It’s a complete mess. Loops of color tangled together and running rampant energize nearly every inch of the composition. Far from the reaches of common sense or common experience, we cannot be sure what exactly we are looking at, or how we should feel. However when facing down Jackson Pollock’s seventeen foot monster One: Number 31 (1950), there is an unshakable feeling that this grand piece was no accident. The lyricism behind his movements—a web of flicks, dribbles, drips—is a lot like life, a mixture of uncontrollable and controllable factors. Maybe it’s not such a mess, as much as it simply elicits the response: What the f$&k? Even Pollock himself…