A walk with Carol

Carol Amato

I came close to quitting my job at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in 1995.

Carol Amato, the museum's Chief Operating Officer, talked me in from the ledge.

The full story of why I was set on leaving VMFA is a long one, so I'll try to reduce it to a paragraph. A public promise that had been made to me by the museum's director was broken by one of her subordinates without her knowledge. I found out about the broken promise in a public situation. My supervisor's supervisor, an assistant to the director, made the surprise announcement, in a meeting of senior staff, that a special project had been completed. The project, which I had earlier been promised I would be involved with, was the creation of a videotape to be sold in the museum's shop in connection with a major Faberge touring exhibition in 1996.

The surprise announcement of the broken promise infuriated me. I was as angry as I had ever been during my time at VMFA.

After the meeting I confronted the assistant director, privately, in his office, and vented my fury. I called him a coward, a charlatan and a few other names that don't bear repeating. It was a short but turbulent meeting in which all he could do was stammer a response that he, himself, knew was inadequate.

I left his office, my fury unabated, and headed for Carol's office. Her assistant, perhaps correctly interpreting the look on my face, said Carol was in her office and I should go right in.

Carol was sitting at her desk. "What's wrong?" she asked.

I told her about the promise, which she remembered the director making. She told me that she didn't realize it had been broken, and that she was certain the director didn't know either.

She got up from behind her desk, put her arm around my shoulder and said, "Let's take a walk."

For the next 20 minutes, we walked -- from the museum's staff entrance along Grove Avenue to Sheppard Street, over to Kensington Avenue, then to the Boulevard and back to Grove Avenue, almost a mile. I talked, and Carol listened. She didn't interrupt or ask questions. She just listened.

When I eventually ran out of steam, she told me I had two choices as she saw it: I could quit and throw away a career, or I could stay and take solace in the fact that, although I had been wronged, I was a valued member of the VMFA staff. She encouraged me to take the latter option.

That, to me, was the essence of Carol's managerial style. She could quickly assess a situation and articulate alternative courses. Above all, and throughout her lengthy career in state government, she put people first. "The people who work here are the museum's most important and valuable resource," she often said.

Carol's skills with people were her greatest talent. An arm around a shoulder. "Let's take a walk." Showing respect by listening. Those things might seem inconsequential, but they were powerful tools in her kit.

She came by those skills in more than 40 years in state government. Governor Linwood Holton appointed her as a Commonwealth Intern in 1970. She served as Commissioner of the Department of Labor and Industry under three governors before becoming COO at VMFA.

Two hours after Carol and I walked and talked, the assistant director came to my office and abjectly apologized. A few days later I got a handwritten note from the director expressing deep regret that her promise to me had been broken by a subordinate without her knowledge.

Carol's doing? I don't know, but I suspect so.

I did decide to take the latter course. I stayed at the museum for nine more years before retiring. Carol remained a close friend, and my respect for her grew as I watched how she handled other staff challenges -- and there were many.

Within a few years, the assistant director had moved on, as they say, to pursue "other opportunities."

My dear friend Carol Amato, who retired from VMFA last year, died of pancreatic cancer June 1. She was 66 years old. I will miss her a lot.