A Passion for Art by Jenny M. Duggan Jackson
The View of Venice - William James Venice is in the distance. The sea is calm. A tiny ripple forms on the surface of the pale blue water, visible only if one looks closely. In the background, antiquated structures of yellow and red ochre, white and pale cream rise from the water like aquatic plants that have always had their roots deep in that expanse of canal. Boats and gondolas populated with pleasure seekers float in the water, while other visitors stroll along the docks in brightly colored costumes— breeches and capes, or elegant long gowns. For a moment it is forgotten that the scene is made of oil, brushed on canvas stretched tightly over a wooden frame. For a moment, you, too, are in Venice. A man and a woman are standing before the painting. They are middle aged. The gentleman is a distinguished, sturdily built six feet tall in his modern, brown tailored suit. His face has an openness to it, with high cheekbones that take their most natural position when he is smiling. He clutches his homburg, while his blue eyes move slowly over the painting as if searching for something. The woman’s darker eyes are fixed on the picture also. Her lips, half-parted, smile as if she is listening to the soothing voice of a friend. She stands a little shorter than her companion. Her stylish, floral silk dress falls just above her calf and goes well with her attractive, pointed high heels. She reaches a gloved hand to her throat and clasps her pearls as she contemplates. Her light brown curls and Panama hat are cocked slightly to one side.
The gentleman leans in and murmurs a comment to the woman. The cadence of his words betray his British origin, just as her response reveals her American accent, with a tang of the deep south. A look of recognition passes between them, and in a moment it is decided. This is the one.
**** Walking through these halls again, one can almost imagine they were still here. Hugo and Margaret Dixon. He sat there in his chair next to the fireplace, William James’ Venice always hanging a few feet away. It is very fitting that it should hang there now. It was their first acquisition. They made it together, just as they made practically all of them. Together. Hugo talked often about what he wanted. It was a foundation at first—Margaret and Hugo hoped to continue supporting the arts and giving to non-profits in the community. That was in 1967. He asked his close friend Eric Catmur to be the chairman of the foundation when he and Margaret passed away. Hugo had known Eric a long time. Harold, Eric’s father, was interned with Hugo in the same German civilian prison camp during the first World War. When Harold passed away, Eric and Hugo became great friends, in spite of their age difference. Both men were from England and by all accounts, quintessential English gentlemen. Hugo also trusted Eric’s judgment implicitly. The Dixons had no children and desired their art collection to stay together. “Pictures,” Hugo always called them in his very British way. This is the story of how Hugo and Margaret’s “pictures” became a museum.
1974. Margaret was gone now, so it was imperative that Hugo visit his lawyers. He didn't know how much time he might have left. The heart attack he suffered after Margaret’s passing weakened him greatly, as did his grief. He wanted to make sure that all was ready with his home and estate. After Margaret’s death, and at the suggestion of close friend, Nelson Adams, Hugo abandoned the simple foundation idea in favor of a gallery. By this time, he and Margaret had acquired a significant collection of French and American Impressionist art as well as several pieces of British portraiture. They made various improvements to their residence on Park Avenue, but Hugo knew that future enhancements would need to be made, to accommodate the kind of gallery he had in mind—for his vision. Their property was indeed beautiful; seventeen acres of lush gardens in the city of Memphis. Hugo’s sister helped him lay out the gardens the way he wanted. His intention was to have a proper European garden with varied “rooms” to compliment the plant life and tiers of trees. The house itself was completed in 1941, with the aid of their acquaintance and prominent Houston architect, John Staub. As Memphis grew, the rural surroundings of Dixon’s Englishstyle country house gave way to the ever expanding development of the city, with their home at the heart of it all. When Hugo and Margaret initially chose Staub, they assumed they would build in Houston, but ultimately their lives took a different turn. Geo. McFadden and Brothers, where Hugo worked, opened the branch of their business in Memphis, and they wanted Hugo Dixon at the helm alongside his colleague Eric Catmur. So there he and Margaret went.
****
“Lawson, I would like you and John to see to it that this is done just as I said.” Hugo peered over the large mahogany desk as Lawson Apperson tapped the papers together on it as if getting down to business. “Absolutely, Hugo,” Mr. John Martin and Mr. Lawson Apperson, Hugo’s lawyers, replied in unison. Lawson in his dark grey suit sat behind the desk, as John stood behind him glancing through his copy of the documents. John walked toward an empty chair nearby, unbuttoning his brown suit jacket as he sat down. “I want it to be a museum—for Margaret.” Those last two words caught in Hugo’s throat. He looked down at his folded hands, and his eyes softened with a faraway look as he thought about the young southern woman that he had married all those years ago. He would do this for her, for both of them, a museum given as a gift to the city they had grown to love. He thought again of that day that his brother introduced the two of them. She was the loveliest creature he had ever seen. Lawson cleared his throat and glanced at Mr. Martin and then at Hugo’s friends, Abe Plough and Eric Catmur, who were both present. Hugo awakened from his reverie. “I have gone over the paperwork, and I think that everything is ready,” ventured Mr. Apperson, “You’ve done an excellent job, Hugo. Everything will be perfect.” “There are still some details that are unclear,” Hugo interjected. “The direction of the new gallery, for example—I am still talking it over with Eric,” he said gesturing in Eric’s
direction, “and hopefully we will come to a decision soon…I just hate for it to interfere with the gardens.” Hugo looked at Eric, who nodded back at him. Abe, Eric, and he were often together. With important decisions like these to be made for Hugo’s endeavor, they tried to offer him as much support as possible. “Well, I am sure whatever you decide will be the most advantageous,” Lawson contemplated for a few moments. Abe Plough spoke up during this lull, “Hugo, why don't you and I take a trip to Europe?” Hugo hesitated, “Abe…I don't know. Do you think it is a good time for a trip?” “It’s an excellent time! Besides, we can visit some of those galleries you missed last time you were there.” “Abe’s right, Hugo, everything is well in hand here,” Eric agreed. “A trip would do you good.” On the way out of the lawyer’s office, Plough continued talking about the merits of a European trip. Before he knew it, Hugo had agreed to go. Abe and Hugo were wonderful friends, but neither of them suspected that this might be the last trip they would ever take together. Abe and Hugo went to Paris in search of art. They visited several art dealers. Hugo viewed everything he could, and Abe negotiated on his behalf. The two of them finally settled on a lovely Mary Cassatt portrait. Not long after returning from their trip, Hugo was working at his office downtown, when he received word that the Cassatt painting called The Visitor had finally come. Although eager to see it, Mr. Dixon was always very particular in one regard: the sale of a picture was never
complete until he saw the piece hanging on the wall in his home. It was only then, that he would know if the picture fit or not. He had very discerning taste, so there were very few instances in which the paintings did not meet with his ideal. At last it was time for Hugo to head home and see The Visitor.
It’s a shame that Margaret won’t see it, he thought as he picked up the receiver to call his butler, Heywood Nichols, to pick him up. He stopped short after he turned the rotary wheel of the avocado telephone to the number 6, remembering as he did that Heywood was on vacation that week. “Oh, but Mary can come instead,” he thought aloud to himself and continued dialing. He listened to the sputtering pairs of ring tones repeat and then his nurse Mary picked up. “Hello?” said the feminine voice. “I am done at the office, Mary, if you would be so kind…” “Oh, certainly, Mr. Dixon!” “Thank you, Mary. I will look for you directly,” Hugo hung the telephone on the receiver and gathered some loose papers lying on his desk. After arranging them in his briefcase, he snapped the clasps closed, snatched his dark grey homburg, and made his way to the elevator. ***** Mary collected her brown leather purse and fuchsia jacket from the kitchen table. It was early November, and there was a slight chill in the air. On her way out the door to the garage, she grabbed the keys from the hook where Heywood kept them. She started the car and backed carefully down the circular driveway, crunching over the freshly fallen leaves as she went. Turning left on Park Avenue heading downtown, she merged into traffic, remembering all that
Heywood told her about safety. The shiny, black Cadillac was Heywood’s pride and joy so she didn't want to see any harm come to it. Rush hour traffic made her a little nervous, so perhaps she drove a little too slowly on her way downtown. When Mary arrived at his building on Front Street, Mr. Dixon was anxiously waiting for her just inside, periodically checking his wristwatch and scanning the street through the large glass doors. At last he saw the car pull up to the curb. “I am sorry, Mr. Dixon…” she hesitated as he opened the car door to step inside. “It’s all right, Mary!” came his reply. He replaced the hat on his head, remembering his picture waiting at home, and smiled happily at her. “We will make up the time on the way back, I am sure!” She smiled back at him from the rear view. Mary checked her side and rear mirrors carefully before she proceeded down to Third Street. They were just clearing the intersection when suddenly, another car speeding from the opposite side ran the red light and hit Mr. Dixon’s automobile. The ambulance driver and his assistant arrived quickly on the scene and examined everyone involved in the accident. Mary and the driver of the other vehicle were unhurt, and while Mr. Dixon’s condition showed no immediate signs of danger, the ambulance attendees decided to take him to the hospital for observation due to his age and heart condition. Hugo’s health was stable at first, but in the course of the next two weeks it gradually declined. Hugo Norton Dixon passed away on November 25, 1974.
Eric stared at the fresh mound of earth where his best friend had been laid to rest only the day before. Soon the tombstone would read Hugo’s name next to Margaret’s. He had come again to the Forest Hill Cemetery in Midtown, to think over the previous day’s events. The minister had called him up to speak. Funeral guests clutched umbrellas while Eric spoke from his heart. Hugo meant a great deal to him. He shifted his hat in his hands and as he did, he kept noticing Abe and Lawson in the crowd and wondered how any of them would bear this loss. Hugo never saw the final picture in his collection, The Visitor, hang in his home after all. In years to come, however, it would become a well-loved centerpiece of his Museum.
After Hugo died, the small board of trustees chaired by Eric Catmur, started work on the new Museum almost immediately. The goal was for it to open in 1976. There was still much to do. Hugo left a clear plan of what he wanted, and a beautiful collection of 26 paintings, stoneware, and other decorative objects and furniture, but Eric knew that for the Museum to grow, this was only the beginning. Eric saw to everything. His desire was for it to be just as Hugo would have wished. Eric’s wife, also named Margaret, was mutual friends with a woman named Mrs. Warda Stevens Stout—Margaret knew that Warda was interested in making a gift of her porcelain to a museum or non-profit in the city. Eric and Margaret further knew that Hugo had attempted to acquire it before he died, but his death had stopped the deal from transpiring. Margaret Catmur, with the aid of her friend Flo Snowden, arranged a lunch meeting with Mrs. Stout once they had made initial inquiries into her interest. Eric was present along with Abe Plough, who—although aging—was still eager to negotiate on Hugo’s behalf. Mrs. Stout’s daughter Charlotte Hooker and some of the new trustees, Lawson Apperson and Evelyn Boyle were at the luncheon as well.
It took place in the Dixons’ dining room and lunch was served with a bottle from Hugo’s own collection of wines.
“So, Mrs. Stout,” said Abe, refilling her glass, “they tell me that you have some china that you would like to give us!” Abe practically shouted in her ear. He and Mrs. Stout were both becoming a bit hard of hearing. Much to Eric’s chagrin Abe persisted in calling Mrs. Stout’s priceless collection of German porcelain, “china.” “I do,” Mrs. Stout graciously replied. “But there are a few other organizations I was thinking of for the gift as well.” She poked her roasted chicken with her fork and pushed her vegetables around on her plate. “Well, I know that Hugo was very eager to acquire your china…” “Porcelain,” Eric interjected. “Ah, porcelain,” Abe continued, “so we would like nothing better than to see it displayed in his new Museum.” “Well, that’s just the problem. Where exactly would it be displayed? From what I have seen there isn't a place for it,” finished Mrs. Stout. “How would you like for me to build a gallery for your china?” “Why, that would be lovely, Mr. Plough!” “What would you like for us to name it? The Mrs. Charles B. Stout Gallery?” “No such thing!” she was very adamant. “I bought all these pieces myself, and it will be the Warda Stevens Stout Gallery.”
In the first year before the museum opened, Eric instituted a search for the Dixon Gallery’s first director. He and the trustees found a man by the name of Michael Milkovich, originally from Yugoslavia. Eric, an accomplished businessman and fluent in many languages, recognized a drive in Milkovich that he saw in himself. Milkovich left Germany fluent in several languages, except for English. By the time he applied for the position to the Dixon Gallery and Gardens, however, he had not only learned English, but also attained a master’s degree in Art History from an American university and had become the director of several other art museums. As the Dixon’s first director, Milkovich oversaw the art and exhibitions and the hired staff. He created interesting exhibitions, many of which traveled. He was also instrumental in Dixon Gallery and Garden’s accreditation and the establishment of a member program. Eric saw to everything else. Mr. Catmur and Charlotte Snow, Mr. Dixon’s secretary, sorted through hundreds of photographs and personal effects to create an archive of important documents about the Dixons and a library of their books. The residence of the Museum opened to the public in 1976, but additions to it were planned for the following year. Although the house underwent many changes, it retained a great deal of the charm it had during the Dixon’s residence there. The Dixon’s butler, Heywood Nichols, also remained employed at the Dixon Gallery for the rest of his life, always a kind and welcoming presence.
“Hello, Mrs. Clark,” Heywood said as he opened the front door for Madge Clark, one of the Dixon Gallery’s docents. Heywood smiled at her as she entered, closing the door behind her.
“Martha has made some of those Maple cookies that you like. Your school tour won’t be here for another half hour, so I think there is time.” “Oh Heywood! That sounds delightful!” Heywood ushered Madge back to the kitchen, where Martha selected two of the largest cookies and placed them on a small glass plate. After that, she poured a steaming cup of tea from a fresh pot and handed it to Madge, who sat down at the kitchen table, smoothing her skirt and laying down her handbag. “Oh thank you, Ms. Martha! Your cookies are the best in the world!” Madge loved these visits. She loved leading the tours, and she loved the museum. It wasn't long before she became the first Membership Coordinator in the museum’s history, and was there for the advent of the Membership program’s first computer which was employed when the membership reached 2000 members. In the first two years, the museum became a rousing success with the public eager to visit and see the beautiful permanent collection and residence. The turning point, however, came in December of 1977 with the opening of the new wing that included four new galleries. The completion of the new wing coincided with Milkovich’s triumphant exhibition: Impressionists in 1877. The four new galleries were beautiful. The hardwood floors and crown molding that matched the residence gave the whole museum a continuity, marrying the old house with the new addition. Each of the new galleries was named after the patrons that made them possible. There was also the special new gallery that would eventually house the porcelain gift from Warda Stevens Stout.
The furniture was removed from the residence to make room for guests and the small string quartet that played for the opening. An official from the Republic of France, Monsieur Jean Perot was in attendance to cut the ribbon to the new addition. Michael Milkovich stood in the corner of one of the galleries, quietly surveying the scene. Photographers swarmed around the French dignitary, snapping pictures of him cutting the ribbon and shaking hands with trustees. Servers with trays held high of champagne and other delicacies weaved through the crowd, while the strings played Bach softly in the background. As guests perused the new impressionist show, one of them asked Michael how he was enjoying his duties. “Immensely!” he rejoined. “The Dixon will be a great museum.” He smiled knowingly and sipped his champagne.