I actually like Jackson Pollock's 'Blue Poles'--the only canvas by this utterly talentless and skill-less paint-dribbler, so far, that I do like; but painter, in the sense of Tintoretto, Rubens, Monet, of course, he was not, and could never be.  His early, more realistic work shows just how inept a draughtsman and crude a colorist he was, as well as his fatal lack of a sense of composition.  But, by a miracle of perseverance, persisting doggedly in his peculiar, random, slop and splot method of getting paint onto canvas, he became the artist he could never otherwise have been; and, at least in 'Blue Poles,' he even attains to that art-beyond-art that I call, variously, a 'pretty canvas' or a 'belle toile'--of the sort whereof the first exemplars are, so far as I know, the paintings of Tintoretto.  His achievement is somewhat that of one among the fabled million monkeys pounding indefatigably away at a million typewriters, who, every so often, somehow (and without knowing a word of Greek),  produce a long-lost play of Sophocles.   Another lucky monkey (though a blind, rather than merely a totally incompetent, painter) was Claude Monet, whose least water lily is worth all the "Abstract Expressionism" in the world.