So it was that, like Clem, I felt at home at the Pollocks’, or at least on familiar ground. Not that the personalities were the same. Lee and my mother couldn’t have been more different, one a combat-ready commando, the other a soft-hearted pushover. But they shared the daily grind of life with a binger. Jackson and Harry shared alcoholism and early death. Jackson died at forty-four. A year later, Harry died slowly of cirrhosis at fifty-seven. Harry’s alcoholism, never spoken of, was kept a shameful secret to the end. Jackson died quickly and violently in a scandalous, public splash—no secrets there—and was mythologized as a doomed, self-immolating genius. One, a nice guy who worked at an ad agency; the other, the rising star of American art. Whatever the differences, for me they remain linked in their despair and isolation.
I’ve often been asked, “Did you know Jackson?” I know they want to hear any sort of inside tidbits about the Great Man. Usually I just answer, “No.” Because I didn’t know him, not really, and probably wouldn’t have even if he had lived longer. The few personal moments I had with Jackson have stayed with me, not because of any particularly noteworthy content but because I’m surprised they ever happened at all, given what a private man he was, and given the tight circle Lee, Jackson, and Clem drew around themselves and the intensity of their focus on each other.
I knew Clem and Lee had been confidants for many years, and Jackson, too, in his quiet way. Clem had told me how understanding Jackson had been during his breakdown. When he was still fragile, Clem would visit the Pollocks and he would talk to Jackson about what had happened to him, and about his new feelings and insights, and how he wanted to change his life for the better. Clem said how helpful Jackson had been, how deeply he had listened and how thoughtfully he had responded. One afternoon in our living room, Jackson thanked Clem and told him that no one had ever confided in him that way before. Which is not to say that, as heartfelt as these exchanges were, there weren’t times at the Cedar when we would all duck down in the booth when we saw Jackson coming in drunk.
Clem had once told me about the time he had first met Jackson, in 1941. He had known Lee for several years, and one day he ran into her on the street in the Village. With her was her new boyfriend, Jackson. Clem used words like well-mannered—manners were high on Clem’s list of assets—unassuming, good-looking. And he went on and on about the hat Jackson was wearing, a fine, brown felt hat. I don’t know why he honed in so specifically on the hat, after all, most men at that time wore them. I loved the image of the young, outrageously handsome Jackson in that felt hat.
But that was then. When I knew him, Jackson’s life was so very small. It stretched from the kitchen table, across the few steps to his studio, or into his green convertible pulled up between the two. It extended to trips to New York, by train, or sometimes by car, with the inevitable pit stop along the way, then to his analyst on the Upper West Side, maybe to Sidney Janis, his dealer, maybe to a few galleries to see shows, and finally, if he was in drinking mode, to the Cedar, before ending up at the fleabag Earle Hotel nearby, then home again. And then he was gone.
And that is where Lee’s story really began. Her life would go on almost three more decades. And her life got very big. Lee raised the bar for art widows. Being one of those women who could have successfully run any large enterprise, she ran the Pollock estate to perfection. A widow, sought after, wooed, she wheeled and dealed with the best of the masters of the art trade. A tough bunch, but they met their match in Lee. Yes, she bought the minks, but nothing lavish. And yes, though she took an apartment on New York’s Upper East Side, it was strictly functional. She had more important things to do.
Once again Lee became a full-time painter and soon took over Jackson’s studio. Her work flourished. Within a year she had a show at the Stable Gallery and her career continued to gain momentum. As for Jackson, he would eventually capture the gold ring as the foremost American painter of the twentieth century. No one would again think of using that mingy equivocation arguably. Clem would often say that “quality will out,” and certainly in determining Jackson’s place in art history that was so. But in the short run, the role of the estate manager could not be underestimated. In 1956 Jackson’s future wasn’t certified and Lee wasn’t taking any chances. Unlike most women, she had no trouble asking for what she wanted. The patriarchy of the art world, far from daunting her, made her stronger.
One of her first decisions was to quadruple Jackson’s prices at Janis—notwithstanding that sales, even at the lower prices, though they had been increasing, were still infrequent—while imposing strict controls over which pictures and how many could be shown, could be sold, and to whom. With restrained deliberation she turned what had been a slow ground swell into what in time became a tidal wave, culminated by the 1972 sale of Blue Poles to Australia for $2,000,000, a record-breaking sale for any contemporary American painting. Ironically, it was a picture Clem had never particularly liked.
But the first major approbation of Jackson’s work was closer to home. In December 1956, the Museum of Modern Art mounted a Pollock retrospective, the first such conferred on an abstract expressionist. On the night of the opening, as we wandered through the galleries, Alfred Barr took Clem aside and said, “You were right.” There was a brief, but warm, exchange. One that had been a long time in coming. The museum had been slow to pick up on the excitement fomenting in its own backyard. Barr’s allegiance had been rooted in European art and, as with so many other informed people, it was difficult to imagine that America could ever be a major contender.
Lee, at the vortex of the Pollock whirl, was living at full throttle. Listening to her, I would think, It’s as if she’s now living for two. And when we would go out to Springs, it always seemed as if Jackson hadn’t left any empty space behind. She had filled it up so quickly, the house and the studio and the emotional air. Control must have felt good. No more was her extraordinary energy drained by the volatile alcoholic, no more being second-guessed; she was free to focus on what she knew best, the making and marketing of art. She had a steady stream of new “best friends,” some lasting longer than others. Lee was adept at the womanly ploy of coming on as a frail in need of men’s advice about her dilemma of the moment, and she could spin them out like Scheherazade. Whatever the manly advice, she of course would proceed to do exactly as she thought best. Maybe a few old friends hung in, but I wonder.
For the first year or two after Jackson died, Clem continued to play a role in her decision making, continued to be a confidant. Lee didn’t role-play with Clem. They would hammer out pros and cons much as before. But not for long. The wheels of the art world in general were moving faster, and around Jackson even more so. Increasingly Lee’s circle included the rich and powerful, and though she now spent a good deal of time in the city, we saw less of her.
The denouement came in the spring of 1959, after Clem became an advisor at French & Company’s new gallery. He had lined up a stellar roster of painters for them to show. Lee wanted to be included. We went out to Springs for the weekend so that Lee could show Clem her new work. They spent a long afternoon in the studio, and when they came back, all seemed as usual except that, for the first time I could remember, they didn’t talk about art.
Later, a new friend of Lee’s came by for drinks and dinner. Another change—we sat outside, enjoying the warm evening. No more kitchen table. Lee made dinner and she let me help her. She was a good cook. After her friend left, Lee and I did the dishes. I was feeling closer to Lee than ever before. Always in the past she had tersely turned down my can-I-help-yous, leaving me to feel neither part of the girls’ team nor the boys’. But then, whether impelled by the wine or by the camaraderie, I made some critical remark about her friend. In a flash Lee turned on me. “Who the hell do you think you are to . . . ?”
Her response, like a cobra’s, was so fast, so sharp, that the blood went to my head and I was shaking. I blustered my apologies. I knew I had been in the wrong. But Lee was having none of it. She continued her
harangue. I escaped into the living room, a few feet away, where Clem had been reading. For once, he had put his book down. My anger was now on the rise. Yelling as loudly as Lee, I told him we had to leave immediately. Of course there were no trains at that hour; I said I didn’t care, that I’d rather sit in the station all night.
And so it went. At one point, I grabbed a phone book to look for a taxi company. My outrage, Lee’s outrage, and Clem in the middle. His equilibrium prevailed. Especially when he said, “We don’t leave this house in anger.” I heard that. And as much as I hated to admit it, I understood it. I had come from a family of slammed doors—not literally of course; we were too “genteel” for such things—but slammed nonetheless with brutal finality.
I agreed to a compromise: We would leave first thing in the morning. And with that, I crept up to bed. I felt guilty, humiliated, and as angry as I could remember. A painful combination. And once again, like the child listening to the grown-ups downstairs, I heard their voices until I fell asleep. Lee drove us to the morning train. Icy civility prevailed. Relief that I would never again have to spend time in that house or be around Lee’s glowering acidity, that would come later. And only much later would I realize what a rare gift that moment had been. I had never before allowed my anger to rise up and spill out, allowed myself to confront someone else’s anger with my own. And to my amazement, the world had not come to an end.
On the train home, Clem filled me in on what had gone on in the studio. He said that Lee wouldn’t be showing at French & Company. She had been very prolific recently, and they had spent a long time going through her work, picture by picture, as he always did. I could imagine the familiar push and pull between them. Lee was particularly interested in having a show of a group of pictures she had put to one side. About those, he had told her he had “reservations,” that she was “pulling her punches”—in effect, that there was too much from Jackson in them and not enough from her. She stood by her pictures. And Clem assured her that what she showed would be her choice. He told her that, whatever his personal take on those pictures, he would never refuse her a show at French. She hadn’t responded right away, but during their late-night talk she had refused the show. Hearing all this, I had a new source of resentment. The way I saw it, my whole damn run-in with Lee hadn’t even been about me. I had just been the hapless victim of someone wounded, armed, and looking for blood.
There was no question Lee would have been wounded. Beyond her personal relationship with Clem was their relationship in the studio. Clem had always been a staunch supporter of her earlier work. It was Lee who had told Clem about Jackson, the painter she was living with, and the good work he was doing and that Clem should take a look. Clem did look and he also saw Lee’s latest pictures. He was much more impressed by Lee’s work than by Jackson’s. Later, Clem would always say that, at that time, Lee was the better painter. He would also say that Lee had the best “eye” around. For Clem, the highest praise of all.
By the time that day came in Springs, Clem and Lee had shared twenty years in the studio, either Lee’s or Jackson’s. Clem had told her flat out what he thought of her recent pictures, as he always did in any studio with any painter. Now that Clem was in a position to offer her a show, there had been special treatment in deference to their history. But for Clem there would never be special treatment when it came to looking at art. Clem called it the way he saw it, always. Of all people, Lee knew that; she had always counted on it. That was their bond. Problem was, Clem had put her on the horns of a dilemma that day: While she may have found herself trusting Clem’s judgment, in no way could she accept it, or his terms.
Over the years, Lee would reconnect with Clem for his advice about this or that, or to look at her work when she needed a hit of his straight talk and “eye” in the studio. On only one such occasion was I present, or, I should say, tangentially present. Our paths crossed at a dinner party.
A memorable evening on two fronts—it was the last time I went to Lee’s East Seventy-second Street apartment and the only time I had the misfortune of having a close encounter with Louise Nevelson. The dinner party was quite Park Avenue and quite large, the guests dispersed around small tables scattered throughout the rooms. I had been seated with Miss Nevelson and a few others. I had seen her now and then, but always from a distance. Close up, and decked out as she was for the occasion, she took me aback. She was a colossus, swathed in layers of black and festooned with elaborate necklaces that clanked with the teeth and claws of man-eating creatures. Above, her dark, molten eyes—awning-ed with immense fake eyelashes, askew and about to plunge into her curry—pierced me from the chalky maquillage of her face. In a clawed hand she clutched a long ivory cigarette holder, ashes scattering, smoke from her blood-red lips befogging the table. Was she wearing a turban?
As startled as I was by the look of her, I was completely unprepared for the sharpness of her tongue, which she proceeded to hone on me as the meal progressed. I had hoped that I had slipped under her radar, but she knew who I was and prodded me with questions about Clem, myself, and art. I didn’t hold up well on any score, and at some personal jab or other over dessert, I felt my eyes start to tear. I excused myself, sweet tooth notwithstanding, and escaped into the bathroom, never to return to the table.
Lee had been talking to Clem and said she would like to have a tête-à-tête—some new drama, no doubt. So, without much ado, we left the party and went back to Lee’s place. With us was Lee’s nephew, Ronnie. Lee and Clem went up the few stairs to her bedroom off the living room while Ronnie and I perched on a window seat, the room lit only by a street lamp. We had little to say. He was strumming a guitar. It all seemed like a stage set where all the action was offstage, with the audience’s attention drawn to the sliver of light coming from the open door. The only sound was the steady flow of voices, on and on, accompanied downstage by the soft sounds of the guitar. I was torn between waiting and taking a cab home, but I was overcome with inertia. Maybe it was exhaustion. Two divas in one night.
That was my last interlude with Lee. Other than the inevitable casual acknowledgments in crowded places, we never spoke again. Lee died in 1984, at age seventy-five. Though her last years had been difficult, plagued as she was by severe arthritis, she had achieved success as an artist.
DAVID SMITH
I HEAR his graveled voice that at times could be so honeyed and soft that it sounded ingratiating, even condescending. When he talked about art he talked straight out. And when he got angry, the gravel thundered and grated. I see his big ears that, once I noticed them, were hard to avoid staring at. I feel his dark bushy mustache that was harsh, too harsh, against my skin when we would greet or part from each other. I see his large head and the bulk of his torso, which made people think he was a towering man, much bigger than he actually was. At a distance he would seem to loom, but face-to-face we were about the same height. But that heft was mighty. When he arrived at Bank Street, he filled the doorway side to side.
We saw a lot of David when he would come into town for a hit of the city after his long periods of seclusion upstate. In the early forties he had built his house and studio in Bolton Landing near Lake George and had lived and worked there ever since. David and his wife, Jeanne, whom I had met in New York a few times and liked a lot, had recently separated. She had taken their two baby girls and moved back to Washington, D.C., her hometown. Now he lived in Bolton Landing alone. When he would come down from his mountain, there he would be at our door, tweedy, rough-hewn, smelling of cigars, and ready for an art infusion and some high life. A hardy man, homespun. At least, that was how he appeared. Sometimes, if David went overboard on the woodsman talk, Clem would remind him he was just a middle-class city boy from the Midwest.
We would hang out, go to galleries and openings, and always ended up at the Five Spot or the Half Note. Like most artists, David loved jazz, traveling in troops. He was all go-go, do-do. That was how it was in New York. Bolton Landing was something else. And it was the
re, after I had been married about two years, that I first got to know David one-on-one.
It was fall, and as we drove north it got darker and colder. I had never been to Lake George. There was someone else with us. I don’t remember who, but it was someone with a car, because we couldn’t have afforded to rent one. The smell of the impending wilderness seeped through the windows. Driving through the night, I wondered if this was the farthest north I had ever been. But no, there was an earlier time when in 1942 my mother, my brother, Norden, and I drove to Saranac Lake. Behind the wheel that day was her current boyfriend, who had the implausible and unforgettable name Colby Dam. He himself would be utterly forgettable and, like so many of his predecessors, would soon be out of our lives.
It was my eighth summer, and for two weeks we stayed on the lake in a log cabin with a forbidding outhouse and a scratchy wooden seat. Afraid to sit, I would hover over it, terrified of what might come up through that black hole to nowhere. Colby and my brother fished—girls not allowed—while I wrote stories about being eaten by wolves and bears and snakes and, of course, fish. I illustrated the stories, bound them together with yarn, and called them books. Meanwhile, my mother swatted and whacked at all the crawling, flying creatures and smeared us head to toe with calamine.
After dark, she and Colby would tear off to whatever nightlife there was to be found and I would lie in bed, rigid, listening to the caterwauling of nature on a hot summer’s night, a sentry armed against the fearsome hordes that were massing to storm the cabin. I would wait for my mother and the man to return, wait for the whispers and laughter to die down, wait for their silence before I slept.
Clem pointed out Lake George on our left, but it was too dark and I saw nothing except motels, mostly closed, it being off-season. The winding road continued for miles. I kept expecting to see a town; there had to be a town. But it was not to be. We turned up a hill, away from the lake, up a steep rutted road off of which was David’s place marked with his sign, TERMINAL IRON WORKS. Ominous, I thought. And indeed, the house was not welcoming, built as it was of exposed cinder blocks, raw to the eye and touch inside and out. My spirits sank. The main room was rough and ready, like David. The place seemed full of musty, dim corners, the furniture unyielding. I saw no sign of a woman’s touch. I was surprised. How could Jeanne have been so quickly and completely erased? This was a man’s house, and I didn’t know what to do with that. My mind whirled: Where will I sit, is there any food, where will we sleep? I was already counting hours until we could leave. But when that would be, I didn’t know. The men were happy, pouring the Scotch and lighting up the cigars. I considered the advantages of getting drunk and decided to join in.
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