Driving Clement Greenberg to the Airport
(or the conversation he and I never had)
I, too, would be skeptical of the following tale if this hadn’t involved me. This event I am about to describe took place back in the 1970s while I worked at a college art museum. The curator of modern art, whom I very recently spoke with (2018), remembered this visit, but not the purpose. There was no talk, event or exhibition. My role was to drive Clement Greenberg to the airport. During the drive we talked mainly about Picasso’s death and his late work. I, unfortunately, remember no details of the conversation except that neither one of us cared much for Picasso’s late work. I believe Greenberg said that someday in the future people may give the paintings more consideration.
I wish I had thought to record our conversation and I most certainly wish that I had at that time the knowledge and interest, which I now have in Pollock, so I might ask the questions that I would like answered. In particular, I would want to ask why he had not mentioned the pink over-splatter on One, Number 31, 1950 or the over-splatter near Pollock’s signature on Autumn Rhythm, Number 30, 1950 or the reddish-brown over-splatter glob on Lavender Mist, Number 1, 1950, in any of his writing. Surely, he noticed them, yes? I’d have told him how the over-splatter might be used as a tool to establish a sequence of creation for the paintings, as Greenberg knew the Betty Parsons Gallery numbering system, which evolved in use as titles for Pollocks paintings, was only an inventory number and did not actually indicate or establish which artwork came before or after any others. The numbers were simply a filing system to track the work as it entered the gallery inventory. It was Greenberg who suggested the title Lavender Mist, which is neither about lavender nor mist. Instead, passenger and driver talked only about Picasso, not Pollock. Furthermore, it would be another 25 years before I discovered the pink drips on a Pollock.
So, that Pollock conversation never took place, only the forgotten one concerning Picasso.
Most of what I recall has to do with Greenberg as a captive audience in my car, a red Chevrolet Vega station wagon, sold to me as a “panel delivery truck”. I had purchased it brand new with the insurance money I received from J. Paul Getty, which is another stand-alone story. The point of the vehicle was to be able to transport my artwork, not passengers. It was an unusual car, probably not legal to carry passengers.
Looking back, had I ever been pulled over by the police, my car might have been impounded for no seatbelts. It had but one bucket seat, my driver’s seat. In the hole where the passenger seat should have been was a red velvet cushion. As you might guess, the cushion was not anchored to the chassis or floor of the car. This cushion was lifted from an abandoned sofa sitting by the road. It was an impressive cushion. When I noticed the roadside couch, the velvet was worn to a nubbin. However, the underside of the cushion was plush as new. Mister Greenberg had little choice, if he wanted to catch his flight back home, but to sit on my red velvet sofa cushion. He climbed into my seatless red Chevy after a brief double take. A scarlet, half shell, motorcycle helmet awaited him on the cushion.
I suggested he strap on the motorcycle helmet due to the absence of a seat belt. I did not have to put a gun to his head. He strapped it on firmly.
I started the engine as Clement Greenberg braced his arms and legs for the hour ride. Maybe an hour and a half. If I could go back in time, Time Travel, after preventing the births of Hitler and Trump, I would take a photograph of Clement Greenberg wearing my bright red motorcycle helmet.
I also think I know, even without the benefit of a time machine, what his response would likely be to my questions about the unexpected drips on the three canvases.
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