Untitled c. 1951

This *Untitled* work was made by Jackson Pollock using ink on paper. It’s a dance of specks and splatters, a delicate choreography in black and blue against a creamy field. Looking at this, I imagine Pollock, poised above the paper, letting the ink drip and fall, almost like he’s writing but with pure pigment. What was he thinking as he made this? Was he wrestling with demons, or just letting the ink lead the way? I feel like maybe he’s showing us the very essence of mark-making here. The way the ink bleeds into the paper creates these soft edges, which gives the work a ghostly, ethereal feel. Then there’s this cluster of blue droplets, anchoring the composition and adding a moment of serene contemplation. Pollock’s work always feels like a conversation—not just with himself, but with all the artists who came before and all who will come after. It’s a reminder that painting isn’t about answers, but about the messy, beautiful process of asking questions.