Some time in the late 40's I had cycled out to Springs, Long Island for what would turn out to be a prolonged bout of drinking and painting with Jackson Pollock. I was riding the yellow bycicle that had once belonged to my father (the bycicle that killed him) because there was no way that I was going to let pollock pick me up from the station; I'd been driven by him once in that Oldsmobile convertible of his and swore never again.
Arriving at his studio I cycled straight through the door and over a large canvas laid out on the floor; the wheels of the cycle running through the wet paint Pollock had been applying with a turkey baster. He was pretty pissed off with my addition to his work but soon calmed down when I produced my Quart of Bourbon (memories of Duchamp) and we settled down to exploring the bottom of the bottle. Later and very drunk he suddenly stood, picked up a tin of black paint throwing it angrily over my yellow bycicle.
"There". He said. "Abstract Expressionism".
I picked up another tin of black and hurled the contents over his canvas. Saying - " And that, my friend is Abstract depressionism!"
When the paint on the bycicle was dry I rode it away from that mad place. I never saw Pollock again. But I knew that something important had taken place that day.
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