I remember Clyfford
When I visited the Clyfford Still Museum in Denver, CO this month, I learned that Still sent a fan letter to Jackson Pollock. The two men were contemporaries and probably travelled in the same broad circles. The letter, hand-written on typing stock, is dated October 29, 1953. By this time Still may have already severed ties with commercial galleries.
I wonder if Pollock ever read the letter. I doubt Pollock would have written back. From what I understand about Jackson Pollock I wouldn’t expect more than a drunken grunt of acknowledgement.
Still, in his letter, describes elbowing his way into a gallery office to see some of Pollock’s most recent work and closing by saying “thank you” for the renewal of courage.
Unlike Pollock, Still could actually paint. The museum exhibit opens with two of Still’s early work. A stoic self-portrait and an impressionistic painting of the family farm. A photograph hangs near showing the farm, the silo, barns, and equipment from a similar angle. The painting is energized with vigorous brush marks describing a partly cloudy sky over browning fields and farm machinery.
I don’t believe traditional painting skills are better or required to make good paintings. But there is something powerful about the choice. Still could paint anything he wanted, but he chose giant, colorful, abstraction. This is the courage Still refers to in his letter to Jackson Pollock. Still, and his contemporaries, created something entirely new, and they knew it. This had to be a little bit scary.
Still’s paintings are sometimes described as evoking stalagmites and stalactites, as the edges of colored fields can form sharp, triangular shapes. Instead, I see trees. Not literally of course, but the surfaces of paint, applied with a knife, create many tiny patches, catching the light at different angles. They look like bark.
When one massive shape gives way to another color, I feel like I’m playing hide and seek in a forest. Still’s work evokes a profound sense of calm. I can stand among his paintings and be quiet for a long while.
The museum itself is a raw concrete cloud. From the outside, it appears to be a bit understated, as it stands next to the zoomy, triangular, metalic Denver Art Museum. The Clyfford Still Museum is a rough hewn box of poured concrete. But once you go inside and go upstairs, the walls and the ceiling dissolve and the space feels light and free.
The Museum has two floors. The bottom floor holds the front desk, a small gift shop, a droning video with voice over about the Museum and Still and the works inside. Behind a stairwell you can find the archives.
Two large, darkened rooms with immense sliding glass walls hold nearly everything Clyfford Still painted. Giant rolling walls made of steel beams and rigid steel mesh hold dozens of huge paintings in tight quarters. The rolling walls are artfully arranged to give visitors a glimpse at what is stored there in the dark.
Upstairs, at the top of the stairs, is the only color that isn’t art. A red wall holds Still’s self-portrait and farm landscape. This implies these works are of the past. Once you turn the corner and view his mature work, the walls are pale, raw concrete. The floors are bleached wood, and the ceiling is an open, oval grid of concrete. The entire ceiling is a skylight, buffered by the concrete mesh. Some rooms are confined. The walls meet the floor and the ceiling. In others, the walls give up at about 12 feet, the ceiling floats above, allowing light and air to pass from one gallery the next. Here and there the floor is punctuated by openings revealing the floor below.
