Jackson Pollock’s One: Number 31, 1950

The work reminds me of the first-grade art classoing this “art work” where we made pictures out of cardboard paper, marbles, and watercolor. Folding up the 4 edges of thin cardboards, we made a shallow sink as our canvases; then, dipping marbles into different colors of ink/watercolor, we slightly tilted and shook the paper-sink where the marble (usually one at a time) rolled over and made traced on the paper as it moved around. We couldn’t really control the marbles since they were light in weight so most of the children made quite similar pictures in general; there were only a few variations on colors. It was the making-process that made the activity unique and fun for the children. I still remember d and splashed the ink all over myself. My memory of the activity—maybe less significant–is very much the same as how art historians remark on Pollock’s work, it is the action of making the art that made Pollock’s name in art history.

With such large scale of work, the more I stare at it, the more I am drawn into the massive chaos of the dominant black and white pigments dribbling on the canvas. It is probably too chaotic to an extent that I actually find tranquility as looking upon the work for a while. Once my eyes become used to the ceaseless and dense linear lines and dribbles on the canvas, the several white clusters of paints gradually leads me into the trance of infinity on this finite canvas; the white extends into the perpetuity while the black splashes hold me back to my time and space. It is between this to and forth of my mind that I keep the balance and maintain impersonal to the work. While gazing upon the work, I somehow hear single piano notes playing along with his splashes of paints.

I thought such breathless intensity of Pollock’s “strokes” would suffocate me. However the actual viewing experience was tranquil and calm, despite the constant interruption of people blocking and museum security staff’s commending. My logic loses track of categorizing this work; it is utterly unsystematic and goes beyond all my learned knowledge on interpreting an painting by it strokes. So I give up the attempt to analyze and simply let my mind wandering on Jackson Pollock’s canvas.