The Frick Collection

Insert all Fricking jokes here.

Ok, let’s roll.

What started as an after-work, sober activity - learn the city, take in some history, ride the subway - actually began the night before on YouTube with Steve Martin welcoming viewers to the Frick Collection.

Side note: the following week I watched the two-part documentary on Steve Martin, who is an avid art collector.

Now it’s my turn: Welcome to the Frick Collection. Quick further backstory…

It took me a second to remember who Frick was - until I did. A couple of months back, I had written a piece about “human time,” the idea that while innovation feels fast, it’s still subject to human decision-making. Examples include J.P. Morgan, Vanderbilt, and Carnegie - empire builders who worked in an age of horses and telegrams. Today, even with email, text, and AI, we’re still at the mercy of the human in the middle (so far). My theory: because we have information faster, we second-guess it more, adding layers of people, bloated teams, org structures, processes, committees, etc.

Back in the day, Carnegie trusted Frick - so much so that Frick was in charge while Carnegie was on vacation, tasked with holding the line against workers’ demands at one of the steel mills. That decision marred Frick’s reputation and led to the deaths of 10 people in what became known as the Homestead Strike. Later, Frick and Carnegie split. Point is: smaller teams and two-person companies are best (my own belief).

Back to present day. Between Steve Martin and my own recollection of Frick, Ashley and I took the 6 train to the E. 68th Street stop, walked two blocks, and arrived for our $30-per-person reservation. We were standing in Frick’s house, walking into the first gallery room.

Here’s my first observation - and it might take a second to hit: unlike many galleries, Frick gave his home to the public. He literally had the place built more or less as an art gallery while he, his wife, and daughter lived there before his death. Every detail - from floor to ceiling, window hardware to archways, steps, furniture, gardens, tables, chairs, views from windows - is part of the experience, transporting you back to the Gilded Age of America. And all this sits alongside some of the rarest paintings on earth, from Vermeer to Goya, mere inches from the public. Remarkable.

I should tell you - I have not traditionally been a museum person, having only been to the Seattle Art Museum twice: once for twenty minutes, and the other for a tech event. I’m an artist of some sort, with a heavy modernist approach.

Yet Ashley and I tackled each room, observing masterworks, ceramics, pocket watches, porcelain, furniture, and architecture. We enjoyed the colors, marbles, and even the old-school thermometers on the door sills. We didn’t talk much during our slow walk through the great halls, but when we got home, we discovered we’d both picked the same favorites: the portrait of George Washington and the portrait of Frick himself.

Let’s unpack.

That was the closest I’ve been to George Washington besides the textbooks of my youth and the Washington Monument in 6th grade. He almost resembled many of the French portraits that abound in the museum, from Boucher to Monet - even though I hadn’t seen the Monet, and neither had Ashley. Washington stood tall, yet was tucked in the corner of the room. Ashley remarked she didn’t know “he looked like that,” and found it “profound.” She spent minutes wondering aloud who he resembled. My thoughts wandered to the nostalgia of history classes - the cherry tree, stepping down after his presidency when many thought he should be king - and the countless roads, schools, and parks (Washington Park) named after him.

In the middle of the same room as Washington stood Henry Clay Frick. With all the controversy surrounding his legacy, I was now standing in his living room, looking up at the man. Unlike many portraits in the gallery, Frick stood sideways - perhaps symbolic of his two sides: ruthless businessman and avid art collector who gave his home to the public.

Before leaving that evening, I did a quick Google search to confirm my memory of the Frick-Carnegie connection - it was real. I was also surprised to learn he hated the Vanderbilts. A couple weekends earlier, on a trip to Whidbey Island, Ashley, my mom, and I had listened to Anderson Cooper’s history of his family (the Vanderbilts), who in the end lost nearly all their legacy. Frick thought they were gaudy, reportedly saying of his mansion: “I want this house to make the house of the Vanderbilts look like a miner’s shack.” I thought, damn… that’s some rich savage shit. As I walked around the rest of the Frick Collection, I couldn’t wait to get outside to see what the Vanderbilt house looked like - spoiler: it was demolished in the 1920s. Frick ya!

The mansion was… smooth. The “Love Letters” exhibition of Vermeer was interesting - there are only a few dozen known Vermeers, and three or four are at the Frick - and I felt cool knowing and experiencing that. Ashley spent much of her time observing the many architectural elements of the Gilded Age mansion. As mentioned earlier, the Frick is a true 360° experience - from the floors to the archways, art to light switches - so unlike a traditional gallery, this was a home gifted and planned as a gallery, in arguably one of the most beautiful locations on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (around the corner from The Mark and The Carlyle - more on that in a later post).

We toured another great room but were distracted by a CNN crew filming a segment on the recent remodel of the Frick Collection. I stood in the background until they told me to move. Let me know if you see the report from Richard Quest.

We tried to exit through the gift shop but were stopped and told we had to wait in line. Literally the last thing I wanted was a souvenir, though the sweatshirt with “Frick” emblazoned on the chest was tempting. Instead, we found a little café around the corner called The Westmoreland, named after Frick’s private train car (in an age before private jets). Charles greeted us warmly, and the staff was so hospitable that Ashley and I decided to have a cocktail at the home of Frick - her a French 75, me a martini.

Were the drinks good, you might be thinking? The answer is, and will always be: it’s about the company, not the drink. So yes and yes - wink.

On our way out of the mansion, we stopped by the center garden, where music from a guitarist-singer duo filled the air. There we met Annie, whom I’d first seen through the Frick’s TikTok videos of summer programming, including drawing classes and art history - which I may or may not go down the rabbit hole for.

Would I go back? Would I recommend it? All I can share is above - and if that tips the needle for you to visit a gallery, whether your first time, last time, or hundredth, on your next trip to New York City… done.

A Summer Friday in NYC - done.

RIP Henry Clay Frick, 1849–1919.