When Namuth telephoned later that week to set up an appointment, Pollock was encouraging. As he had once promised Art News, he now promised Namuth to start a new painting and perhaps even finish it in the photographer’s presence. But when Namuth showed up the following afternoon with two Rollei-flexes hanging from his neck, Pollock regretted having made the offer. He and Lee met the photographer in the driveway, and Pollock told him abruptly, “The painting is finished.” He did not plan to do any more work that day, he said. Hesitantly Namuth asked if he could see the studio anyway. Pollock and Lee took him inside the barn and allowed him to look around. A large, wet painting was lying on the floor. Namuth studied it through the ground glass of his camera. Pollock studied it too. Suddenly, overcoming any doubts, Pollock picked up a brush and a can of paint and began to toss pigment, his movements slow and deliberate. Within a few minutes he had quickened his pace, working with speed and apparent sureness. Namuth started to shoot. He finished one roll of film and switched to the other camera. Then he reloaded both cameras. For thirty minutes Pollock continued to paint as the loud, rapid clicks of the camera shutter resounded in the barn like applause.
Namuth returned the following weekend to show Pollock the photographs. Pollock studied them closely, pleased with the results. “Do you have any more?” he asked. Namuth had no more but offered to come back the following weekend. And the weekend after, and the weekend after that. Throughout the summer of 1950 Hans Namuth returned every weekend to photograph Pollock inside his studio. As surprising as this is, given the shy, self-conscious person Pollock was, even more surprising is that some of his best-known paintings were created as Namuth snapped away.
The year 1950 was the most prolific of Pollock’s life. He completed about fifty-five paintings—compared to about forty the previous year—and they include some of his largest and most widely praised works. One, an enormous, mural-sized painting that measures roughly nine feet high by eighteen feet long, was begun soon after Pollock finished Number 32, 1950 (the all-black mural) and explores some of the ideas set forth in the earlier work. The painting consists of giant weaving rhythms of black, white, and tan that cohere almost magically into a harmonious whole. As in the best of Pollock’s work, the countless movements and tensions even one another out so that the final effect is one of balance, but precarious balance. It’s as if a thousand different sensations have been merged, but just barely, and only by a superhuman act of creativity. Autumn Rhythm, the third of the three murals dating to this period, resembles One not only in size but in color. Once again, the painting consists of linear rhythms of mostly black, white, and tan, which suggest the colors of a pencil sketch and serve to remind us of Pollock’s draftsmanly genius. But there is nothing intimidating or haughty about the painting; to the contrary, the mood is almost intimate.
It is hard to determine from Namuth’s photographs exactly which paintings Pollock was working on as he was being photographed. But it can be said with certainty that he did paint Autumn Rhythm—or rather that he painted part of it—in front of Namuth. Photographs document the painting’s creation: Pollock picks up a can of black Duco and, with a stubby brush, drips some paint onto a black canvas. He steps onto the painting and tosses pigment with wide, sweeping motions of his arm. He crouches, he stands up, he walks around the canvas continuing to apply paint until the entire surface has taken on the activity of weaving rhythms. This first phase finished, he tacks the painting to a wall in the barn for a period of contemplation and study. Clearly Pollock felt sure of himself in front of the photographer, and perhaps the experience was in some ways liberating for him. As one who was obsessed by a need to prove himself, he seemed to derive a special satisfaction from showing off his mastery in front of an audience. Painting a picture such as Autumn Rhythm with a photographer recording his every gesture was no small feat for a man who had once been unable to complete so much as a pencil sketch in the presence of his schoolmates.
Every weekend after Namuth had finished shooting he would go inside the house with Pollock and show him the photographs he had taken the previous week. By the end of the summer Pollock had looked at more than five hundred photographs, many of which have become well known. Pollock crouches above a canvas, his balding forehead creased into intense concentration. Pollock flings paint, moving so quickly his arm is a blur of light. He liked the way he looked in the photographs—they show him in his moment of triumph—never anticipating the skewed reactions they would bring to his art. The Namuth photographs, which were first published in 1951 and have been widely reproduced since, drew attention to Pollock’s technique and helped give rise to a popular image of the artist as a wild, brutish paint-flinger. In 1952 Pollock would pick up a copy of Art News one day and read that “At a certain moment the canvas began to appear to one American painter after another as an arena in which to act . . .” To Pollock’s dismay, his art would be labeled “action painting” and its creator would be lionized as an existentialist hero whose defiant, solitary actions counted more than their outcome. This trivialization of his art angered Pollock greatly, but it probably never occurred to him that Harold Rosenberg’s famous essay on action painting might not have been written had he not posed for the pictures.
At the end of the summer Namuth mentioned to Pollock that he wanted to make a film. Although he had never made a film before, he felt that even a short, amateurish “home movie” could capture Pollock in ways that photographs, however polished, could not. Pollock said it was fine with him, and the first weekend in September, Namuth arrived in Springs with his wife’s Bell and Howell Turret. He climbed up to a hayloft in the studio, and, holding the movie camera in his hand, shot until the film ran out. Soon afterward he showed the results to his friend Paul Falkenberg, a film editor, who was sufficiently impressed with the seven-minute short to suggest that Namuth undertake a second movie, this one in color, and to offer to help him scratch together two thousand dollars to finance it. The color movie, unlike the earlier effort in black-and-white, required that camera lights be installed in the barn, Since the barn had no electricity, Pollock volunteered to move his studio out-of-doors. He made a second concession as well. Although he had already finished preparing for his upcoming show at the Parsons Gallery by the time the filming began, he agreed to paint one more painting so the filmmaker would have something to film. For four consecutive weekends in early autumn he worked on one painting, placing it in tall, damp grass and dripping pigment as Namuth shot the eleven-minute documentary. Later Pollock destroyed the painting, perhaps because he considered it merely a prop.
One day Namuth proposed to Pollock that he consider starting a new painting—and that he paint it on glass. If the sheet of glass could somehow be secured in a horizontal position a few feet above the ground, Namuth could crawl beneath it and shoot from below, recording the loops of paint as they fell through the air. Pollock thought it was an interesting idea and offered to build a platform that could support the glass.
The painting-on-glass segment of the movie was shot on a cold, sunny afternoon in late October. Namuth lay down in the grass on his back beneath the four-by-six sheet of glass. He rested the movie camera on his chest and focused the lens on Pollock. The camera records Pollock’s actions as he starts work. He arranges some pebbles and wire mesh on the painting surface, binding the materials in place with a few tosses of black pigment. He is not satisfied. He wipes the glass clean. “I lost contact with my first painting on glass, and I started another one,” he says in a sound track that was recorded later. He starts all over again, rearranging the pebbles and wire mesh along with shells, bits of string, and other materials. As he works he looks down at his painting. Through its transparent surface he sees the photographer sprawled beneath him.
By the time Namuth finished shooting the painting-on-glass segment of the movie, the sun had begun to set. The two men went inside the house. A dinner party was in progress. Namuth went into the living room and joined the guests by the fireplace. Pollock did
not stop to say hello or to warm himself by the fire. He walked directly into the kitchen. He took out two large glasses and a bottle of bourbon and filled the glasses all the way up. He called Namuth into the kitchen. “Hans,” he shouted, “come have a drink with me.” Namuth walked into the kitchen. Behind him were Ossorio and Lee. The threesome stood there startled as Pollock lifted a glass of alcohol for the first time in two years and emptied it. Namuth and Ossorio were startled because they had never seen Pollock drink before. Lee was startled because she had seen him drink before; she had seen him drink away his life, and hers too, and when Pollock emptied the second glass, her face went white. The guests tried to pretend that nothing unusual was happening as Pollock proceeded to tear a string of cowbells from the kitchen doorway and threatened to hit his friends. “Let’s sit down for dinner,” Lee said. Pollock sat down at the head of the table and started insulting Namuth. Suddenly he picked up the dinner table and sent a roast beef skidding to the floor. Lee picked up the roast beef and washed it off. She put it back on the table. Pollock lifted the table again, this time sending the dishes crashing across the room. “Coffee,” Lee announced, “will be served in the living room.” Pollock went outside to his car and drove away.
The guests tried to make sense of the ugly events they had witnessed. Perhaps it had something to do with the cold weather—had he poured the drink simply because he was cold?—or perhaps with the movie, or perhaps with the death of Dr. Heller seven months earlier. No explanation seemed adequate as they considered the fact that the past two years of Pollock’s life, sober years, had been his most rewarding ever. He had been featured in Life. He had sold many paintings. His work had been sent to the Venice Biennale. Most important, in the past few months alone he had completed his first mural-sized “drip” paintings—Number 32, One, and Autumn Rhythm. What had led Pollock to take the drink and consequently to return to heavy drinking? Various writers have argued that Pollock felt “tormented” by his public success, yet success is too easy an answer; Pollock was tormented long before he was successful. A more plausible answer lies in his art. By October 1950 Pollock had done everything he could do with his “drip” technique. Although some of his contemporaries would continue to turn out their trademark images for many years—Rothko, for instance, painted floating rectangles for more than two decades, and Motherwell painted his “Spanish Elegies” for more than three decades—Pollock felt compelled after four years to abandon the style that had won him both personal satisfaction and public acclaim. So fierce was his hatred of authority figures that once he became one, once he had mastered his own style, he had no choice but to rebel against his own mastery. As he had turned against Benton in 1938 and against Picasso in 1944, Pollock, in 1950, turned against himself—with the disastrous result, as in earlier times, of heavy, suicidal drinking. If he had not taken the drink on that last day of shooting, one suspects he would have taken it soon afterward. On the other hand, the experience of making the movie surely helped precipitate the inevitable. How absurd he must have felt making that painting on glass, an invisible canvas through which he could see a camera lens pointed at his face.
Pollock left the glass painting in the backyard for a few weeks. It collected leaves and dirt and weathered the rain. He eventually brought it inside and cleaned it off. He titled it Number 29, 1950. He talked about hanging it on the porch and perhaps even setting it into the house, like a window, but never did.
13
The “Black” Paintings
1951
Pollock’s fourth show at the Parsons Gallery opened on November 28,1950. The opening reception, which was held that evening from four to seven, was something of an event in itself. About a hundred people showed up, and not even the most begrudging could fail to be impressed by the power and vitality of Pollock’s latest work. At one end of the gallery was Autumn Rhythm, which took up an entire wall. The opposite wall was taken up by One. There were thirty-two paintings altogether, and they were hung from floor to ceiling. The effect was dazzling; some people likened it to walking into a meteor shower. Among the guests was Pollock’s brother Jay, a printer, who noted appreciatively to his brother Frank: “The big thing right now is Jack’s show. . . . [The opening] was bigger than ever this year and many important people in the art world [were] present. Lee seemed very happy and greeted everyone with a smile, Jack appeared to be at home with himself and filled the part of a famous artist.”
For all the excitement generated by the show, the critical response was somewhat disappointing. Robert Coates, of The New Yorker, was still questioning whether Pollock’s paintings meant anything and felt that One and Autumn Rhythm bordered on “meaningless embellishment.” Howard Devree, of The New York Times, was similarly doubtful and asked his readers rhetorically: “Does [Pollock’s] personal comment ever come through to us?” The art journals, by comparison, reviewed the show very favorably. Art Digest called it Pollock’s “richest and most exciting to date,” and Art News singled it out the following January as one of three best one-man shows of the year. (Pollock was ranked second, after John Marin and ahead of Alberto Giacometti.) The Art News citation was an honor of the highest order, but Pollock was past the point of deriving satisfaction from such distinctions. No amount of praise could ease his self-doubts. He told Greenberg in the early fifties that he didn’t know where his paintings came from—unless they were bad paintings.
Pollock and Lee spent most of the winter in New York City, where they once again stayed in Alfonso Ossorio’s carriage house at 9 MacDougal Alley. It was to be a difficult winter for Pollock as he struggled with the familiar problems of depression and drinking. On January 6, 1951, three weeks after his show came down, Pollock confided to Ossorio, who was in Paris: “I found New York terribly depressing after my show—and nearly impossible—but am coming out of it now.” By the end of January, however, he was no better off: “I really hit an all time low—with depression and drinking—NYC is brutal.” Unable to control his drinking, he surrendered to a dismal routine that consisted of waking up late in the afternoon and heading out for the bars. No matter where his nocturnal wanderings began, they usually ended at the Cedar Street Tavern, the legendary artists’ bar.
The Cedar Street Tavern, at University Place and Eighth Street, was rather ordinary-looking. It had drab green walls, some booths and tables in the back, and not much to distinguish it from other bars in Greenwich Village save for a round neon sign that hung outside, casting a green halo above the street. The Cedar was a “no-environment,” to borrow a phrase from de Kooning, and it was precisely its nondescript character that accounted for its popularity among artists when they first started going there in the forties. There was no pool table, no jukebox, no television, nothing to interfere with the serious business of talking about art. By the early fifties, however, the quiet conversations had ended. As the artists became well known, so did their bar, and even the most casual of passersby began pausing out front and glancing through the glass in the door to survey the scene inside. Looking in, one could see who was there. On a good night one might see Franz Kline or Philip Guston or maybe even de Kooning. On a great night one might see Pollock, standing up front by the bar, holding a glass of Scotch, surrounded by art students and various young admirers who had come to the Cedar Street Tavern for the chance to see him.
There are many stories about Pollock and the Cedar bar, most of which make him out to be a mean, violent drunk. One story alleges that he tore the bathroom door off its hinges, and another story has him ripping the toilet from the wall. He supposedly punched out de Kooning, Kline, and many others. But as Clement Greenberg once said, “I used to ask people, ‘Who, exactly, has he hit?’ and then they couldn’t remember. Jackson’s violence—what a joke. He had a horror of violence.” Pollock did like to flirt with violence, though. Drunk, he teased, taunted, and bullied, and no one was spared his obnoxious behavior. Standing up front by the bar, with his customary double Scotch, Pollock would deliver a well-known monolog
ue to the admirers clustered around him. “What are you involved with? What are you really involved with?” he would ask belligerently, glaring at some hapless fellow and daring him to answer. “You’re all a bunch of horses’ asses!”
By this time, just about every art student in the country was familiar with Pollock’s work. He had become a hero to a generation of young artists who admired his total freedom with paint. But Pollock had no interest in winning followers, and those who got to know him at the Cedar were generally disappointed to find that he could be crude as any other drunk. Audrey Flack, then a twenty-year-old art student at Yale who idolized Pollock “like a movie star,” recalls her disgust upon first meeting him. She was sitting at the Cedar one night when Pollock came in, sat down next to her, and “pulled my behind and burped in my face.” Larry Rivers, the painter and saxophonist, was another devout admirer whom Pollock managed to offend with his churlish behavior. One night at the Cedar, Rivers left his table to go to the men’s room and was dismayed to learn upon his return that “while I was in there, Pollock asked [my date] if she’d like to leave with him.”
But not everyone came away with such a negative impression of Pollock. Helen Frankenthaler, then a promising young painter fresh out of Bennington College, had the chance to meet Pollock on many occasions through her friendship with Clement Greenberg. She recognized him at once as a painfully diffident man who tended to lose his bearings outside the context of his work. “One couldn’t entertain a dialogue with him about life or art,” she has said. “One experienced the man quiet or the man wild. I guess he was his true self when painting. That’s where he lived.”
Jackson Pollock Page 23
