AN EDUCATION IN BECOMING: BARBARA TOBER

FROM WILD HORSES TO HIGH SOCIETY, BARBARA TOBER HAS LIVED MANY LIVES. THE PHILANTHROPIST CREDITS HER SUCCESS TO THE SIMPLE ACT OF BEING KIND.

By Christopher Michael

“There is such beauty out there, still. You just have to find it, you have to nurture it, and you have to invent it, if necessary.” Barbara Tober learned early on that the life you dream of isn’t handed to you; it’s one you craft with purpose. Raised in a household marked by challenges, including alcoholic parents and recurring health issues, she found company in her imagination.

Barbara discovered her love of nature on her grandparents’ farm, where she grew up deeply fascinated by every insect she could find—out in the swamp or up in the trees. Her life, like that of a butterfly, has been one of constant metamorphosis, shaped by resilience, creativity, and an unyielding zest for the arts. Her first marriage served as an escape from that turbulent childhood, while her third and final many could only dream of—an extraordinary partnership with Donald Tober, which lasted 49 years until his passing in 2021. Her three-decade reign at one of Condé Nast’s most profitable titles, was approached with a keen, almost scholarly fascination with the tradition of marriage—invoking the authority of an anthropologist or psychologist, and the instinct of a good editor.

Together, she and Donald discovered the world of philanthropy, which plays a defining role in Barbara’s life to this day. Her ongoing work with the Museum of Arts and Design, where she serves as Chairman Emerita, underscores her unwavering belief in the transformative power of creativity—a conviction that feels like an organic evolution of her editorial legacy.

Barbara’s Park Avenue home is a living museum: A life-sized portrait in the drawing room exudes the elegance of a bygone era; a vast collection of artifacts reflect her decades-long dedication to the arts. She stays connected to the past while living in the moment: From a shrine-like set-up in her late husband’s room, she indulges in a ritual of daily visits, delighting in recounting the happenings from this side of the tracks.

At 90, Barbara remains a force of nature, her wit and wisdom a testament to the power of passion and purpose—proof that reinvention is the essence of a life well-lived.

CHRISTOPHER MICHAEL: Before you became Barbara Tober—the philanthropist, editor, and absolute force—you were a girl from New Jersey. What was she like?

BARBARA TOBER: When I was a child, I was sick a lot. I had my appendix out when I was five, and I swear they never properly put things back where they belonged in those days. My grandparents had this absolutely beautiful farm between Newton and Blairstown, New Jersey. A lot of mosquitoes, but you had wildlife beyond anything you can see today—gardens with flowers, butterflies flying all over. So I studied everything that I could find on all these creatures in the swamps, on the ground, in the trees.

[Eventually], me and my sister moved to the farm full time. We hardly ever saw my father because he had taken up with a Polish dancer who was a member of a German band during World War II. She’s enchanting him, he’s drinking a lot, and my mother’s drinking a lot. Both of them ruined their lives. My father was non compos mentis. [The dancer] used to accompany him to the farm in a big, long coat. They had a big limousine, and she’d wait outside while he visited my mother. One day, she came in with her lawyer. She said, “We have a very nice apartment for you.” I said, “But I live here.” And she said, “Not anymore.” She had gotten my father to sign over everything we owned, and they moved us to Englewood, New Jersey.

CM: Was that when you started plotting how to break off on your own?

BT: I couldn’t be on my own. I was living at home, trying to have a life. But it’s very hard when you don’t really know how to. I had a friend from school who had a brother who was an artist, and one day he asked if I would like to go to New York City. I looked at the art, chatted with people. I saw this gentleman sitting quietly on a long bench across the room. He was a dentist from French Romania and his family lived on the sixth floor. He asked, “Can I take you to dinner?” He had a nice, gentle quality about him—not like what I was experiencing in my own house. He asked me to marry him. I was 17. I said yes because I wanted to get out of that house, and he seemed like a reasonable person. I wanted freedom—total freedom. We got married, went to Quebec, and started a very calm, simple, collegial life. And I was growing up—going to school at night and to work during the day. Seven years went by and I was getting restless. He was 30 years older than me. Finally, I said, “Johnny, I’m really sorry, I love you, I think you’re a wonderful person, but I just have to go. I have to spread my wings.” And he said, “When I married you, I thought it would be for a year or two, and it’s been seven. It’s okay.” We got very nicely divorced and I bought out his half of the car.

CM: So from that time on, you stayed in the city?

BT: Oh, yeah. I have an appointment every week for a couple of hours with some people who are formally taking down all of this information, and slowly, it’s being organized as a memoir. We have millions of facts and figures and all kinds of papers detailing my divorces and my marriages and my background and my birth.

Your life has been filled with so many different chapters, and multiple marriages—the last of which was 49 years long. I just adored that man. He died of Parkinson’s. You don’t get better when you have Parkinson’s, believe me. I worked and I hoped and I did everything in the world to make him comfortable, and he was just fading completely. I created a memory room for him. I took his bedroom and I put everything I could possibly find [in it]. It’s so beautiful. I go there every day. Just, you know, Listen, you can’t believe what happened today—that kind of thing.

CM: You first discovered your love of art when you were six, at Woolworth, seeing that glass-blowing artist. Clearly, you were born with taste!

BT: Yeah, [Dale] Chihuly. In kindergarten, they had us doing murals. They give you total immersion—everything they think you can handle at that age. At home, there was very little stimulation. My parents were always playing golf. My sister locked herself away. I was a nuisance to everybody. I loved whatever I could get my hands on. I made ink out of magnolia leaf blossoms. I used to do little plays with my stuffed animals. Noodle, the dachshund, was the queen. I made up all these little stories to make myself less alone. I wanted to have an interesting life, so I had to make it up.

CM: But you never dissociated?

BT: No, I was there all the time. I was very involved in the reality of the moment. I knew exactly what I wanted. I knew exactly how I wanted to get there. I understood the grindstone, and I was at it all the time. I grew up with horses, and you can’t beat a horse and expect it to learn anything. You have to do it with love. I had a wild horse and she broke my tooth—she had me flat down in the grit and the gravel. I ended up being able to ride her bareback with a rope in her mouth. She’d come running at me with her teeth bared and her ears back. [But] I would bring her fresh oats. I would take the halter and say, Don’t be upset, come with me. She fought me all the way, but eventually, she realized that we were having a good time. I learned a lot about life with horses. I went through life thinking rather than reacting, and that has stood me in good stead all these years.

It’s also very much in line with the notion of problem-solving when you look at the work you do in philanthropy. What was the catalyst behind your decision to get involved in the arts that way?

[Donald] and I went to an event put on by a friend, [Julie Schafler Dale]. She owned a store on Madison Avenue by the name of Julie: Artisans’ Gallery. In the window, it had this humongous sheep made of wool and suede. We stopped dead in our tracks. At the time, we didn’t really have furniture—[our home] was like a bad hotel room. I said, “Honey, you could put your feet up on that!” Then Julie invited us to an event at the Museum of Arts and Design, which was then called the American Craft Museum. The word “craft” was a bit of a problem. It has no chic, it has no glamor. The shows were unbalanced in that there were some absolutely beautiful things, but also some loving-hands-at-home stuff. If you’re an editor, you know the difference. One day, the president asked me if I would join the board. Then it just grew. Everything grows if you let it, if you cultivate it. I became the chairman of the museum. And then we bought the building. Peter Marino did the model for it.

CM: I saw pictures of you and Peter in your office—there’s such a cultural juxtaposition between you two.

BT: He’s like my brother. We sat at a table with Dan Doctoroff to determine whether we were going to buy the building or not. I wasn’t Mrs. Big Bucks. So I sat up as high as I could and said, “Dan, you’ve just got to believe in us.”

What are your hopes for the future of craftsmanship, considering all of the new developments across techniques and capabilities?

Machine Dazzle is doing some very interesting portraiture with AI. The results are quite fabulous. I bought a piece of his for the Museum of Arts and Design. It’s a little still-life sculpture of many seahorses in a kind of watery environment. I think that [AI] encourages experimentation. You just have to know how to use it.

CM: So you’re supportive of its evolution?

BT: I totally am. I think there are miracles out there. We don’t even know what they are yet. In nature, there are miracles. Unfortunately, we have been polluting the atmosphere so badly. But now, we’re trying to reverse that. I hope we can.

When I used to see huge moths drinking my molasses and beer from a tree at night, I considered it a total miracle. I think metamorphosis is a total miracle. We are going through a metamorphosis ourselves right now, which is scary. I don’t think the moth knew what it was going to look like when it came out of the cocoon. We don’t know a lot of what’s going to happen with what we are experimenting with. I hope that those who have great intentions will win. There is such beauty out there, still. You just have to find it, you have to nurture it, and you have to invent it, if necessary. You have to have an adventure with it and find it where you didn’t expect it to be. That’s why I love the arts so much.

CM: What is art to you?

BT: It’s got to hold your gaze. It has to have an emotional reaction and a future meaning. A lot of art is visual, but a lot of it is music. My husband played piano—there was never a minute in our house that music wasn’t playing. I feel that creativity has to move you and have an effect on how you think.

CM: And how would you describe the way you think?

BT: When a butterfly closes its wings and sits on the bark of a tree, you don’t see it anymore. You have a choice. You could be out there, or be here. I don’t want to be effrontery. We just had an election! So many opportunities to blast out! But I’m not gonna blast out. I’m gonna make myself known. I’m going to get my way, but I’m not going to fight for it. There’s a way to wiggle out of the cocoon. Being nice can get you through a lot.

CM: That’s kind of been a throughline in your story: knowing when to spread your wings and when to pull them in.

BT: Yeah, it is simple. You can hide beautifully, and you can stand at the podium and be the star.