Wednesday, August 15
Lee spent the morning on the phone, relentlessly badgering everyone involved in the funeral. Unable to persuade Clement Greenberg, the art critic whose enthusiasm had helped launch Pollock’s career, to deliver the eulogy, she turned to Fred Williams for help. He lined up the pastor from the Amagansett Presbyterian Church, a house of worship in which the artist had never set foot. Although they came from Presbyterian stock, LeRoy and Stella Pollock disdained the church and had not had their sons baptized.
When Lee announced that the funeral would be held in the chapel, Jackson’s brothers were surprised and somewhat offended. Was she doing it on purpose, to spite them? With that possibility in mind, Sande had questioned her choice of venue.
“Wouldn’t the funeral parlor be more appropriate?” Sande had asked.
Lee was emphatic. “No. When I went over there to discuss the arrangements, it was obvious that their rooms are way too small. I’m sure you realize that this will not be a strictly family and friends affair. It’s going to be a mob scene, Sande, so I had to keep that in mind. Besides, the chapel is much closer to the cemetery. My decision was simply practical.”
It was also final, no arguments. The matter was settled, with the implicit understanding that the family could like it or lump it.
In fact Lee was right about practicality. For the past two days, every time she replaced the receiver the phone would ring with a call from yet another artist, critic, curator, dealer, or collector telling her that he or she would be attending. Many of them were already in residence nearby for the summer, and others would be coming out from the city by car or train. Springs was not much more than a hundred miles from the center of the art universe. And in spite of her attitude toward the Bonackers, she knew she couldn’t prevent a contingent of them from turning up to say farewell to their drinking buddy.
She was having less success with the people she wanted to be there. In addition to Greenberg, who turned her down flat with the excuse that he couldn’t praise a man who had killed his passenger, her attorney, Gerry Weinstock, also begged off.
“I’m sorry, Lee, I have to be in court on Wednesday. But Mags and the kids are there, so they’ll be at the funeral. I’ll be out at the weekend, and we can go over the will and anything else you need to review then. Right now you have to think about protecting Jackson’s paintings in the studio. Put a padlock on it immediately, and for God’s sake keep it locked during the reception.” The wisdom of that advice was obvious.
Her biggest disappointment was her brother, Irving, who also pleaded the pressure of work. With several of the staff at his insurance company out on vacation, he explained, his boss couldn’t spare him.
“But I need you, Izzy,” she insisted, using his childhood nickname to underscore their blood tie. “I’m going to be surrounded by Jackson’s family—I need someone in my corner!”
“Come on, Lee,” he said, “you’ll have plenty of friends around, you don’t need me.” He pointed out that their sister Udel would be there with her husband and kids, so she wouldn’t be the only Krasner in the room.
“Don’t give me that, Izzy,” she retorted. “They’ll be completely useless. They have no idea how to behave with these people. The sharks are already circling, waiting for a chance to take a bite out of Jackson’s estate. If they can’t profit from his death, they’ll try to undermine his reputation out of spite. You know how to stand up to them. You know what’s at stake.”
He knew, all right. It was Irving who had persuaded Lee to insure the contents of the studio for the full market value after Jackson installed a Salamander kerosene stove to heat the building. Terrified that he would spill the fuel and carelessly drop a lighted match or cigarette into it, she had asked her brother to write a policy that would protect her inheritance in case a fire destroyed the many canvases and works on paper lining the walls, in the flat file, and in the storage racks. Lee was his only heir.
With the value of his work increasing annually, thanks to Sidney Janis’s expert promotion, the inventory represented financial security for Lee in the event of Jackson’s death. Since she had stifled her own career to promote his, there was virtually no market for her work. She knew it would take years to establish one, if ever.
Most dealers, even the women, scorned female artists, believing them to be bad risks. Whether justified or not, this prejudice prevented many deserving women from achieving the kind of success—both critical and financial—enjoyed by their male colleagues, who often reinforced that attitude.
Even Jackson, who had persuaded his dealer to give Lee a solo show and often expressed pride in her accomplishments, was not above taking a cheap shot at her in private.
“She’s talented, plenty,” he once told a friend, “but great art needs a pecker. Not even Lee’s got that.”
Perhaps to compensate for that physical deficit, she had developed some metaphorical alternatives: an exceptionally stiff backbone, a very hard head, and plenty of guts.