Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollack?: The Perils of Expertise

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on May 21, 2007.

When I was in college, I interned at a small think tank in Washington, DC. One day, the director of my section, one of his staff members, and I were driving through town when the staffer noted how she enjoyed listening to the Diane Rehm Show, a radio talk show based at American University's WAMU. The director indicated that he had no desire to listen to talk radio since he didn't want to hear what the masses thought about foreign policy, as they had no training in the subject (and, presumably, had nothing substantive to contribute). Overall, the director of my section was a nice and considerate man, who certainly had accomplished much in his long career; he also had a very good point about talk radio: much of it simply involves shouting matches between ignorant people. However, if he were to take his sentiments to an extreme, disregarding all amateur opinion simply because it was "unlearned," then he could end up throwing out the proverbial baby with the bathwater.

Such is the lesson of Harry Moses' Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollack? (2006), a documentary about an amateur's struggle to gain a shred of acknowledgment from the Art Establishment. Moses tells the tale of Teri Horton, a retired long-haul trucker in her 70s, who one day made a whimsical purchase in a thrift store. She wanted to a buy a gag gift for a friend, and she encountered a massive painting that she thought looked absolutely hideous (perfect for serving as an ad hoc dart board). The retailer wanted to sell it for $8.00; Horton made a counteroffer, and for $5.00, she walked out of the store with the gift.

Later, a local art teacher told Horton that her painting looked like it could be an original work by Jackson Pollack — to which she responded with the profanity-laced question. Horton has had a hard life since the day she was born, and obtaining higher education has never been an immediate priority (or possibility). Thus, she never had an opportunity to learn about Pollack and how his abstract, drip paintings helped to revolutionize art in the 20th century. However, now retired, she decided to pursue this line of inquiry. Did she have a "genuine" Pollack? If so, how much would it be worth? Through what channels could she sell the work?

What she found was a bunch of closed doors and rude disinterest. Many in the Art Establishment simply did not believe that she could have stumbled upon a genuine Pollack in a thrift store. One collector in the movie indicated that once Pollack's work started fetching astronomical prices, then the artist's paintings would have had to bubble up to the surface, as people would want to cash in. To have a Pollack sitting in a thrift store years after his death was preposterous.

For the movie, Moses brought in Art Establishment types to look at the piece, and the skeptics simply would say that it didn't "feel" like a Pollack. One relied solely on his experience: because he had spent years working in the field, that alone was enough for him to determine whether the piece was genuine. Horton's judgment, on the other hand, could not be trusted because she was, simply put, a nobody.

Yet, Horton had a tool that the art critics did not: science. She hired Peter Paul Biro, a forensic scientist who specializes in authenticating works of art. After laborious analysis, he ended up stumbling upon a finger print on the back of the canvas. He later traveled to Pollack's studio, which is still preserved like a museum artifact, and obtained another print from one of his old paint cans. Voila! A match! He enlisted the aide of one of his colleagues, who confirmed that indeed, the two prints were identical. Case closed, right? Horton had a $50 million Pollack on her hands!

Not exactly. The Art Establishment continued to doubt Horton's claim, making up all sorts of excuses as to why the fingerprint match really didn't prove anything. At this point, we see clearly Moses' point in making this film: to demonstrate the pitfalls in relying too heavily on a priori designations of expertise. Anybody with any degree of "common sense" would know that to doubt the authenticity of Horton's painting is simply stubborn stupidity; after all, as the movie makes clear, the level of evidence that Biro's analysis produced would be enough to send a murder suspect to death row — and yet, it could not authenticate a simple painting?

Expertise, of course, isn't intrinsically wrong. In one sense, it is simply another way of designating "specialization of labor." We can't all be doctors, lawyers, auto mechanics, etc. For the simple purpose of saving time, we have to defer to others, trust their opinions, and let them "take care of it." In many respects, expertise is our way of creating shortcuts and defaults ("Is your computer acting funny? Talk to Joe!") and making our lives more efficient.

Yet, defaults can be problematic. By definition, they require no thought or deliberation, and our reliance on default expertise can prove erroneous. Perhaps the expert has become rusty in his/her field (after all, if it's not our field, then how would we know whether the expert is "keeping up"?). Perhaps he/she has ulterior motives that are so strong, they overpower sober analysis. Finally, the expert is human, after all, and thus, prone to simple, everyday error.

As we were watching the movie, my wife indicated that it seemed that the Art Establishment simply didn't want Teri Horton to be right. They seemed set in their belief that (a) there were no "undiscovered" Pollack works remaining and/or (b) no foul-mouthed trucker could be in possession of such a culturally significant artifact. Despite the forensic evidence (along with other strands of information the movie pieces together), the critics seemed content to wallow in their "expertise" and to deny Horton what appears to be her rightful claim. In other words, their ulterior motives seemed to overpower completely even the most basic analytical skills.

In the movie, we learn that Horton had received offers (in the seven-figures), but she refused them. She knows that the painting is worth at least $50 million, and at this stage, it's really not about the money; it's about intellectual honesty and simple respect. I admire her for sticking to her guns. If nothing else, Horton has taught us that we shouldn't be afraid to ask for a second opinion.