Every important event of the first eighteen years of my life took place amid the towering, ominous pine trees deep within the Bible Belt of the backwoods of Arkansas. I didn’t see my first “proper” sunset (i.e., one not viewed through a blanket of trees) until I moved to Texas to go to college. During that time, surf-fishing along the shores of the Gulf Coast became a frequent pastime. In that vast expanse of water and sky, I gained a new level of understanding for the term horizon, both physically and metaphorically. When I moved to the Northern Plains in 1994, I was faced with what seemed like a limitless vista of horizons, while at the same time feeling very isolated, both physically and spiritually. My eyes wandered restlessly to the horizon, yearning for what was beyond it, feeling trapped by what separated me from it. In my artwork, I began to interpret and re-interpret these vast expanses, playing with the discourse between horizon, boundaries, (both man-made and natural), limitations, containment, etc.

Over the last ten years, though, I have begun to shift my focus from the distant horizons to that which immediately surrounds me, and I have become captivated by the rugged beauty of eastern South Dakota, especially by the flora, fauna and bird life along the Big Sioux River, east of Sioux Falls.

I continue to explore this region, examining plants, wildlife, and the rhythms of life from season to season. The yellow warblers in the four panel series are likely from the same family that I have watched come in and out Blood Run over the last 4 years. I have collected numerous specimens of flora, remnants of decaying fauna, nests, and stones--anthologies-- all which began to make a vivid appearance in my work. I continue to be amazed at the beauty and archeological significance of this region.

Simultaneously, I have re-connected with my love for the written word, in particular poetry (which I think of as the “flora” of language: words at their most beautiful, delicate, and mysterious). Working as one of the co-organizers of P3: Painters, Poets, Pavilion, has energized me to play around with writing again; a love which dates back to my undergraduate studies at University of Houston, where at one time I seriously considered an MFA in Creative Writing. In addition to some of my on word “musings,” I have also used fragments of writings from the works of William Blake, John Keats and Rainer Maria Rilke. Rilke in particular has been a tremendous influence on my life as an artist.

The use of tar within these naturalistic paintings may seem like a discordant element, but it stems from my admiration of Anslem Keifer’s work from the 80’s. I use tar both as an aesthetic device for lush texture and also as a symbolic tool for the continued loss and destruction of plant and animal habitats in this region. Tar is both beautiful and toxic, and used in the context of creating “nest” paintings, evokes a dialectical tension within which we must all work and live. While I wholeheartedly support the Blood Run project, I fear for further impact upon wildlife habitat that any human intervention—however well intentioned—inevitably involves.
Texture, pattern, and gestured mark-making have always been of greater importance (and interest) to me than an academic, concise image. In addition to Keifer, I have always been deeply influenced by the work of Mark Rothko and Cy Twombly. The seven large horizontal panels in this exhibit are a direct conversation with Twombly, who in 2009 created 5 large horizontal paintings, each depicting three vibrantly colored roses in full bloom. Stanzas from “Les Roses” by Rainer Maria Rilke are inscribed on the last panel of each painting. Coincidentally, I was working on the last of my horizontal panels on July 8th of this year, the day that Twombly died. Roses, is a tribute to both Rilke and Twombly, both of whom I consider to be my artistic “parents.”

Ceca Cooper
August 2011