For those of you not familiar with Jackson Pollock, he was one of the action painters of the mid-twentieth century, whose huge drip paintings appear as layers of unrestrained madness and explosions of color. Controversial at the time, and even to a certain extent today, Pollock’s works are now seen as crystallographic masterpieces, not as the colossal messes or “happy accidents,” that they were labelled at the time.
So, it was with some interest not too long ago, that a funny greeting card caught my eye. On the front was a picture of a mother in her splattered apron, spoon feeding her young son a bowl of dripping spaghetti. Under the picture of her son, who was covered in noodles and sauce, was the message, “Jackson Pollock’s Mother.”
The greeting card I had discovered seemed be a wry comment on the influences our parents have over us. The image on the greeting card must have stuck with me, because some years later I ran across another picture of a kid, this time a child advertising a brand of children’s clothing. Standing stiff with contempt, alone on the top of a hill, this child was screaming at the top of his lungs, obviously bristling with frustration. I immediately thought of the masterpiece, “The Scream,” by Edvard Munch, and had to wonder, whether this child was also inspired by his mother. Did Munch’s mother scream and yell at everyone from sunup to sundown? And, being constantly exposed to her outbursts of rage, was young Edvard later inspired to paint his masterpiece, that well-known ghostly figure covering his ears, frozen in the nightmare of a terrifying scream?
Edvard Munch as a Child
Jeff Bender
Looking at the magazine ad of the screaming child, I also had to wonder if the child could be trapped inside a very loud upbringing, and unable to wiggle free of it, was trying to howl his way out into a better and quieter life. I knew I had to find a spot for him in my artwork, which resulted in the work included here, entitled “Edvard Munch as a Child.”
Growing up, neither my mother nor my father was the screaming type around our house. They didn’t hand-feed me bowls of sloppy tomato sauce either, but I know of the frustration and anxiety they had raising their three kids and juggling their careers. Their irritation with me at times must have looked a lot like Munch’s famous painting, (translated, “The Cry”) except the new version would have been the figures of both of my parents, holding back a silent but mounting scream. At times, I am sure they felt like that child themselves, alone on a hill, holding back an army of anxieties that were attacking their defenses. That is a sorry picture to paint of our family, but I was a handful and took them to the bursting point on occasion. It makes me wonder whether all of us grown-ups are a reflection of the silent vexations our parents were yelling inside but never showed us. Could these have passed down to us now and festered like tetchy blotches ready to break out in a rash of shouting?
In my work entitled Edvard Munch as a Child, one gets the feeling that there is a generational inertia around the screaming child in the center of the piece. Looking at it, you may feel that the noise, that outward energy coming out of the kid, is producing the whirling, swirling pink and black forces around the edges. The child may have held in that energy for too long, like we all do, and now he is letting it out, forcing it through the surrounding marks and color blemishes that are also trying to escape the mayhem. Isn’t that stiff kid at the top of the hill, little Edvard, screaming on behalf of all of us? Isn’t his temper tantrum the one you want to have, the one you’ve been holding onto? Do you find yourself feeling like him at times, stiff as a board, arms like two-by-fours, holding down some imaginary fort that is undefendable? Could you be a descendant of Teddy Roosevelt, charging up San Juan Hill, hoping there is a plate of spaghetti there waiting for you at the top? Huh? Is that you up there?! IS IT?!
This tantrum will, my artwork seems to suggest, burn itself out in the patches of colors and the casual and playful background of offhand marks and a pink tornado that picks up the loose debris of scribbles and deposits them around the child. Fortunately for us, the scream emanating from my artwork quickly collides with a lollipop tree whose soft, green cushion of leaves happily rustle, then muffle, then absorb the noise.
After all, it is futile to yell at a lollipop tree. A lot healthier, but futile.
But let’s admit, there is a power in throwing a tantrum, which is why kids do it. When we find ourselves in the midst of one of those anger storms, we can’t help but sit frozen, unable to unboil what is boiling over in irrationality. We are looking for ways out, a way to take that hill, for something to grip, for our own version of a lollipop tree that will cushion our own climb.
I remember a time when the inertia in our family spun out of control as we all sat down to eat dinner. I have no recollection of the day’s events, nor do I remember that family dinner as being different than any of the rest… except that, during the course of the meal my high-brow and bratty attitude surfaced, and I was walking on thin ice with my parents. Riding high and mighty, I thought it appropriate to disagree with my mother by telling her to shut up. This was not the usual type of conversation that was allowed in our family, mind you. And although I don’t remember the exact details, I do remember the sound of her hand across my face, a slap heard around the table, a slap that froze everything in a kind of silent madness.
If you are thinking, “I bet you never told your mom to shut up again,” you’d be right.
The family sat motionless inside a furious tornado swallowing up the atmosphere. My future artwork was there in the making. The screams were not audible, but they were in the air. It was then, in the midst of that emotional bomb, that my younger sister, having none of it, picked up her knife and fork and waving them in the air, sang out “Anything you can do better I can do better. I can do anything better than you!”
It was absurdity at its finest, a blistering strike against our nemesis, the blanket of tension, and we burst into a flood of both laughter and tears. Our anger had vented, little Edvard Munch had had his say, and his scream was over. We had escaped to the top of the hill and discovered our lollipop tree whose cushion of leaves, soft and green, rustled only slightly in the passing wind.