Five months earlier
An aspiring artist who worked as an assistant to the director of the Collector’s Gallery on West 56th Street, Ruth Kligman had set her cap for Pollock when she learned from a friend that he was the top dog in the vanguard pack. She had already seen his work at the nearby Sidney Janis Gallery, and was intrigued by it. How can I meet him? she had asked, and was told to go to the Cedar Tavern, an artists’ hangout on University Place, any Tuesday night. Pollock was seeing a psychiatrist in the city on Tuesdays, driving in from Springs or taking the train, and as soon as his session was over he’d head for the bar and his drinking buddies. Often he’d stay over at the Hotel Earle, on the other side of Washington Square Park, so he could hold court at the Cedar late into the night.
Ruth was savvy enough to know that she couldn’t just walk into the place and make a beeline for Pollock. For one thing, they’d assume that an unescorted woman was a hooker and she’d promptly find she had an escort, in the person of the waiter, who would accompany her to the door. For another, how would she recognize him? Her friend’s vague description—middle aged, medium height, bald, bearded—probably fit a dozen or more of the Cedar’s regulars. Once inside, she could ask someone, or just wait until someone either pointed him out or called him by name, but she needed a date to get her in.
As luck would have it, one of her gallery’s artists, a young hopeful named George, was dithering over whether or not to go ahead with a one-man show of his new work, wholeheartedly in favor one minute and the next minute sure he wasn’t ready for a solo outing. He needed to talk it over face-to-face, he told her on the phone, and suggested meeting at his local watering hole, which happened to be the Cedar, for a drink and reassurance.
“Of course,” she said, thrilled by the coincidence. “How about next Tuesday night?”
“Make it ten p.m.,” he replied, and the date was set.
Determined to take full advantage of this opportunity, Ruth dressed to impress. Wearing an eye-catching white coat over a form-fitting black dress, shod in spike heels that flattered her legs, with her hair expertly styled in an updo by Edith that afternoon, she crossed the threshold of the Cedar Tavern determined to seduce the most important painter in New York. The appointment with her indecisive artist was simply a fortunate convenience, to be concluded as quickly as possible.
But as soon as she got inside, she realized that she was overdressed and out of her depth. This was no cocktail lounge, with soft lighting and piano music. It was a noisy, smoky, no-frills saloon populated by serious boozers lining the long bar and filling the battle-scarred tables and shabby booths. Almost all of them were men, wearing paint-stained work clothes and arguing at top volume. A couple of boisterous female artists, just as carelessly dressed, were keeping up with them, trading wisecracks and matching them drink for drink. The few other women, apparently wives or girlfriends, either tried to carry on conversations among themselves or just sat patiently while the guys bantered on.
Ruth surveyed the room with dismay. What a dive, she said to herself. I don’t think this is going to work. Maybe I can arrange to be at Janis when he comes in, it’s only a block from where I work. He must have to meet with his dealer once in a while to discuss business. I can call David, Sidney’s assistant, and find out when he’s expected. I could break the ice by telling him how much I admire his paintings. And I wouldn’t have to shout at him to be heard.
Just as she was deciding that Pollock’s gallery would be a more conducive place to bump into him accidentally on purpose, George spotted her and motioned her to his booth.
“Over here, Ruth,” he called, waving her on. Reluctantly, knowing she was attracting attention both as a stranger and an obvious misfit, she hurried past the ogling crowd and ducked into the booth as quickly as possible. As she passed the bar one of the female artists snickered, leaned over, and said something in the ear of her male companion, and the two had a good laugh at Ruth’s expense.
Furious, she turned on the hapless George. “How could you bring me here without telling me what to expect?” she demanded.
He was taken aback. “You mean you’ve never been here before? I thought you knew the scene, working in an art gallery. This is where all the artists hang out.”
With her naïveté staring her in the face, Ruth tried to cover her tracks. “I always visit artists in their studios, where I can look at their work and discuss it in peace. That’s what I did when we picked the things for your show, remember? We can’t have a decent conversation in this madhouse.”
“Please don’t be angry, Ruth. I just had to get out of the studio, be around other people. And I really need your advice about the show. Let me buy you a drink.” She asked for a scotch and soda, and he signaled the waiter.
Taking his wave as an invitation, a couple of his friends slid into the booth.
“Got a new girl, Georgie? She’s a hot number. Aren’t you going to introduce us? What’s your name, honey?” one of them shouted. “Hey, I could go for you,” the other one chimed in. “Why don’t you dump that loser and sit over here next to me?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Ruth with sarcastic emphasis, “I have to powder my nose.” She stood and turned to George. “If you want my advice, you’ll be alone in this booth when I get back.”
Making her way to the restroom, she approached a round table that seemed unusually crowded. Extra seats had been squeezed in, and a gaggle of eavesdroppers, drinks in hand, stood by attentively, hanging on every word they could pick up over the general hubbub. As she passed, she heard a bellowing voice.
“You’re a fucking whore!”
Shocked and embarrassed, she turned to see an equally startled man, in a rumpled shirt under a tweed jacket, staring at her. “Oh, shit,” he said, then shook his head and half rose. “That is, I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t mean you. Really, it was a mistake.”
He stumbled to his feet and, extending a large, nicotine-stained hand, indicated his vacant chair. “Sit down, please, and let me explain.”
Without being asked, the man sitting next to him stood up and offered his chair. “Here, Jack, take my seat.”
Jack. Short for Jackson? Could it be Pollock? About five foot ten, looking to be in his fifties, heavyset, scruffy beard, a fringe of hair around a bald pate—yes, it could be him.
He was watching her intently, making her uncomfortable with his scrutiny. He took both her hands in his. “You’re so lovely,” he said. “I can’t forgive myself for offending you like that.” She started to demur, but he interrupted. “Who are you? What are you involved with?”
Aware that all eyes were on them, conscious of her own rapid heartbeat, she tried to regain her composure. “I’m Ruth,” she told him. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jackson.”