An artful face-off
How did one of the world's finest art collections become so mired in debt and controversy? 
By Vicky Hallett 

Albert Barnes was born in the Philadelphia slums in the late 19th century. As a physician and entrepreneur, he later parlayed a single drug--a gonorrhea medication--into a personal fortune. Like his cash cow, he was known as a pill
in high-society circles, mainly for his outspoken liberal views. But Barnes paid no mind to his elite neighbors and instead devoted his life to his extraordinary art collection and to sharing it with the poor. He established a gallery, set aside a tidy sum for its tending, and then, in 1951, he died.

That was the biggest mistake Barnes ever made. The Barnes Foundation, charged with overseeing his collection of Renoirs, Cezannes, Picassos, and Matisses, is now penniless after a string of bad investments and legal battles. Some of
the collection's current trustees are attempting to invalidate its namesake's wishes so the $6.5 billion collection can be
removed from his tony suburban estate and set up as a tourist attraction in downtown Philadelphia. The saga is the subject of a new book, Art Held Hostage by John Anderson, but the convoluted tale continues to unravel as
the courts consider the fate of the collection.

Trouble started soon after Barnes's death. The endowment was badly mismanaged by his friend (and possibly mistress) Violette de Mazia, and when she died, control went to an unlikely agent: Lincoln University, the nation's oldest historically black college. Barnes (who was white) had stipulated this arrangement in his will, and in 1990 Lincoln University lawyer
Richard Glanton began his term as the foundation's president.

Glanton's tenure began on a promising note. He renovated the historic gallery and took the paintings on a worldwide tour. But then Glanton proposed expanding the gallery into a full-fledged museum--complete with parking lot and tour buses. When neighbors on the quiet residential street protested the plan, Glanton charged them with racism. He spent several million dollars of foundation funds but ultimately lost his bid to create the museum. 

Damage done. 
In the drama that ensued, Glanton resigned, and highly regarded art curator Kimberly Camp took on the role of executive director. But the foundation never recovered financially; the controversies had soured the philanthropic community. It's now living off gifts from foundations, which are also raising $150 million to subsidize the move downtown. But all of this cash comes with strings. "People think they know what's best for us," Camp says. "We're hearing, `If you do this, we'll give you money.' That goes far afield from what philanthropy is all about." Camp reckons that the collection could make do with $3 million a year and a small endowment, so she's now courting every potential guardian angel from Bill Cosby to Bill Gates. Anderson believes that those pushing to relocate the collection have ulterior motives: "They're legally trying to rob the Barnes of its treasures," he says. "It's a bargain getting $6.5 billion in art for $150 million."

Compelling arguments exist for shifting the paintings. Right now only 1,200 visitors a week are allowed to view the masterpieces; if it were expanded into a museum, the collection would bring big tourist bucks to Philly. But Barnes
supporters see this as small consolation for the dismantling of what Matisse once deemed "the only sane place" to view art in America.

Lincoln, which will lose its stake in the Barnes if the will is trashed, is fighting the board it helped select. Lawyers are still squabbling, and a court decision may not come until the year's end. If the Barnes does make the move downtown, its form is uncertain; if it stays put, it faces an even murkier future. Perhaps the drug maker should have developed a remedy for his troubled legacy.