By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Pollock is a painter who virtually willed himself to newness stretching the diverse strands of Cubism and Surrealism beyond recognition, pulling apart the Mexican muralists, pulling in Navajo sand painting, and giving the various ersatz mystical tendencies of his time an unprecedented force and coherence. "He broke the ice," as de Kooning so generously put it. By 1950, at the height of his powers, there is nothing old left in Pollock's art, except maybe art, which is pretty remarkable. By way of comparison, when Picasso made Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, he initially thought it might be a bad painting; when Pollock finished Lucifer, he had to ask Lee Krasner, his wife, "Is this a painting?"
Lucifer is an eight-and-a-half-foot-long pisser of a painting: a green, black, and silver discharge or snapshot distillation of what America, in 1947, looked, felt, and sounded like. It's got the shapeless fear, the electric euphoria, the aspirations, failures, and accidental entirety of it all: Jackie Robinson, Chuck Yeager, Joan Crawford, Miles Davis, Hollywood's blacklist, and Howard Hughes's Spruce Goose. This guy was in a state of grace.
The show is permeated with this kind of visual horsepower and builds to a shattering crescendo. But Pollock never proceeds directly or easily. He's in a never-ending approach-avoidance dance with the elements of his art. Good paintings are often followed by experiments. You will never see a better show with more paintings you won't love.
An unusual sensibility emerges in the first painting in the show, a labored, intense self-portrait of the artist looking like a young African American. Nearby, see his turgid gears grind in weird, Ryder-esque landscapes. Then out of nowhere, in an untitled painting dated 193438, something amazing appears. In a gutted, frenetic, apocalyptic mess of crooked white elbow strokes mixed with fire-red flecks, Pollock hits on all-over composition. Does he proceed to explore this centerless, indefinite space? He does not. He immediately returns to Picasso, André Masson, and Miró, but something happened and it happens like this over and over.
Curator Kirk Varnedoe lays a trap and delivers a gift in the next two galleries. Mixed in amongst other works is much of Pollock's first one-person show. Pretend it's 1943. Would you get it? Go to Guardians of the Secret (Pollock's paintings have some of the silliest titles in modern art), a blue, black, and white hodgepodge of worked surface, hieroglyphics, and a sleeping wolf. Critics still write that this, and other paintings of this period, are unresolved, that they're "moody Picasso paraphrases," or that there is "too much missing." The only thing that's missing is space. Everything in these paintings is flattened out. Picasso and Mondrian fragmented space, Pollock is eliminating it. Plus he's not interested in resolution, he's after sensation. The works in these galleries not only test you, you see Pollock being tested.
Critics and historians often portray Pollock on an inevitable march to the drip. But anything could have happened. He left dozens of doors ajar. He could have pushed the surface, plains of color, teeming marks, thick paint, abstraction anything but the drip.
The confrontation with the drip paintings of 1947 to 1951 presents one of the most astonishingly complicated experiences in art. You are on your own with these works as with almost no other works in the history of art. They are totally accessible and implacable. Walking through these galleries really is a moment of personal truth. These are not the greatest paintings ever made, but they are the only paintings ever made that look remotely like this. These works are beyond good and bad, beyond language. Leave the hype behind. Don't view them as paintings even, but as complete events unto themselves. There is absolutely nothing personal about them, in spite of how much of himself Pollock put there. They are bigger than he is, and, at the same time, about one person going for it.
Notice Pollock's continuous flirtation with figuration, and how his technique, far from wild, is delicate, deliberate, and methodical. In other words, Pollock is neither an abstract nor an expressionist artist. Abstract Expressionism is a narrow and misleading term describing some artists partly and most not at all. More importantly, while Pollock is a passionate artist, his works are not especially tragic or tormented. The macho, Jack the Dripper stuff is not in the work.