Jackson and Me May 30, 2008

Going West by Jackson Pollock

My favorite scene in the documentary on Jackson Pollock that recently arrived from Netflix was the one in which the director had the artist paint on a sheet of glass while he filmed from below. I always loved the wild whiplash of Pollock's brushstrokes but seeing it done before my eyes was kind of amazing. He splattered and dripped and it all looked incredibly deliberate. Everything fell into place. Once in a while I've stood before a Pollock, say at MOMA, and heard somebody next to me whisper, "Oh, I can do that," or worse, "My kids can do that." I'm afraid that they can't.

I first really thought  of Pollock that summer I was living in New York and rented a place from a friend out in Springs, Long Island. It was a less than glamorous "house" known affectionately as the shack. At an earlier time, it belonged to a local fisherman; it was a short walk to the Long Island Sound. As happens whenever I find a place and a time to write, I ended up leaving my desk and walking around to check out my surroundings. My friend Marshall, from whom I rented the place, gave me a tour when I first arrived. The house was off Fireplace Road, and this was the street I needed to walk or bicycle to get to the Springs General Store, where I bought most of my groceries. When we drove down Fireplace Road, Marshall slowed the car and pointed out the window. "That's the tree Pollock hit when he died," he told me.

I'd pass that tree a lot that summer and would like to say now that I always thought of Pollock whenever I walked there, but I can't be sure. I know it got me thinking about Pollock and his wife, the painter Lee Krasner, as well as this part of Long Island that housed a lot of painters and writers when real estate was more affordable.

The Pollocks at SAAM are curious; they're not the iconic oversized beauties like Lavendar Mist. Instead, the museum has a few of Pollocks's earlier works that were greatly influenced by Thomas Hart Benton, his teacher at the Art Students League in New York City. Take Going West, an oil on fiberboard from 1934–1935. It swirls like a Benton and speaks of an America still trying to find itself. It makes me wonder how Pollock went from his early teacher-influenced works to the masterful drip-paintings that have become synonymous with his name. It was as if Aaron Copland had suddenly morphed into John Cage.

My real interest in Pollock came that summer when I got to know more details about the end of his life. Now, when I look at a painting such as Going West it feels as if I'm starting to learn Pollock all over again, this time from the beginning.

• Jackson Pollock, American Art, Smithsonian American Art Museum