jackson pollock

If Jackson Pollock was a photographer – #10

I imagine one his photographs might look like this:

 

 

If Jackson Pollock was a photographer – #9 – White Poles

I imagine one his photographs might look like this:

 

 

If Jackson Pollock was a photographer, #8

I imagine one his photographs might look like this:

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Jackson Pollock, Life Magazine

I just received an original copy of Life Magazine from August 8th, 1949 featuring Jackson Pollock in the article “Is he the greatest living painter in the United States?”  Happy days!

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Poetry – Mark Doty – To Jackson Pollock

To Jackson Pollock
Mark Doty

Last night somebody murdered a young tree on Seventh Avenue
between 18th and 19th—only two in that block,
and just days ago we’d taken refreshment in the crisp and particular shade

of that young ginkgo’s tight leaves, its beauty and optimism,
though I didn’t think of that word until the snapped trunk this morning,
a broken broomstick discarded, and tell me what pleasure

could you take from that? Maybe I understand it,
the sudden surge of rage and the requirement of a gesture,
but this hour I place myself firmly on the side of thirst,

the sapling’s ambition to draw from the secret streams
beneath this city, to lift up our subterranean waters.
Power in a pointless scrawl now on the pavement.

Pollock, when he swung his wild arcs in the barn-air
by Accabonac, stripped away incident and detail till all
that was left was swing and fall and return,

austere rhythm deep down things, beautiful
because he’s subtracted the specific stub and pith,
this wreck on the too-hot pavement where scavengers

spread their secondhand books in the scalding sunlight.
Or maybe he didn’t. Erase it I mean: look into the fierce ellipse
of his preserved gesture, and hasn’t he swept up every bit,

all the busted and incomplete, half-finished and lost?
Alone in the grand rooms of last century’s heroic painters
—granted entrance, on an off day, to a museum

with nobody, thank you, this once nobody talking—
and for the first time I understood his huge canvases
were prayers. No matter to what. And silent as hell;

he rode the huge engine of his attention toward silence,
and silence emanated from them, and they would not take no
for an answer, though there is no other. Forget supplication,

beseechment, praise. Look down
into it, the smash-up swirl, oil and pigment and tree-shatter:
tumult in equilibrium.


Shared from https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/jackson-pollock

If Jackson Pollock was a photographer, #7

I imagine one his photographs might look like this:

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If Jackson Pollock was a photographer, #6

I imagine one hos photographs might look like this:

No. 6

No. 6

Poem – Where the Color Comes From

The lonely path tunneled
through the daily routine
and expectations.

The tunnel became your
gateway and hiding place,
a retreat when life
became too real, a distraction.

Did you ever see the
colors of the sunset?

Or even then was
the winter sun awash of colors,
a gray scale landscape
pushing you inward?

If Jackson Pollock was a photographer, #5

I imagine one of his photos would look like this:

Jackson Pollock photography

Jackson Pollock photography

Poem – Beyond What We Think We See

The lonely path tunneled
through the daily routine
and expectations.

The tunnel was your
gateway and hiding place,
a retreat when life
became too real, a
distraction.

Did ever see the colors
of the sunset as they
appeared over the black
waters in the city?

I imagine you looking
at nothing in particular
on the outside, but in that
chaotic mind of energy,
you picked up each thread
of light, each string,
turned it over and examined
each particle and throw
it at the canvas at your feet.