Jackson Pollock Quotes

Love is friendship set to music.

Joan of Arc came back as a little girl in Japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends. Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was. Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill. Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia. Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He’s an old man on a factory line. You wouldn’t recognise him. Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor. And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.

Energy and motion made visible – memories arrested in space

every good artist paints what he is

The modern artist is working with space and time and expressing his feelings rather than illustrating.

Painting is self-discovery. Every good artist paints what he is.

But people like the doll guy who sells women and the dog guy who buys women, and other guys who, say, rape women, or maybe don’t go as far as violent rape but treat women like objects instead of people—sure, there’s a difference in the level of crime, but it’s all the same thing, where women become a canvas for throwing emotional baggage, Jackson Pollock style.

The painting has a life of its own

Many of the most accomplished people of our era were considered by experts to have no future. Jackson Pollock, Marcel Proust, Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, Lucille Ball, and Charles Darwin were all thought to have little potential for their chosen fields.

I'd rather sit next to Brian for two hours in a dark theater than have a wall painting party with Jackson Pollock

Technique is just a means of arriving at a statement.

Every good painter paints what he is.

It doesn't matter how the paint is put on, as long as something is said.

Kyle, you are a mellow dude...You can’t be with an agitator. And that’s what she is. An agitator. She’s a Jackson Pollock and you’re a Thomas Kinkade.

Like punk rock, like Jackson Pollock, like Jack Kerouac, it was truly human, a mix of perfect beauty and cathartic error.

Allan: That's quite a lovely Jackson Pollock, isn't it? Museum Girl: Yes, it is. Allan: What does it say to you? Museum Girl: It restates the negativeness of the universe. The hideous lonely emptiness of existence. Nothingness. The predicament of Man forced to live in a barren, Godless eternity like a tiny flame flickering in an immense void with nothing but waste, horror and degradation, forming a useless bleak straitjacket in a black absurd cosmos. Allan: What are you doing Saturday night? Museum Girl: Committing suicide. Allan: What about Friday night?

What’s the difference, really, between Malfoy and heroin? What are they but two shipwrecks, entangled by the same tide? How fucking poetic. He and I are paint splattered all over the place and we’re staining everything and maybe we absolutely don’t go together, but to me — to me we’re a fucking Jackson Pollock.

A monochrome Jackson Pollock," Jane says, and then tells Tiny, "We gotta bolt. This band is like a root canal sans painkiller".

I want to express my feelings rather than illustrate them

Today, we'll celebrate Independence Day using the backdrop of the sky as a canvas, the fireworks thrown against it bearing semblance to the drips from the hands of Jackson Pollock but we'll forget that here, in America there are still some who are not free.

... she wore a masterpiece smile with smudges of paint and graphite across her cheek, and her eyes were a Jackson Pollock painting.

He and I are paint splattered all over the place and we’re staining everything and maybe we absolutely don’t go together, but to me — to me we’re a fucking Jackson Pollock.

Picasso, that’s abstract art. Kandinsky. Jackson Pollock.

I can't help thinking of Jackson Pollock, who poured, splattered and lashed the canvass with strings of paint. His process was about snaring not only a vision, but the moment the vision occurred to him. The paint becomes a net cast around something too fast to be caught. The bare spaces between the net's strands are as significant as the strands themselves because they hint at what can't be painted, can't be described.

The painter locks himself out of his own studio. And then has to break in like a thief.

It lands halfway down the skirt. The red wine against the green silk makes it look like Gaia, the primordial earth mother, is having her period. I know I should feel guilty. Contrite. I should be rushing to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of club soda before the stain sets, or rushing Viveca’s dress down the street to that dry cleaning place. But I’m not contrite. I’m a little giddy, in fact. I pour another mug of wine and throw it at the other three dresses. In some places the wine seeps in and it dribbles down to the hems in others. I do it again: pour, splash. I feel like Jackson Pollock must have felt, except I’m not dribbling paint; I’m staining beauty with blood.

No chaos, damn it.

New needs need new techniques.

Light-colored roofs aren’t a good complement to splattered blood. Long brown lines and streaks marked the rough gray paint, creating a Jackson Pollock canvas of death and dirt. The

It was a biochemical Jackson Pollock: a field of strings, tangles, loops.

He was still smiling as the bullet dovetailed into his collarbone, blood splashing the wall behind him like the Jackson Pollock paintings we were learning about in Contemporary Art.

THE TRUTH IS BORN IN STRANGE PLACES Joan of Arc came back as a little girl in Japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends. Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was. Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill. Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia. Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He’s an old man on a factory line. You wouldn’t recognise him. Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor. And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.

Dali’s Reclining Woman Wearing a Chemise looks like a dead slaughtered doll, and I can see preying eagles, broken arrows, and jazz musicians in Jackson Pollock, and because I believe that Man Ray and Duchamp were lovers.

There I was at fifteen, on the hook, confronted by Matisse and Chagall, by Nolde, Kirchner, and Schmidt-Rotluff, by Guernica and the frantic wall-sized Jackson Pollock, by the Beckmann triptych and Louise Nevelson’s dark black sculpture.

So there they stood, side by side, the better for me to compare them, an elderly gentleman and a young man, as thousands of cobalt-colored flies swooped in thousands of wild nosedives, their metallic wings and bodies embroidering an immense tableau vivant made up of constantly shifting curves and splashes like the flow of paint in those gigantic Jackson Pollocks.

The tan carpet was stiff and black with stripes of dried blood, spattered like a Jackson Pollock canvas. The walls were streaked with it, handprints smearing the dingy beige surfaces. And the bodies. Dozens of bodies. People she’d seen every day since kindergarten, people whom she’d played tag with and cried over and kissed, were lying at odd angles, their bodies pale and cold, their eyes staring like rows of dolls in a shop window.

The next day, New Year's Eve, huge gray clouds swept down from Canada and burst with snow. For days, the white of the sky and the white of the ground were indistinguishable; the white creek disappeared into the white harbor and the white ocean beyond. On one of these brief days of pure light, bundled against the cold, with only a cigarette for warmth, his hands so numb he could barely hold a brush, Jackson Pollock altered the course of Western art.

Movies I remember in impressions. No matter how many times I see a film, my memory of it is like a Monet painting...or a Cezanne, depending on the genre. Sometimes all I can muster is a Jackson Pollock. My memory of experience is usually the same: I carry with me only the sensations it gave me, the general outline of its content, the essential colors that strained my sensibility in the moments I took it in. I don't remember dialogue or specific action. Only shapes and impressions.

 You would have loved Jackson. He was a downtown guy, a real Bohemian. No banker’s hours for him, believe you me. Every night the drinking and the talking and the fighting and the dancing and the staying up late; like everyone’s romantic idea of what an artist ought to be: the anti-Rothko... At his worst you still loved him though; you loved him because he loved art so much... He thought it mattered. He thought painting mattered... Does not the poignancy stop your heart?... How could this story not end in tragedy?  Goya said, 'We have Art that we may not perish from Truth.'... Pollock saw some truth. Then he didn’t have art to protect him any more... Who could survive that?  I was walking up to my house last week and this couple was passing. Lady looks in the window, says: 'I wonder who owns all the Rothkos.'... Just like that I’m a noun. A Rothko.

The people of Cody like you to think that Buffalo Bill was a native son. In fact, I’m awfully proud to tell you, he was an Iowa native, born in the little town of Le Claire in 1846. The people of Cody, in one of the more desperate commercial acts of this century, bought Buffalo Bill’s birthplace and re-erected it in their town, but they are lying through their teeth when they hint that he was a local. And the thing is, they have a talented native son of their own. Jackson Pollock, the artist, was born in Cody. But they don’t make anything of that because, I suppose, Pollock was a complete wanker when it came to shooting buffalo.

After history, which I occasionally enjoy, and French, which I tres don't, I have double art. The art studio hasn't been changed in, like, a hundred years. The floors are battered and creaky and covered with so many layers of dried paint that if looks like Jackson Pollock Was Here, minus the cigarette butts. Apparently, past generations of Willing Art Girls had tossed their cigarettes onto the tiled window well outside rather than onto the floor. "They were more ladylike," Cat Vernon told me once, pointing out the window beside her easle. The butts are gone, but there are burn marks, scattered like leopard spots,over the terra-cotta surface.

Jackson Pollock alguna vez fue asistente de David Alfaro Siqueiros.

أنا مهتم بالتعبير عن عواطفي لا بتوضيحها

like a samurai Jackson Pollock, I scream through my mask and thrash the disgusting little buggers into tinier flying sky-serpents that merrily decorate me, and the canvas on the walls.

Whichever way you look at it, the story of soccer in Australia is not a happy one. It is as a vast mess of shattered dreams, colonised tribes and forgotten heroes, splayed out like a Jackson Pollock painting across the landscape of Australian history. It is a story that haunts rather than comforts. 'There are a lot of broken people in the game,' Michael Cockerill once said. 'Yet it's still the sport with the most blue sky in Australia. Even after everything, it's still only scratched the surface'.

Then he remembered the horse. That explained his arse and the fact that he felt confident his posterior currently looked like a Jackson Pollock painting from a particularly dark period in the artist’s life.

what was left of the head off-screen with it, leaving behind a perfectly framed Jackson Pollock, if the artist had used only reds and added texture with broken pottery and clumps of cauliflower. With no one to cut the feed, it kept going, streaming the same grisly static scene, animated only by the painfully slow sliding of those shards and clumps down the wall as they submitted to gravity. Deaths like it happened every day in America, enabled by the easy availability of firearms and the increasingly pointless search for anything that mattered

All the art experts, all the big galleries, if not maybe quite all of the humble folk who look at them, agree Jackson Pollock’s splatter paintings do indeed count as great art. And JP intended it to be art too. But what’s curious about most of the most radical artists of the post-Second World War period is that they came from nowhere to prominence with the support of . . . the CIA! Yes, the American secret services actively promoted (through books, funding schemes, newspapers and of course galleries) radical art as part of a labyrinthine strategy to undermine the Soviet Union. This was all part of a special strategy to win over intellectuals – including philosophers – described as ‘the battle for Picasso’s mind’ by one former CIA agent, Thomas Braden, in a television interview in the 1970s. Tom Braden was responsible for dispensing money under the heading Congress for Cultural Freedom. Naturally, most of the people he gave money to had no idea that the funds, and hence the artistic direction, actually came from the CIA. Intellectuals and great artists, after all, hate being told what to think. And what was the communist empire doing meanwhile? They were promoting, through galleries, public funding and so on, a very different kind of art supposedly reflecting communist political values. ‘Soviet realism’ was a kind of reaction to ‘Western Impressionism’ (all those dotty – pointilliste the art-experts call them – landscapes and swirling, subjective shapes) and ensured that people in the paintings looked like people, decent, hard-working types too, and what’s more were doing worthy things – like making tractors or (at least) looking inspirationally at the viewer. When Soviet art wasn’t figurative (as this sort of stuff is called), it was very logical and mathematical, full of precise geometrical shapes and carefully weighted blocks of colour.

Many of the most accomplished people of our era were considered by experts to have no future. Jackson Pollock, Marcel Proust, Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, Lucille Ball, and Charles Darwin were all thought to have little potential for their chosen fields. And in some of these cases, it may well have been true that they did not stand out from the crowd early on.

After the body was carted away, the bloodstains on his linoleum looked like an abstract painting by Jackson Pollock.

Aside from being famous, what do Beethoven, Mark Rothko, Hemingway, Francis Ford Coppola, Van Gogh, Alvin Ailey, Robin Williams, Sylvia Plath, Balzac, Jackson Pollock, Edgar Allan Poe, Axl Rose, Mark Twain, and Virginia Woolf have in common? They all suffered from some form of mental illness. Even

Painting is self-discovery. Every good artist paints what he is.

In the corridor the dying man had at last ceased his thrashing. Blood no longer spurted from his neck but simply oozed out onto the drenched carpet. Victor couldn’t help but admire the pattern of red on the wall above the corpse. The criss-crossed lines had a certain aesthetic quality that reminded him of a Jackson Pollock. Victor examined his reflection in the mirrored elevator walls and took a moment to straighten his appearance. In his current surroundings if he looked anything but presentable he would be noted. The elevator doors closed as a shrill scream echoed from the direction of the stairwell. Someone had just received something of a surprise. Victor guessed she wasn’t a great fan of Pollock’s work

Noa sleeps with the curtains open, allowing as much moonlight as possible to flood her bedroom, allowing her to see each and every picture on the walls, if only as a pale glimmer. It took Noa weeks to perfect the art display. Reproductions of Monet's gardens at Giverny blanket one wall: thousands of violets- smudges of purples and mauves- and azaleas, poppies, and peonies, tulips and roses, water lilies in pastel pinks floating on serene lakes reflecting weeping willows and shimmers of sunshine. Turner's sunsets adorn another: bright eyes of gold at the center of skies and seas of searing magenta or soft blue. The third wall is splashed with Jackson Pollocks: a hundred different colors streaked and splattered above Noa's bed. The fourth wall is decorated by Rothko: blocks of blue and red and yellow blending and bleeding together. The ceiling is papered with the abstract shapes of Kandinsky: triangles, circles, and lines tumbling over one another in energetic acrobatics.

Al llevarme a casa, Harry me dijo —¿cómo podía no saberlo?—que Jackson Pollock se había rebanado la punta de su dedo meñique a los siete años. ¡Siete! Jesucristo. Ni siquiera mi dolor era original

Jackson Pollock.

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Chance has nothing to do with anything as far as I can tell, thank God. If he did, this world would look worse than a canvas by Jackson Pollock.

Like a Jackson Pollock painting,” Rebecca said, “but with words instead of paint.” “You mean a masterpiece?” Emily cried out delightedly.

Whereas a “Bitcoin maximalist” view holds that every payment or expression of value will eventually gravitate to Bitcoin (so long as its network can securely scale), the token economy vision is one of fragmentation in our instruments of value. In fact, if we take it to its logical conclusion, and software-driven systems can be developed to allow liquid exchanges across digital tokens, we may not need to hold a common currency at all to make exchanges with each other. For this to happen, we would need a powerful computer program that could, in real time, create markets to generate counter-referencing values on any two things. We’d need that program to be able to tell us, for example, how many Basic Attention Tokens it would take to buy the rights to a third of a Jackson Pollock painting. It would be a world of digital barter, a world without money as we know it.

anticipated this trend in the 1950s, when it used Jackson Pollock’s action paintings as the backdrop for a fashion shoot for its spring collection. For Indiana the experience was a salutary one. The wordage he utilised in his paintings had always been carefully chosen and carried great emotional resonance, much of it directly autobiographical. He was not a neutralist. He was not attempting to transform the word ‘love’ into a slogan or logo, but that’s what happened anyway, and the effect it had on his reputation as an artist was considerable. Because of the commercial proliferation of the LOVE

Like what Jackson Pollock used to say.  He thought the creation of the painting was the art, and the painting was just what was left.  He didn't know why people wanted to buy his paintings.

anticipated this trend in the 1950s, when it used Jackson Pollock’s action paintings as the backdrop for a fashion shoot for its spring collection. For Indiana the experience was a salutary one. The wordage he utilised in his paintings had always been carefully chosen and carried great emotional resonance, much of it directly autobiographical. He was not a neutralist. He was not attempting to transform the word ‘love’ into a slogan or logo, but that’s what happened anyway, and the effect it had on his reputation as an artist was considerable.

It was, without a doubt, the worst painting I’d ever seen a grown adult produce. If Jackson Pollock had a baby with Picasso and the baby grew up to be a cocaine addict who painted with shaky withdrawal hands, it still would’ve been better than Ryan’s work.

The last of the tables tumbled away, and the Lunch Lady rose slowly, stumbling a little, trying to straighten the scrambled yellow mess of her hair. “Mr. Bruce, you are my hero. I must look like a Jackson Pollock painting—all tumbled and tangled and squiggly.” “Miss Brie, my darling,” said Mr. Bruce, “if I made a statue of cinnamon sticks, with eyes of blueberries and cheeks of apple cobbler and golden gumdrops in its hair, and if I loved that statue so much that it turned into a real live person, it would look just like you.

He was also a more astute politician than even his admirers realized. During his rise to power, he constructed his own base as an independent candidate not beholden to the oil interests in Southern California. For party loyalty, he substituted personal connections to the state’s two most important (and quite conservative) publishers—Joe Knowland in Oakland, and Harry Chandler in Los Angeles. At the very least, these friendships helped neutralize papers that might otherwise have rejected his increasingly liberal agenda. He was a distinguished governor of California. The state was growing by as many as ten thousand new residents a week, and the pressures on the state’s schools, roads, and its water resources were enormous. Facing that challenge had made him tough-minded and pragmatic about government, its limits, and how best it could benefit ordinary people. He was both an optimist and an activist: If he did not exactly bring an ideology to the Court, then he brought the faith of someone who had seen personally what government could and should do to ameliorate the lives of ordinary people. That the great figures on the bench had so much more judicial experience—Black with sixteen years of service on the Court, Frankfurter and Douglas with fourteen each, and Jackson with twelve—did not daunt him. As he saw it, they knew more about the law, but he knew more about the consequences of the law and its effect on ordinary citizens. His law clerk, Earl Pollock, said years later that there were three things that mattered to Earl Warren: The first was the concept of equality; the second was education; and the third was the right of young people to a decent life. He had spent a lifetime refining his view of the role of government, and

He was also a more astute politician than even his admirers realized. During his rise to power, he constructed his own base as an independent candidate not beholden to the oil interests in Southern California. For party loyalty, he substituted personal connections to the state’s two most important (and quite conservative) publishers—Joe Knowland in Oakland, and Harry Chandler in Los Angeles. At the very least, these friendships helped neutralize papers that might otherwise have rejected his increasingly liberal agenda. He was a distinguished governor of California. The state was growing by as many as ten thousand new residents a week, and the pressures on the state’s schools, roads, and its water resources were enormous. Facing that challenge had made him tough-minded and pragmatic about government, its limits, and how best it could benefit ordinary people. He was both an optimist and an activist: If he did not exactly bring an ideology to the Court, then he brought the faith of someone who had seen personally what government could and should do to ameliorate the lives of ordinary people. That the great figures on the bench had so much more judicial experience—Black with sixteen years of service on the Court, Frankfurter and Douglas with fourteen each, and Jackson with twelve—did not daunt him. As he saw it, they knew more about the law, but he knew more about the consequences of the law and its effect on ordinary citizens. His law clerk, Earl Pollock, said years later that there were three things that mattered to Earl Warren: The first was the concept of equality; the second was education; and the third was the right of young people to a decent life. He had spent a lifetime refining his view of the role of government, and he came to the Court ready to implement it.

as thousands of cobalt-colored flies swooped in thousands of wild nosedives, their metallic wings and bodies embroidering an immense tableau vivant made up of constantly shifting curves and splashes like the flow of paint in those gigantic Jackson Pollocks.

Rule #5: Whenever possible, measure your progress in body fat percentage, NOT total pounds. The scale can deceive and derail you. For instance, it’s common to gain muscle while simultaneously losing fat on the SCD. That’s exactly what you want, but the scale number won’t move, and you will get frustrated. In place of the scale, I use DEXA scans, a BodyMetrix home ultrasound device, or calipers with a gym professional (I recommend the Jackson-Pollock 7-point method).

… painting was not so much an art movement as a mission to free people from material concerns.

… a lack of influence is of course its own kind of influence.

the moment you follow someone else, you cease to be your own leader.

… art was a process of evolution - not revolution...

… to be an artist is to assert one's will, but to be a woman is to relinquish it.

… the poetry lies in the crude handling of paint rather than in the subject matter.

… his hands got in the way of his art, preventing him from recording sensation as quickly as he experienced it.

… one must destroy in order to create.

… the poetry lies in the crude handling of the paint rather than in the subject matter.

It's as if a thousand different sensations have been merged, but just barely, and only by a superhuman act of creativity.

Something in me knows where I’m going.

The day Jackson Pollock died I called a certain man I knew — a very great painter — and told him the news. After a long pause he said, in a voice so low it was barely a whisper, “That son of a bitch — he did it.” I understood. With this supreme gesture Pollock had wrapped up an era and walked away with it.

To tell about a man’s life by anecdote is swinish – yet history is now beginning to file away those peculiar sentiments that make glamour out of unhappiness, and unhappiness out of art. With Pollock, we have a double tragedy – both death and a life in the art world came too soon. Jackson, oh Jackson – we did not know you. Why do we feel it is our fault. Why is it that we make this terrible separation from what a man does and what a man is, from what a man should do, and from what a man can’t do. And how we watched you, El Matador, waiting for the slaughter or the glory.