The quest to recover a stolen Jackson Pollock masterpiece reveals a story intertwined with family trauma, high-stakes art theft, and the elusive nature of artistic legacy. But here’s where it gets controversial: how much do we truly understand about art’s emotional impact and the dark side of its lucrative market?
In 1984, Merry White—known as Corky—found herself overwhelmed inside the National Gallery of Art’s East Building when she unexpectedly faced Jackson Pollock’s 1951 painting, titled "Number 7, 1951." Recognizing this work—a somewhat splashy, figurative piece in black enamel, less abstract than his typical style—she felt her legs weaken, as if the painting carried a deep, unspoken weight.
"Number 7, 1951" was created during a rare period near Pollock’s final years, when he revisited figurative imagery. On its right, a roughly drawn female figure emerges, with a face split in a way reminiscent of Picasso’s late style. Its body is shaded in a chaotic array of dots, while the left side is a tangle of vertiginous vertical lines and drips, evoking the dynamic energy of Pollock’s iconic "Blue Poles."
White had a personal connection to this artwork; her father, Reginald Isaacs, had purchased the piece directly from Pollock, and it hung over her childhood bed. She remembers resenting its presence—not simply because she preferred her own decor as a teenager, but because the painting embodied memories of Pollock’s turbulence. His volatile temperament often made family visits fraught with uncomfortable tension. During the late 1940s and early ’50s, White, her parents, and younger siblings visited Pollock and Lee Krasner at their home in Springs, a bohemian enclave in East Hampton. Pollock’s frequent drunkenness and occasional violence turned those visits into stressful experiences, leaving White feeling exposed and unsafe, though she couldn’t express this to her proud parents.
Her father, a Harvard professor of regional planning and a former architect, admired Pollock before he became a household name, even trading clams for Pollock’s early paintings after a chance encounter in East Hampton. As Pollock’s fame exploded in the late 1940s and early ’50s—being heralded by magazines like Life as “possibly the greatest living painter in America”—Isaacs remained a staunch supporter, purchasing several artworks on credit to bolster Pollock’s faltering finances.
By the early 1950s, Pollock’s personal life and health were unraveling. White recalls Pollock’s struggles—drunkenness, creative block, and a tumultuous marriage with Krasner, who had resumed her own artistic pursuits. Pollock’s aggressive outbursts, physical altercations, and erratic behavior characterized his final years. On a visit to Springs in 1956, just months before his death in a car crash, Pollock was visibly overweight and emotionally strained. His volatile temper and dependence on alcohol overshadowed any remaining creative spark.
Pollock’s death in 1956 was devastating for friends like Isaacs, who visited the wreckage of his studio and watched as his friend’s life suddenly disappeared. The tragic accident marked the end of an era, but the paintings he left behind would spark a frenzy of interest and controversy.
In the years following, Pollock’s influence grew as his works achieved record-breaking valuations. In 1973, Australia paid a staggering $1.3 million—an amount so politicized it linked to broader national scandals—for "Blue Poles". This controversial purchase spurred a bubble in modern art valuations, with Pollock’s paintings selling for hundreds of millions at auction, attracting both admiration and the darker fascination of art theft.
Indeed, the thefts began to mirror the chaos in the art world. The Isaacs family, living in Cambridge at the time, had their beloved "Number 7, 1951" stolen in 1973, along with two other Pollocks, including "Painting 1028" and "Lavender Mist." The thefts struck a blow to the family—especially for Reginald Isaacs, who had built a significant collection of Pollock’s work. The crime scene—an apartment overlooking the Charles River—became a battleground of stolen art that carried emotional scars as deep as financial loss.
Reginald Isaacs, a Harvard professor and a passionate art collector, had cultivated friendships with Pollock since the 1940s. Their bond, forged over shared interests and mutual respect, would turn tragic when a break-in resulted in the theft of their cherished works. Isaacs’s subsequent decade was marked by legal struggles, insurance disputes, and growing anxiety—traces of a man unraveling under the weight of his losses, as reflected in his scattered, almost despairing notes.
The stolen art—including "Number 7, 1951"—became the focus of relentless detective work. In 1975, through a sting operation involving connections to organized crime, authorities recovered "Number 7" from a hotel room in Newton, buried and wrapped in dirt, its condition promising a chance of future sale or exhibition. But the others remained missing, including the elusive "Painting 1028."
Attempts to trace the thefts led to complex legal battles. Isaacs’s lawyer, George Abrams, fought to recover the stolen Pollocks, culminating in a 1980 trial that valued "Number 7" at about $1 million—far above initial estimates. The settlement awarded Isaacs and the law firm hundreds of thousands of dollars, but the remaining missing works tantalized collectors and authorities alike.
Throughout the 1980s and ’90s, art thefts and recoveries marked the region’s turbulent relationship with its modern masters. Remarkably, in 1991, a work believed to be Pollock appeared at auction, initially deemed inauthentic due to dubious inscriptions and absence from official records. Later, a photograph from Pollock’s studio confirmed its authenticity—the second stolen Pollock, "21 (Drawing with poles)," from 1949—pushed into FBI custody.
By the time Isaacs passed away in 1986 from a heart attack, only one of the three stolen Pollocks remained missing: the 1948 piece, "Painting 1028." Merry White inherited a small collection of Pollock-related memorabilia, including letters and records connected to her father’s collection, sharing a complex mixture of nostalgia and trauma. She admits that her feelings about Pollock are mixed—he was both a father figure’s friend and an unpredictable presence from her childhood.
In recent years, advances in forensic investigations and anonymous tips have rekindled hope for recovering the last remaining stolen Pollock. For instance, in 2014, Homeland Security Investigations in France received an anonymous lead about a high-value stolen artwork, believed to involve organized crime. Despite efforts to recover a Picasso, they also aimed to locate the missing Pollock stolen from the Isaacs family. But after a promising lead and interception, the trail went cold, leaving the fate of "Painting 1028" uncertain.
Today, Merry White visits the Pollock-Krasner House, eager yet apprehensive. Her memories are conflicted—fascination mixed with fear and discomfort stemming from her childhood. Standing on the same grounds where Pollock once lived and worked, she reflects on her father’s unwavering admiration, the tumultuous artist’s temper, and the complicated legacy left both in her family and in art history.
When she sees the familiar relics, including a postcard of "Number 7, 1951," now displayed in the gift shop, she exclaims, “This painting hung over my bed!”—a connection that still stirs powerful emotions.
So, what do you think? Is the emotional and cultural significance of art worth the risks and controversies it sometimes entails? Do we prioritize its aesthetic value over the dangers and moral questions surrounding its theft and ownership? Share your thoughts in the comments—would you want to see the rest of Pollock’s stolen work recovered, or is some part of this story best left unresolved?
