Pushkin

It's August, it's August 1956.

It's August 1956, a cool summer night in Paris.

An American artist named Lee Krasner is drifting off to sleep at a friend's house when the phone rings.

Her host answered the phone.

She could tell by the stricken look on his face that something terrible had happened.

Lee knew exactly what had happened and she shouted out,

Jackson's dead.

Jackson, as in the painter Jackson Pollack,

Lee's husband.

Oh my God, the whole world stopped.

Well, the whole art world stopped.

You know him now, of course. You can probably close your eyes and picture one of his paintings.

When you enter a poly painting, you're entering outer space.

You're going through ropes and nuts and tangles of galaxies.

He might be the most mythologized figure in American art.

He was like a living God.

But how much of the story that we've been told about him is just that. A myth. Nobody knew Pollack. He was

just a figure in the village, a drunk, you know, who'd get in bar fights and no one had

really seen his work.

This is a story about love and betrayal,

about addiction and violence.

...