A Blotchy Mess

His Oldsmobile convertible swerved along the Long Island highway. Jackson Pollock was behind the wheel and although he didn't know he would cause his own death, he was aware of the danger. He was drunk, had been an alcoholic since age 17, but this erratic behavior was international. He was channeling his art.

"It was a romantic way to die," said Ruth Kligman, Pollock's girlfriend at the time of his death. She was the sole survivor of the crash. "If he hadn't met me and died in that car, he would have died a sick man with maybe an enlarged liver." *

Jackson's wife, Lee Krasner, called him Pollock when she was criticizing. A painter herself, she criticized his artwork. As he swerved and pressed the gas, he could hear her in his head. His vision was blurry, but he could feel the cold air on his face as he drove. The screams of Ruth and Edith were a distant third behind his own internal voice and Lee's. He wanted to be good.

Kligman adds, smiling: "[Dying of an enlarged liver] is not as romantic as dying tragically in a car crash with a woman that he loved." She avoids mentioning that her friend, Edith Metzger, died an innocent victim of Pollock's behavior.*

The road was his canvas. Pollock didn't need usual utensils. He used a stick and sometimes poured paint right on the paper. They labeled it abstract. Who the fuck are They anyways? Pollock knew he was 100% direct. Even Autumn Rhythm and Lavender Mist, both painted in 1950, use the same use colors but are remarkably different. The strokes in Lavender Mist are thin, delicate. Autumn Rhythm is hurried. It's a blotchy mess.

"He let the nature of the medium take over," said Kirk Varnedoe, of the Museum of Modern Art New York. "You think of drip painting as simply being a sort of pouring or accident but it's not. It's a constellation of effects that Pollock orchestrates."*

The black period, where he used nothing but black paint, had been foreplay into this. Tonight, while driving in this drunken state, his muse was reborn. The car swerved with emotion and he smiled over the girl's screams. He wanted to tell them to stop being whores, but that was just the alcohol talking. They'd understand when it was over: insanity comes with inspiration.

"He had become a legend," said Milton Resnick, artist and friend. "It had nothing to do with his art... Who would of even thought that this guy that really didn't even know how to paint would become famous. Incredible..."*

The painting was becoming clear in his head. It looked like Picasso. It was cubistic and of life with Lee. The colors were autumn. They say a man is nothing without a mate and who the fuck are They anyways? He missed Lee. He never loved Lee the way he loved Ruth. She wasn't as beautiful or as kind, but she was his strength. If Lee were in the car, he'd have braked long ago.

"Who knows what famous is?" continues Resnick. "God, [fame is] so fucking stupid."*

Pollock thought of Blue Poles. Since the Life Magazine article in '49, he felt like a fraud. People claimed a five-year old could do what he did. He almost believed them too, but in 1952, he channelled maturity. In Blue Poles, friends got him liqueured up and encouraged him to create again.

Blue Pole has black streaks that resemble squashed flies. Yellow and marigold surrounded them, like pus. It was done by a man in his 40s; you could tell. That night, the glass turkey baster he used was stepped on and shattered. Chunks of it still remain in the painting.

Fielding Dawson, artist, recalls Pollock's work: "He was imitated just overnight, but for some strange reason, no one could do it just the way he did... in the Village they'd hold those art shows [and] you'd see a dozen imitations of Pollock, but they could never do it."*

He felt hot despite the chilly air. He wished he could take off the black velvet shirt he was wearing. It screamed "Look at me! I'm a painter!" On the off chance he died, he would regret having worn that shirt. That's all though. His actions were crazy, but he was taking them back to the start of his madness. It was the only way he could understand it. It would soon burst forth in an organic way and he'd cry about it in bed with Ruth.

"Drunkeness, violent death, sex and art," said Cile Downs, artist and friend. "All of that is attractive to the public with the exception of art, you know? So it's a lot easier to think of the drama of his history, then to think about what he did in the realm of art."*

* Quotes taken from the documentary Jackson Pollock: Love and Death in Long Island.

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