HELEN FRANKENTHALER WALKED out of the elevator with Clem Greenberg and into the Betty Parsons Gall, to see Jackson's November exhibition. "Now you're on your own," Clem said, before heading back to Betty’s office. "Look around the show and tell me what you think of it." He left Helen in the midst of Pollock’s paintings, whole walls of explosions in color and line, vast depths of beckoning space, "the endless webbing"' of what one visitor likened to a meteor shower! Helen felt as though she had been "blinded, as if he had put me in the center ring of Madison Square Garden. ... It was so new, and so appealing, and so puzzling, and powerful, and real, and beautiful, and bewildering." One or two other people wandered through the gallery, but they were invisible to Helen, surrounded as she was by works so alive it was as if the dance Pollock had performed to create them continued still! "I was overwhelmed. His work simply seemed to resonate. It captured my eye and my whole psychic metabolism at a crucial moment in my life," she said. "I was ready for what his paintings gave me."