One: Number 31—The Fine Line Between Genius and Madness

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When I was nineteen, I traveled to New York with my parents. We went to “M Butterfly” with friends, ate insanely fantastic food, did a little shopping and visited MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. I wandered about, not really paying attention, as I’ve never been a big fan of modern art, then I turned a corner and was stopped in my tracks.

pollock, jackson pollock, number one 31 1950, madmikesamerica.com
One: Number 31, 1950 Jackson Pollock

One: Number 31 was hanging in front of me. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move, I just stood there, staring. Walking towards the painting, I stumbled back and sat down on a hard, wooden bench. You could have set off a firecracker next to my head and I would not have moved. I had just discovered Jackson Pollock.

Jackson Pollock was one of the most celebrated modern artists of the 20th century. He was leaps and bounds ahead of his contemporaries, and he was slightly mad. He drank like a fish, chain smoked, swore, cheated on his wife and had an extremely self destructive personality. He was the Ernest Hemingway of the art world. His wife, Lee Krasner, gave up her own career to promote Pollock, and he rewarded her with verbal abuse and adultery. Most believe that he was incapable of loving anyone, because he could not love himself.

Jackson Pollock was killed in a car accident when he was 44, a year younger than I am. He was accompanied by his mistress and a friend. Pollock’s mistress, Ruth, survived, but the friend was also killed. When he died, he was without a doubt one of the most influential artists in America, if not the world. His last paintings, Scent and Search, were painted five years after One: Number 31. He was dead a year later.

There is a fine line between genius and madness, especially when it comes to artists. By artists, I mean writers, painters, sculptors, photographers, even dancers. Gelsey Kirkland’s book “Dancing on my Grave” describes horrific bouts of depression, eating disorders and destructive relationships. Diane Arbus killed herself, as did Sylvia Plath. Edgar Allen Poe was insane. Van Gogh, my favorite painter, spent time in an asylum, and his madness can be seen swirling across the sky in Starry Night. And Jackson Pollock drank, drove and killed himself and another person, because he could not figure out how to live a life of peace. His peace was painting, but his work is anything but peaceful.

One: Number 31 is bold, brash and gorgeous. But if you look at it, I mean really look at it, you can feel the madness. You can see it in the drips and the pattern, or lack thereof. No, that’s not quite right. There is a pattern, as there is in all madness. We cannot see it because we are not mad. Would we want to be, just for a moment, if we could create something as stunning as One: Number 31, or Starry Night, or write a poem as moving as Among the Narcissi, or take a photograph like Identical Twins? Would I give up my sanity to write the novel of the century? Would you descend into madness to create the greatest work of art in 50 years?

Jackson Pollock didn’t have that choice, he was mad, and he created some of the most beautiful modern art in the world. He died tragically young, but I wonder if some of us aren’t destined for that. If a fire that burns so hot with talent and creativity is meant to burn for a very short time. The true tragedy is that while he spiraled further and further away from the light, he took innocent people with him. All of that, the pain, the destructiveness, the anger, the sorrow and the angst, pour from the canvas when you really look at One: Number 31. It’s an extraordinary painting; it proves that line exists, and it tells the story of Jackson Pollock’s brilliance and madness better, in my opinion, than any other work.

If you find yourself wandering the halls of MOMA, and you come upon One: Number 31, pause. Study it, peer into the depths. Examine it with both your eye and your heart. You may find yourself changed forever.

About Post Author

Erin Nanasi

Erin Nanasi is an avid underwater basket weaver, with a penchant for satire and the odd wombat reference.
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4 years ago

I love fine art, however, this sort of art doesn’t appeal to me. I must agree with the critics as all I see are random splashes of paint.

4 years ago

Pleased to read this. I saw the MOMA Pollock show back in the late 1990s. Twice actually, once with a painter friend and again with an art critic. I’d long been familiar with him from books, but truly you need to see his work in person. I large show with many pieces is overwhelming.

The intricacy and detail needs to be seen up close and yet it needs to be seen from a distance too. These are not, as his contemporary critics sneered: splashes of paint. There are films of him at work, pouring the paint and it’s worth seeing.

I don’t know whether mental illness or depression or other such things is the cause of or result of such genius, but his general public critics certainly did mock him. Even today!

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