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A few lifetimes ago (high school in the mid 1970s) my Art History teacher sent me to some midtown galleries on 57th Street.
I came across a few of Jackson Pollock's sketches and was overwhelmed by his command of detail and fealty to natural form, only having been familiar with his renown house -sized and -painted canvases.
It occurred to me many years later that his “splatter” oeuvre was probably a big wet "Fuck You" to the post-war Abstract Expressionism crowd.
Whenever I catch a Frank Stella in a museum, I immediately bust out my best Brando from Streetcar.
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