G. David Thompson is one of those names known to the stewards of transatlantic jetliners and to doormen in Europe's best hotels, but he is somewhat of an enigma to most people in his own home town of Pittsburgh. There the name vaguely connotes new-rich wealth, a reputation for eccentricity, and an ardor for collecting art. Last week, in the German city of Diisseldorf, G. David Thompson was making headlines that could well give Pittsburgh pause. On display were 343 first-class paintings and sculptures from his fabled collection—and every single one of them was up for sale.
Like Philadelphia's late Dr. Albert C. Barnes who kept his own great collection closed to the general public (TIME, Jan. 2), Thompson, at 61, is something of a legend in his own lifetime. He made his fortune during World War II when he took over a number of dying steel plants and kept them alive until the boom. Even before he hit big money, he had begun buying modern paintings. He gave the impression of never having read a word about art, but there was no doubt that he had an eye for the best.
He was able to smell a bargain—and a masterpiece—a continent away, and the Museum of Modern Art's Alfred Barr said of him: "I have never mentioned a new artist that Thompson didn't know about." He might barge into a gallery, start haggling over prices without so much as a word of greeting. He could be lavishly generous with friends, cab drivers and bellboys, but with dealers he was tough. He bought up Cezannes, Braques, Matisses, Legers, a splendid Picasso series, more than 70 Giacometti sculptures. He gathered one of the biggest collections of Paul Klees in the world. All these he hung in his burglarproof home called Stone's Throw, outside Pittsburgh, and only people he liked and trusted ever got to see them.
Two years ago Thompson offered his collection to the city. But he insisted that it be housed in a special museum. Pittsburgh turned him down, just as Pittsburgh society had been snubbing him for years. He went then to a 40-year-old Basel art dealer named Ernst Beyeler, with whom he had long been trading pictures. Last year Beyeler arranged to sell $1,500,000 worth of Klees to the state of North Rhine-Westphalia, which will house them in a museum that is yet to be built. Last week most of the other prizes, once offered to Pittsburgh, went on the block.
At the opening of the Dusseldorf show, Thompson himself scarcely glanced at the treasures that he was seeing together for the last time. In fact he seemed delighted to get rid of them. Some observers speculated that this might be his revenge on his home town. Thompson himself said: "I want to enjoy once more the pleasure of bare walls waiting for new pictures."