The two authors spent ten years working on this biography of Jackson Pollock; after reading it, you wonder how they got it all done so quickly. They get everything. Legislation should be passed requiring that all biographies are prepared with such care and thoroughness.
The depth of their research, and their skill at doling out their information, rather than beating you over the head with it, shows in this climactic scene at a Hamptons dinner party, where Pollock lashes out at Hans Namuth, who made those famous movies of Pollock’s painting process:
…In his rage, he tore a belt of sleigh bells from the living room door and swung it at Namuth. “Jackson, put those back,” Namuth ordered.
It was the wrong thing to say. At the sound of another “direction” from Namuth, Jackson imploded. All the repressed anger and self-hatred—from months of standing in the cold, waiting for the next shot, the next angle, painting on cue; the months of “Where do I stand?” “When do I come in?” and “Should I do it now?”—flooded back. All the phoniness and self-deception seemed suddenly, excruciatingly, obvious. “Maybe those natives who figure they’re being robbed of their souls by having their image taken have something,” Jackson later told a friend. His brothers had been right. His desperate effort to prove them wrong by striking a Faustian bargain with Namuth—celluloid immortality for artistic integrity—by clinging to the image of the great artist, had only confirmed it; he was a fraud. Celebrity had betrayed him, just as his family had.
Jackson fought the recognition with rage. “You’re a phony,” he sputtered at Namuth, pointing his blunted finger. “I’m not a phony, you’re a phony. ” Lee tried to dispel the gathering storm by calling everyone to the table, but Jackson and Namuth brought their argument with them, carried on in ferocious whispers. They sat down, oblivious to the other guests, Jackson at the head of the table, Namuth at his right. The whispering grew more intense. “I’m not a phony, you’re a phony,’ Jackson repeated—they were the “tiresome, awful repetitions of a drunk,” recalls one witness—”You know I’m not a phony, but you’re a phony.” Suddenly, Jackson stood up, breathing heavily and glaring at Namuth. He clutched the end of the table with both hands. “Should I do it now?” he demanded in fierce self-mockery. “Jackson—No!” Namuth commanded. Yet another command. One guest remembered wanting to throw something at Namuth or to shout, “`Shut up Hans.’ He was being so pompous and authoritarian.” Jackson never took his eyes off Namuth. There was a long pause before he repeated, louder this time, “Now?” Immediately Namuth shouted, “Jackson—this you must not do!” One last time, in a roar, Jackson demanded, “Now?” but before Namuth could answer, he heaved the heavy table up in the air.
My favorite biography. Hated to see it end.
3C Review 