OUT OF THE SHADOWS
As a new exhibition of Lee Krasner’s work opens in London, Frances Hedges pays tribute to an artist viewed for far too long through the prism of her marriage to Jackson Pollock
‘So good, you would never know it was done by a woman.’ This was the double-edged compliment Lee Krasner received for her work from the German abstract painter Hans Hofmann while she was under his tutelage in the late 1930s. It typifies the narrow-minded way in which Krasner has been judged over the decades, with commentary about her status as a female artist, and especially as the wife of the legendary Jackson Pollock, deflecting critical attention away from the intrinsic brilliance of her oeuvre. This month, a new exhibition at Barbican Art Gallery finally brings Krasner into the spotlight, making her the heroine of her own life instead of a supporting actor in her husband’s star performance.
The breadth of the pieces on display, encompassing portraits, collages, abstract paintings and even a mosaic table, celebrates Krasner’s lifelong experimentation. ‘Lee had a unique voice that is imprinted in all of her work, but she was interested in articulating it in different ways,’ says Eleanor Nairne, the curator of the Barbican show. She highlights three main points of continuity across the diverse exhibits: Krasner’s consistent use of oil in her paintings (notable at a time when many were experimenting with enamels or acrylics), her skill as a colourist, and her determination to convey what she called the ‘inner voice’ in an authentic way – a quest that began in the earliest years of her artistic development.
Krasner’s extraordinary talent, not to mention her ambition, was evident from her youth. Born in Brooklyn in 1908, to a family of Russian-Jewish immigrants, she was unusually self-directed, choosing a high school that offered an art major because she wanted to pursue a creative path. After graduating, she secured a scholarship for the Women’s Art School of Cooper Union, followed by a place at New York City’s prestigious National Academy of Design. Her 1928 self-portrait, which she painted in a bid to gain admittance to the school’s life-drawing class, shows that even while working in the classical style, she was pushing the boundaries of the genre, capturing herself en plein air instead of in the traditional interior setting. Viewed against the soft, dappled light of the verdant Long Island backdrop, her expression appears all the more defiant – the gaze of a woman with a clear sense of purpose.
Krasner was well on her way to fulfilling that purpose when she met Pollock in 1941, having already established herself as a fixture on the New York City art scene and forged connections with leading abstract painters such as Willem de Kooning, Franz Kline and Mark Rothko. After her marriage to Pollock in 1945, however, her focus shifted towards advancing her new husband’s career. ‘When we began going together, my own work became irrelevant. He was the important thing,’ she admitted. This is not to say that Krasner’s creativity stagnated while they were together; if anything, Pollock inspired her to paint in a more spontaneous, liberated way. Her seminal ‘Little Image’ series of 1946 to 1949, produced after the couple moved to Springs in East Hampton, is testament to this influence, each small, thickly textured canvas bursting with complex geometric patterns. Yet for a long time these stayed within the walls of the house on Long Island, out of public view, as Krasner simply did not have the time or volition to fight for her right to be exhibited. ‘I couldn’t run out and do a one-woman job on the sexist aspects of the art world, continue my painting and stay in the role I was in as Mrs Pollock,’ she explained. ‘I just couldn’t do that much.’
The energetic collages Krasner produced in 1955 – including Desert Moon, in which black and mauve scraps of paper slice through a crimson backdrop in strong, vertical lines – express how strongly she was trying to resist succumbing to despair, while her husband’s alcoholism was worsening by the day. ‘As Jackson’s fame grew, he became more and more tortured,’ she later remembered. ‘My help, assistance and encouragement seemed insufficient.’ By the summer of 1956, their marriage was at breaking point: Pollock had embarked on an affair with Ruth Kligman, an exceptionally attractive 26-yearold painter, and in July Krasner announced that she was going on a three-week trip to Europe, giving her husband space to make his mind up about their future. The following month, with the trial separation still underway, Pollock set out in his Oldsmobile convertible in the company of Kligman and her friend, Edith Metzger. Having been drinking heavily, he crashed the car into a thicket less than a mile from the house, killing himself and Metzger. Krasner, who was told the news over the phone while staying in Paris at the home of her friend Paul Jenkins, was devastated. ‘She headed toward an open balcony; I reached out and grasped her,’ recalled Jenkins. ‘I placed her to the wall and didn’t let her go until she calmed down.’ With his help, Krasner was able to fly back to New York that same night, where preparations for the funeral began at once.
Much as Pollock’s death was a deeply personal tragedy for Krasner, professionally it became a source of liberation. Even at a practical level, it afforded her more opportunities to flourish, as she was able to move from the cramped conditions of her upstairs bedroom, which had doubled as a makeshift studio, into the spacious barn where her husband had worked. Ceasing to make art in order to mourn was never an option for her, as she subsequently explained: ‘Painting is not separate from life. It is one. It is like asking – do I want to live? My answer is yes – and I paint.’ And paint she did, now on an unprecedented scale, tacking five-metre canvases to the wall and filling them with vast, plant-like forms that threatened to eclipse the boundaries of the frame.
It is tempting to see Krasner’s career in binary terms – before and after Pollock – but in fact her artistic evolution was characterised by regular transitions. She believed that there was no such thing as a fixed image or signature style, arguing instead for organic cycles of growth that reflected her changing experiences. ‘My painting is so autobiographical, if anyone can take the trouble to read it,’ she observed. For instance, the violent contrasts and darker hues in her ‘Umber’ series (1959–1961) – sometimes known as ‘Night Journeys’ because they were painted while Krasner was suffering from a protracted bout of insomnia – convey the anger she felt after her mother’s death. Their earthy tones soon give way to the vibrancy of the ‘Primary’ series, perhaps reflecting her growing sense of artistic independence. This newfound energy reaches its zenith in Combat (1965), which features swathes of hot fuchsia pink that tussle forcefully with sections of saturated orange.
Krasner did achieve recognition during her lifetime, particularly with the rise of feminism in the 1970s – an optimistic period during which she created triumphantly colourful works such as Palingenesis (a term that refers to the concept of regeneration or new birth). Yet she continued to be frustrated by critics’ tendency to assess her in the context of her relationship with Pollock. ‘I have never denied that Pollock had an influence on my work. But then, so did Mondrian, Picasso and Matisse,’ she wrote in 1979, five years before her death. At the Barbican this month, Krasner’s oeuvre will speak for itself, its variety and vitality an exuberant testament to an artist who deserves to be remembered as far more than one half of a couple. ‘Lee Krasner: Living Colour’ is at Barbican Art Gallery (www.barbican.org.uk) from 30 May to 1 September. The accompanying book, edited by Eleanor Nairne (£35, Thames & Hudson and Barbican), is published on 30 May. ‘Lee Krasner: A Biography’ by Gail Levin (£12.99, Thames & Hudson) is out now.