contained easily under-
stood and recognizable forms and shapes. This, detractors declared, was
positively not American art—if it was art at all. Had the argument stopped
there, it would have remained of little interest to most Americans, for
whom debates about the aesthetics of painting were of scant concern.
Wrapped up in the suspicions and animosities created by the Cold War,
however, the attackers soon moved on to label modern art and artists as
positively subversive and quite possibly procommunist. And thus was
created one of the rich ironies of the international art program. The very
reason why so much modern and abstract art was sent overseas was
because it was believed that it provided a potent weapon in the propa-
ganda war with the communists. In this light, the art was actually the
most American art, symbolizing democracy, freedom of expression, and
creativity. The Soviets, for their part, agreed, and quickly denounced
American modern art as the decadent, perverse, and subversive man-
ifestation of bourgeois capitalism. It was a rather remarkable feat: Cold

War politics somehow defined modern art as both the insidious rep-
resentation of communist infiltration and a tribute to the democratic
spirit. Remarkable, but also interesting in terms of how the Cold War led
to a discussion and redefinition of what was—and was not—American.
Following the trajectory of the international art program also al-
INTRODUCTION
7
lows us to understand more fully the means and goals of America’s
cultural diplomacy during the Cold War. The program was designed to
say something about America to what the nation’s professional pro-
pagandists defined as ‘‘target audiences.’’ The controversies associated
with the program illustrate how di≈cult it was for U.S. o≈cials to project
the ‘‘proper’’ image of America overseas. After all, one of the main goals
of sending American art to foreign nations was to demonstrate the diver-
sity of the nation’s culture and artistic freedom. Diversity and freedom,
particularly when associated with art, were di≈cult concepts to ‘‘chan-
nel’’ precisely into the desired message. That di≈culty reflects one of
the inherent dilemmas related to America’s cultural diplomacy in the
post–World War II period. American o≈cials sought to portray ‘‘Amer-
ica’’ to others without, it often seemed, completely agreeing on what the
term meant. And meaning was important, especially when those o≈cials
sought to define the proper audience for American art and to measure its
impact. When historians have discussed the ‘‘battle for hearts and minds’’
that took place during the Cold War, it is often assumed that the battle
was for a single and well-defined ‘‘heart’’ or some sort of universal
‘‘mind.’’ As the history of the international art program demonstrates,
U.S. o≈cials carefully monitored their propaganda program. Art deemed
as essential and meaningful for a Western European audience would be
classified as inappropriate or useless for an Asian or African audience.
They classified target audiences in terms of geographic location, age,

socioeconomic status, perceived degree of friendliness toward America,
and even, on occasion, artistic tastes. And they always made clear their
goals for the art. It might be to deliver a simple message about America’s
dedication to cultural a√airs. For Eastern Europe, the exhibitions might
be designed to send a more powerful message about personal and politi-
cal freedom. An exhibit in Africa, on the other hand, might be set up to
stress issues of racial equality and civil rights for the African American
population.
Yet, to focus entirely on the government’s goals, the government’s
intentions, and the government’s involvement in the international pro-
gram is to ignore the fact that for many private individuals and organiza-
tions in the United States art was viewed as the best and brightest hope
for bringing understanding to a world in chaos, peace to a world on the
verge of war, and a sense of kinship to peoples divided by walls and
political ideologies. They viewed their mission of sending U.S. art abroad,
to a large degree, as above the political and military jousting between East
and West. Their battle was a larger one and, to them at least, much more
8
INTRODUCTION
crucial. Leaders, ideologies, even nations might rise and fall, come and
go, but the human spirit must endure and progress. Their pleas likely
strike the scholar of Cold War diplomacy, whether realist or revisionist,
as hopelessly naïve, as impossibly idealistic. However, they represent a
strain of thinking during the Cold War that is often ignored in the race to
find the ways in which that conflict shaped, or mangled, or destroyed
aspects of American culture. The Cold War was indeed a powerful force,
but it was not omnipotent—there were survivors, people and ideas who
tried to find (and occasionally found) shelter from the political and
ideological storms. Today, in a world where chaos has actually evolved
into a theory, in which a ‘‘new war’’ has been declared, and where new

walls seem to be daily replacing those torn down over a decade ago, the
need for those fallout shelters for the human spirit seems more pressing
than ever.
1
ADVANCING AMERICAN ART
In March 1941, the United States was less than a year away from
being engulfed by World War II. On the seventeenth of that
month, President Franklin D. Roosevelt briefly turned his atten-
tion away from foreign policy and the economic depression that
still lingered in his nation to speak at the opening of the National
Gallery of Art. The first director of the gallery, David Finley,
remembered that it was a ‘‘cold, blustery day,’’ and a strong wind
that evening ‘‘added to everyone’s discomfort.’’ Yet, nearly 10,000
people came to hear the president open the first truly national
art museum in the history of the United States. Roosevelt de-
clared that ‘‘there was a time when the people of this country
would not have thought that the inheritance of art belonged to
them or that they had responsibilities to guard it.’’ The National
Gallery was the physical embodiment of the change in attitude.
But that was not the only thing that had changed. There had also
been a time, the president continued, when Americans thought
of paintings as ‘‘only works of art.’’ That did not hold true in
1941. ‘‘Today they are the symbols of the human spirit and of the
world the freedom of the human spirit made—a world against
which armies now are raised and countries overrun and men
imprisoned and their work destroyed.’’ By establishing a great
new museum in a time of such turmoil and danger, the people of
the United States signaled that ‘‘the freedom of the human spirit
and human mind which has produced the world’s great art and
all its science—shall not be utterly destroyed.’’

∞
During and immediately after World War II, a sizable por-
tion of the American art community and the Department of
State came to share President Roosevelt’s belief that art had not
only come to play a larger role in the lives of the people of the
United States but was also taking on a larger and more signifi-
cant role in the world. While in most regards the two groups
10
ADVANCING AMERICAN ART
dramatically disagreed on the precise shape and meaning of that role, for
many critics, artists, curators, and museum directors, it was enough that
the federal government was showing an interest in cultural matters. For
its part, the Department of State was happy to use the expertise and
connections a√orded by members of the American art scene in under-
standing the world of art. Immediately following the war, the depart-
ment, ably assisted and much encouraged by vocal segments of the art
profession, embarked on a bold new initiative designed to bring Ameri-
can art—particularly modern art—to the world. That initiative ended
disastrously. Instead of dampening the enthusiasm of the nation’s art
connoisseurs, however, the episode provided them with valuable lessons
that they would apply during the late 1940s and 1950s to help shape and
sustain America’s international art program.
THE COUNTRY OF THE SOUL
In the April 1943 issue of Fortune, amidst the despair and destruction of
World War II, Dr. William Macneile Dixon of the University of Glasgow
took time to ponder the issue of ‘‘civilization and the arts.’’ With the
nations of the world apparently bent on mutual destruction, he implored
his readers to remember that ‘‘art and literature were not merely to be
regarded as pursuits pleasant in themselves, . . . but beyond doubt the
most valuable of allies in the long battle for a nobler and a better future,

as making for the common good of human society.’’ What, he asked, had
humanity’s faith in science and technology gained for the human race?
‘‘We have put our trust in political, economic, and scientific remedies—
yet, judging from the present state of the world, without any very daz-
zling or resounding success.’’ In an ‘‘age of crowding doubts,’’ the arts
could ‘‘point to a world above our heads, a transcendental world, in
which, if anywhere, we may hope to find the fulfillment of our heart’s
desire.’’ Only the arts, he concluded, could show the way to ‘‘a province of
human life . . . to whose interests and problems the most extensive
knowledge or control of nature’s machinery a√ords no entrance, a coun-
try upon which the bright sun of science sheds not a ray of light. It is the
country of the soul.’’
≤
As war descended upon the world in the late 1930s and 1940s, many
artists, critics, and art lovers in the United States and elsewhere came to
share Dr. Dixon’s concerns. They saw art not as a separate or distant
aspect of life but as a powerful, vital force for peace, humanity, civiliza-
tion, and democracy. Even before the conflict reached America’s shores,
ADVANCING AMERICAN ART
11
Duncan Phillips, director of the Phillips Memorial Gallery in Wash-
ington, D.C., declared that ‘‘art is the antithesis of war. Art is the greatest
natural language between the di√erent tribes and races. It is the symbol of
the creative and social forces which unite men. . . . Art o√ers the only uni-
versal currency of thought-exchange and fellowship of the likeminded.’’
In a world being torn asunder by war, ‘‘art must go on. . . . We must keep
that beacon burning.’’ With the economic, political, and social regimen-
tation required by societies at war, ‘‘art must be the last stand, as it will be
the eternal stronghold of the individual.’’
≥

The ideas that art was in some way the keeper of civilization’s flame
and a force for international understanding and peace were powerful
ones during and immediately after World War II. As Peyton Boswell,
editor of Arts Digest, suggested just a week after the bombing of Pearl
Harbor, humanity was now in a ‘‘struggle for the survival of culture.’’ Art,
which always left the most ‘‘enduring imprint’’ on society, was ‘‘living
proof that there is a continuing line to man’s constructive progress; living
proof that man has su√ered other cataclysms—and has always survived.’’
Alfred M. Frankfurter, editor of Art News, in 1943 decried the notion
prevailing among some politicians and citizens that art was ‘‘just about as
essential today as fan-dancers.’’ He noted the wartime work of artists with
‘‘posters and cartoons and camouflage and therapy’’ but then declared
that ‘‘there is still room and, above all, the absolute need for art as art.
Without that there would be fatally interrupted the very Western tradi-
tion of civilization that the whole fight is about.’’
∂
As important as art was during the war, its supporters also made clear
that it was equally significant for achieving a lasting peace. To a large
degree, art’s principal role was seen as that of an international ‘‘language’’
that could help bring a shattered world together. The English novel-
ist Aldous Huxley argued that artists could ‘‘do the most for enduring
peace . . . by genuinely believing in transcendental values and by giving
e√ective expression to their beliefs in plastic or literary form.’’ In an
article entitled, ‘‘Art, A Factor for International Peace,’’ the director of art
for Milwaukee public schools wondered whether ‘‘the same amount of
energy, skill, money, materials, and planning which periodically is ex-
pended for destructive purposes could be used for creative e√ort.’’ He was
confident it could, for certainly ‘‘the creative and brilliant minds which
can work together collectively to split the atom and to devise the atomic
bomb could under favorable circumstances and with adequate financial

support create a world of untold beauty.’’ Such views, which bordered on
the utopian, found common expression among those in the American art
12
ADVANCING AMERICAN ART
community. E. M. Benson of the Philadelphia Museum of Art declared
that art ‘‘can destroy the hate in our hearts, and help to create a world we
can all be proud to live in—a place for the spirit to grow strong.’’ The
artists themselves were primarily responsible for this healing value of art,
for they were ‘‘for the most part, good citizens who make an earnest e√ort
to leave this world a little better than when they entered it.’’
∑
The director of the Department of Painting and Sculpture at the Mu-
seum of Modern Art, James Soby, went to the crux of the matter when he
stated in 1944 that ‘‘art is international.’’ The museum, he suggested, was
‘‘aware of the desperate need for recognizing the arts as vehicles of that
international communication and understanding on which the future of
everyone depends.’’ Writing just a few months after the end of the war,
Peyton Boswell surveyed the new world, one in which ‘‘air power and the
atomic bomb have given new meaning to the shortest distance between
two points.’’ The change was clear: ‘‘our thinking is international in
scope, and our artists, fulfilling their traditional function, are begin-
ning to express this world-wide scope of interlocking interests.’’ That so
many artists and art lovers in the United States couched their discussions
in international terms was hardly surprising. The period of the 1930s
through World War II witnessed an important migration of European
artists to the United States and, in turn, what one might call the inter-
nationalization of American art. Marion Deshmukh, in her study of this
transatlantic movement, estimates that between 1933 and 1944 over seven
hundred artists came to the United States from Germany, France, Italy,
Russia, and elsewhere. The list was a virtual who’s who of modern art.

Marc Chagall, Marcel Duchamp, Hans Hofmann, Fernand Léger, Piet
Mondrian, Wassily Kandinsky, Salvador Dalí, and others came to Amer-
ica seeking refuge from war and persecution in Europe. Their impact on
American art, particularly modern and abstract expressionist art, cannot
be overestimated. As Deshmukh concludes, ‘‘New York had replaced
Paris and Berlin as the home of Europe’s artistic avant-garde.’’
∏
The tremendous significance of these developments was immediately
apparent to the American art world. The December 1941 issue of Fortune
contained a lengthy piece entitled ‘‘The Great Flight of Culture.’’ Com-
menting on the recent influx of European artists and intellectuals, the
article declared that ‘‘this is a transplantation of a whole culture from one
continent to another.’’ This development, which the article termed the
‘‘greatest migration of intellectuals since the Byzantine,’’ had far-reaching
importance for American art: ‘‘for better or for worse it cannot escape
European influences more powerful than those exerted by the mere