Delilah Nichols

The Diary of Lee Krasner

Spring 1942

I couldn’t stand the fact that I didn’t know the name Jackson Pollock. Simply could not stand it. I knew all the artists in New York, and here was one just two blocks down of me and I didn’t know a thing. I rushed to his studio just as soon as I found out he was also invited to exhibit in the McMillen Gallery, in January.

Sandy opened the door. He was white and bald, wearing only a green collared shirt and slightly painted jeans. A total artist. The apartment was small with the front door opening directly into the kitchen table. The place what built up of two hallways branching out on either side and a kitchen and living space in the middle. I decided to let myself onto the linoleum and past Sandy through the canvas covered walls. I followed the smell of acrylic to a shut door on the side of the hallway. Sandy shouted something like, “Good luck getting in there,” as if it wasn’t a place most people were allowed to go.

I’ve never been one to follow rules of anything, so I knocked. I just kept knocking until the door was opened. He wasn’t a large man, I figure less than 6’ but he didn’t act small. He carried himself like a man. A strong man with strong hands. I love his hands. I don’t think I ever saw more powerful hands. He looked upset, so before he could say anything I opened the door wider and started talking. I told who I was and made jokes about how we’re competition. He seemed to like my sense of humor. His careful smile told me he didn’t smile often. I took the opportunity to make my way around his studio.

The room was entirely constructed of wood. Dusty, dark, distraught floorboards and the wooden walls barely peeking through the piled paintings. His work was abstract and colorful, almost the same style of mine. But don’t let the world colorful fool you. Some were bold blues and blacks that made you feel his sorrow and anger. I loved a painter who used emotion. I could tell he painted from within. I asked him about it and he denied every piece of what I was inquiring. He kept quiet while I expressed my appreciation for painting after painting. I thought it was odd.

I came face to face with one canvas. He told me that it was the one he was thinking of putting in the gallery. Jackson almost complimented himself before vanishing back into wherever it is he goes. You can learn so much about someone when you’re in their space. He told me it wasn’t done. I wouldn’t hear it. I loved this painting. I told him not to ever touch a piece on it. But who knows if he’s going to listen to me or not. I really hope he does though.

He called this masterpiece, “Birth” and for some reason I already felt that’s what it was. I understood his art. It’s important that when someone makes sense to you that you keep them in your life. Everyone needs some clarity now and again.

The more I spent in this brilliant room the more passionate I became. I was furious at myself for never taking the time to seek out such a brilliant name as Jackson Pollock. I was lusting over this once stranger’s talent and passion.

I needed him to see my work. When I asked him to visit my studio, however, he didn’t seem excited. I know he has passion though. I see it in his work. I’m not sure he likes discussing his art though. Or maybe it’s art in general. Which I don’t understand because when someone is that great at something, his work deserves to be known. I will make his work known.

He kept refusing on seeing my studio. I kept thinking to myself, ‘how difficult is this guy going to be?’ I mean really. All I want him to do is take a stroll a couple blocks down and see a fellow abstract admirer’s work. I know what I do is good. Or else I wouldn’t be doing it. It’s as simple as that.

Winter 1942

    When I imagined moving in together, I pictured us working in our studios shouting down the hall to each other about our pictures or how we’re feeling. As romantic as I pictured it, it sure as hell isn’t starting off that way. Jackson never wakes before noon. I, a lover of mornings, wake before daybreak.

It’s really not as bad as I’m making it sound. I take this opportunity to work in my studio. The sun is just starting to rise over the buildings next to me. It doesn’t take me long at all to sketch my basic ideas on the canvas. If I can get enough paint on the canvas before Jackson wakes up I might let him in to see it. Me and Jackson had to come up with this schedule, for his sake. We only let each other in our studios maybe once a week in order to show what we are working on. I don’t feel like I give Jackson good enough critic. I don’t think anyone could. As he repeatedly tells me, he knows exactly who is when he is painting. So, how can I tell him what to paint when his response is he’s painting himself? He’s smart that way. Always knowing what to say in order to win the battle.

    He woke today around 12:30 in the afternoon. Coffee, eggs, and toast for him. Turkey sandwich and soda for me. He is so sluggish in  his “mornings.” I swear he’s in front of that damn cup of coffee for two hours. It infuriates me to see him sitting at the wobbling table, wasting his day.

    Everyday he surprises me. His studio doesn’t have electric lights, so he is only able to paint for a few hours. But what he paints in that time is nothing short of extraordinary. It seems like everyday he is painting a new piece, but he never seems to be done with the old one. Me, on the other hand, I cannot move on until I can admire my work as opposed to just look at it.

November 1945

    Has this year been a goddamn whirlwind or what. Our lives are better than ever before. We’re married and moved to the Hamptons and all! I knew from the moment I saw Jackson stripped down for who he was, a man so emotionally aware and excitable but without a devoted supporter or woman. I needed to be that for him. Because I wanted to be.

    We’re getting married at Marble Collegiate Church on 5th Avenue... Jackson’s idea. When he first proposed the idea, I wouldn’t have it. We are not religious, never been to church, I don’t even wear the color white. We’re was this crazy man getting all of his outrageous ideas. I swear some of the stuff that comes out of his mouth is just to mess with me. But, he wouldn’t shake the idea. He seemed to genuinely want this for us. I know that when something is genuine, it’s important to follow it. Plus, it made him so happy. And he did just move out to the Hamptons for me. So I did it.

    Our first house was terrible. I wasn’t happy and felt I single handedly made the worst decision of our lives. Jackson is best under this type of pressure. He is a problem solver, mostly because it’s hard for him to ever see anything as a problem. He found us another house and holy, is this house perfect.

    We have an attic and gigantic kitchen and from our backyard you can almost see Accabonac Creek. There is a rotting barn blocking the view though. Jackson promised me to move the barn, which he has and he made it his studio which means I have the attic to myself. We have replaced the dirt under where the barn used to be with a garden. He planted everything and I tend to it.

    I love the inspiration this home gives us. He has come up with a new style of painting that his admirers love. They’re calling it action painting. Jackson Pollock has graduated from painting from a tube. Now he uses liquid paints and splatters them amongst the canvas, creating not a picture at all. He is a genius. A Goddamn genius.

November 1950

    For the past two years Jackson has quit drinking. They have been lovely. We were forced to face our issues and get over them instead of running away. Usually he would leave and get himself drunk and I would lock myself in my mind only letting positive lies escape my mouth. Tonight was one of those nights.

    We had ten friends over for a late Thanksgiving get together. I was in the kitchen putting the roast beef on each plate, while Alice and Margaret were running back in forth, trying to set the table. Such good women.

    Jackson was outside freezing his poor ass off with Hans, filming his rise to stardom. I could understand why Jackson didn’t want to make the movie. He wasn’t one to speak highly of his own work in public or speak of the linguistics of art in general. But, he would do anything for a friend. His loyalty is one of the many things I love about him. He sure as hell is a devoted individual, something we have in common.
    Anyways, when they came inside, they were arguing over something. Maybe the weather. Maybe Jackson finally expressed his feelings on the movie. Or maybe Hans was being his normal controlling self, artists can be that way. I know. At first, you couldn’t tell who was mad at who. But then Jackson poured himself a drink.

    He brought it to the table and I would not have it. I shook my head at him. Whilst still managing to keep full eye contact, Jackson lifted his drink and took it to his mouth. I would not have it. I shouted across the table at him. I was a mess. I couldn’t understand what was so goddamn terrible that Jackson had to throw away the best two years of our lives for it.

    It was hard for me not to internally make it about myself. His drinking affected our marriage and we both knew it. When he made eye contact during that first sip, something inside of me just broke. I wouldn’t stay composed on the outside. I was shouting across the table. Airing all of the dirty laundry, that no one knew we had. I’m embarrassed of publicly shaming him like that. What man can feel like a man, when his own wife is trying to tear him down.

    He stood up just as quickly as he sat down. And he brought up with him his end of the table. I wasn’t even aware when Jackson threw the table until I already had a bowl full of potatoes on my lap and eleven plates of roast beef on my floor.

Summer 1965

    I look back on my relationship with Jackson fondly. Before me no one really knew the name Jackson Pollock. I gave him the support that allowed him to have confidence and willingness to explore. Action painting was Jackson and he was truly his art. He was eccentric and lively and so quick to jump to a conclusion or fight or solution for anything.

    The world knows how passionate he was about his art, but that’s all they really saw of Jackson. At home, I would see a man with so much passion even art was not a big enough outlet. He was always baking something sweet. Or out in the garden tending to our marigolds or morning glory’s. Or in the house telling me about his next great plan for himself. And I would be there right by his side to help him do it.

    I’ve grown past dwelling on his temper. But I want to touch on it so people know. Jackson wasn’t a violent man. Yes he wasn’t too careful with a wooden table or chair, but he never laid a finger on another human being. Even in his drunkest stupor he would always be first to back out of the bar fight, no matter who was egging him on.

For all of those pathetic people trying to make a profit off of calling his death a suicide, you can just shove that sorry story up where the sun don’t shine. I know my husband better than anyone else in this world and I know he could never do that to the girls in his car with him that night. It was a goddamn drunk driving accident. Ever heard of one before?

It was the hardest thing I ever had to go through and I have people going around my back saying I made him so unhappy, he had to kill himself? What is wrong with this world. It appalls me. Simply appalls me.

We were madly in love for the majority of our lives together and I believe we were still in love until the day he died. I know he loved me because he never left me. I wasn’t supporting him financially, but he knew I wasn’t a burden. He needed my love and support. With out me he was a sad lonely man, no matter who he surrounded himself with.

Delilah Nichols

“Jackson Pollock” Assumption @ 0

    I have never liked art because in my opinion, and many others, I am not the best at it. My senior year (after failing to comply to the guidelines of an independent intersession) I was sucked into taking Art. I was upset and decided not to even show up for the first few days. Although I don’t draw or paint the best I still love to look at art and am able to appreciate a good artist. For this reason, I was pleasantly surprised when I found out our class would be taking a trip to the San Diego Museum of Art to see the Gauguin to Warhol exhibit.

    Upon entering the room, I was struck by the wall-sized canvas of bright yellow and red splashes and hidden black faces. “Convergence” by Jackson Pollock. I spent a good twenty minutes examining this particular piece as opposed to the two minutes I spent in front of any of the other paintings, almost like a meditation of sorts. I would occasionally be interrupted by debates behind me of whether or not Pollock’s “Convergence” should be considered art.

    However, I wouldn’t agree with the nay sayers. Pollock’s work dares you to look deeper. There is no clear image in front of you. It’s a crazy cluster of cracked paint and color, but it makes me feel something. When I look at Pollock’s work I don’t feel overwhelmed or trapped by all of the lines of color. It eases my over examining mind, forcing me to take in the whole canvas before I’m even able to focus on one aspect.

The first thing I notice when I begin to dive in is that the paint doesn’t look splattered, it seems meticulously placed and swirled. This also eased my mind. His art is like an onion, so I just stood there peeling back each layer of color, trying to make up my own shapes and words in his canvas.

I want to research Pollock further to figure out if, like his art, he was an onion. How many secrets was he holding onto? Is this why Pollock created drip art, because he had secrets or because of another reason? I’m very curious about his work and how it reflects him and how it began. I wonder what obstacles he faced in his life and how that impacted his work. I’m intrigued by the way he put paint to canvas in such a precise way and what that meant. And I want to know if he was happy because the bright colors and sporadic looking art shows me an outgoing soul and crazy mind.