Remembering Charles van Horne.
A year ago today, I received a note from a reader. Charles van Horne responded to an article about the Western painter Maynard Dixon, the photographer Dorothea Lange, and the cartoonist George Herriman.1 Charlie being an artist and connoisseur of fine arts, I was surprised that of these three, he was most excited about Herriman, the creator of Krazy Kat, the ultra-low-brown cat-and-mouse comics of the 1920s.
This was a distinguished gentleman. After a successful career in finance, Charlie turned his attention to painting and philanthropic support for the arts. He served on the boards of multiple non-profits and as a Vice President and Treasurer of the Art Students League of New York. He was a man of subtlety and refinement, sensitive and numbers-oriented. I would not have suspected he was also a fan of hastily-doodled mice throwing bricks at cats.
“Keep a few volumes of those Krazy Kat reprints by your bedside. The perfect thing if you ever have trouble sleeping.”
Charlie didn’t seem the sort, but I certainly am — I have six volumes of Herriman just inches from my pillow, I giddily responded. I worked a bit with Charlie as my involvement with the board of the Art Students League deepened, but passing missives like these were the seeds of our small, too-brief friendship — knowing handshakes from a fellow traveller.
II. People Like Us.
When people imagine the boardrooms and financiers of the art world, they imagine shadowy figures with nefarious purposes, smoke-filled rooms and cold-blooded bankers. They don’t imagine Charlie — dedicated, profoundly educated about history, technique, and studio practice — deeply invested in the success of the project of the arts. As I approach two decades in dealing art, I haven’t met many of the Bond-villain sort, though I suppose they must be lurking in the shadows somewhere. There aren’t more than one Charles van Hornes either, but he is the exemplar case of a the humble steward of arts institutions — of which there are many, toiling quietly behind the scenes to keep the books balanced and the doors open at hundreds of museums, schools, and foundations across the country.
By way of example, one of Charlie’s many duties in recent years was to present to the board and membership of the League the shape of its finances. It’s not a fun job. It means trying to explain esoteric finance-y stuff like proper endowment drawdown to an especially non-finance-savvy audience — a room full of artists all wondering why fees are rising. Charlie wasn’t conscripted into this job — he genuinely believed it was worth doing and that he could do it well. Both sentiments abundantly true. He admitted privately that his reports weren’t going to make him popular, but strangely enough, they actually did. He leaned into the role, peppered it with as much levity as the numbers would bear — and while there’s always a little grousing, as far as I know he was universally beloved and trusted for his candor, his warmth, and his honesty. Even if they didn’t like the report, people enjoyed him enough that they took their medicine.
I even enjoyed the medicine, knowing Charlie loaded up enough Easter-eggs to keep the attentive listener occupied. Before one meeting I let him know I was looking forward to his newest creation, and of course this humble, hilarious man kept his poker-face:
“I can’t promise ‘exciting’ in the financial report tonight but Audit reports are best when they are boring.”
A key to this was his knack for making everyone he spoke to feel as if what they had to say was important. It must have percolated out of his own kind nature, but I know that he also worked at it, just as he worked at his abstract paintings, so sturdy and expressive.2 He certainly put in the effort with me, writing regularly with little notes and observations about my columns. A nudge of support; a respectful query; and every now and then, a suggestion for further reading, bracketed with the affirmation “just so you know that I read all the way to the end.” I don’t know if he read every post, but it came to be a nurturing delight to open my inbox after a launching a shaky bit of writing and see a note from Charlie, reassuring me that this one was okay, and he was looking forward to where we went next.
The sheer number of hats this man wore makes it clear that he was either some saintly efficiency savant or that he really did enjoy and thrive off these exchanges with nearly everyone he met. Maybe a little of both, and I’ve heard no testimony to the contrary. When tickets went on sale for this year’s Dream Ball — the League’s costume ball, returning after many years dormancy — he pinged me to crow:
“I bought the first 10 tickets. Now parsing them out to people who I think will show up in full costume.”
Somewhere in everything he said was a prodding, probing effort to find us at our best and getting better — and phrased just so that you really wanted to show him you would. It’s the quietest sort of leadership, but I imagine also the most effective, and certainly the sort that leaves you feeling lucky to have experienced.
Charlie passed away April 16 after a sudden illness. He won’t make it to Dream Ball and I’ll miss him there. I’ll be sad wondering what his costume would have been, and I’ll miss him every time I sit through a dreary, joyless audit report. He was of a type, but no one will replace him, certainly not in front of an Excel spreadsheet. But when news of his passing arrived, I had just finished one of these silly little columns about some esoteric bauble in art history. It felt unfathomable that I wouldn’t have some upbeat critique in my inbox the next day, or any Tuesday after that. I closed my laptop and flopped down into bed. The art world lost someone special in Charlie, and I miss him. I reached over to turn out the light, and there, right next to my bed, right where Charlie said they’d be when I needed them, was a pile of Krazy Kat comics.
As Krazy says near the end of many a misadventure, there is a happy land, far far away. Charlie will keep us moving towards it.
And the art world continues to spin. Join us next Tuesday, May 9th, for the opening of Kieran O’Hare | The Lava Log, a genuine in-person, bricks-and-mortar exhibition at 72 Warren Street in lower Manhattan. Opening 4 - 8 PM on Tuesday, the show runs through Sunday, May 13. The artist will be present along with his paintings and animations — more details here.
Thanks for reading, and remember to thank the thankless servants in your world for making it a better one. Charlie’s family has asked that donations in his name be made to the Roothbert Fund, one of the many causes in his life. It’s not too late to get your own costume together for the Art Students League’s Dream Ball.
Cheers,
Jonathan
jonathan@jonathanmillerspies.com