Picasso had his Francoise, Jackson Pollock had, in the last seven months of his life, an hysterical little nudnik from Newark but pretty even if she didn't win the Shirley Temple contest at Bamberger's. On sight, ""he melted me with his sorrow, his needs."" He was in a ""feminine depression"" -- they both had Jungian shrinks. He comes to her ""glowing apricot"" room (he must have been tired of all that black and white anyway). He cries a lot. She cries a lot. He drinks a lot. They go out to East Hampton and she kisses a face in one of his paintings (the one that just brought two million from that Australian museum?). They eat steak and lobster almost every day. She douches every day. His shrink finds her a very ""positive action"" even if his friends ignore her. But she does have a premonition that they'll die in an accident. He does. She survives to get ""letters and calls from literally hundreds of people."" Could she possibly anticipate any further tributes?