Jackson Pollock died in a car crash in 1956, two years before his painting Number 12 was crated up and shipped to Basel to start its run in of the most important American art exhibitions of the decade. He never knew his work would be used to fight a war. He never knew the CIA was involved. He never got to say no.

This is the story of how Abstract Expressionism became a weapon in the Cold War, deployed by people who genuinely believed culture could save democracy, even if it meant lying about where the money came from and manipulating what the art meant.

It's about Tom Braden, a former OSS agent who joined the CIA and created a "pretty simple device" for laundering money through fake foundations. It's about Nelson Rockefeller, who learned during World War II that culture could do things treaties couldn't. It's about René d'Harnoncourt, the six-foot-six Austrian count who ran MoMA and believed modern art was "the foremost symbol of democracy."

And it's about the artists themselves—Pollock, Rothko, de Kooning, Krasner, Still—most of whom had leftist politics, most of whom distrusted power, and none of whom knew their paintings were being used to prove that American capitalism produced better art than Soviet communism.

We follow the money. We follow the paintings. We follow the exhibition that changed everything: "The New American Painting," which toured eight European cities in 1958–59 and made New York the capital of contemporary art. And we sit with the uncomfortable question at the heart of it all: the paintings are real, the genius is real, but the story of how they became important was at least partly manufactured. So what do we do with that?