Seasons of giving

At the end of 2015, I lost my best friend and wife, B.J. to the mysteries of death. I had taken a year off from my painting and writing as her caregiver, and in my grief I had no intentions or ideas for studio work, especially after a fall down steps from my studio in December just before B.J’s memorial service. The New Year began with crushing pain in my right hip, and a cane to walk. In March, I had my first adult visit to a hospital for surgery to correct an artery blockage. My dear friends came to my rescue, which gave their abundant love and nursing skills. One precious friend drove hours to help, sprung me from the hospital and stayed overnight to help. I healed quickly but the hip discomfort remained until I could not walk or move without extreme pain. July began back in the surgery theatre for a titanium hip replacement. As summer heated, I was inside in bed with a walker to move, and finally back to cane. Again, there were many friends who gave and gave to assist in my healing. As the shadows of August became longer, so did my grief, and sadness on being a cripple, and discovering so much about the difficulties the handicapped must deal with daily. What was needed was a sojourn by the ocean to relax and get away from the house and town with my children.

Once again, a dear friend gave me her fabulous island home for ten days, and I promised to gift her a painting in return. It took a few days of porch sitting to relax as my surgeon had warned against going into the ocean and beach walking. My watercolor paints came out and I started doing small studies of the ocean and clouds, used my camera to capture moods of each day, and my worries and grief began to slide away. My daughter and her boyfriend took complete care and charge of me, and I didn't drive, lifted luggage, never cooked, and my only work was shaving. Reading, painting and eating seafood daily was healing and by the time I was back home, I was ready to paint in the studio.

My friend who gave me her house for a week wanted a picture for her new mountain home and had a foyer space selected. I ordered a 40” x 48” canvas and started with tentative drawing but got distracted by doing small studies on canvas in oil of the beach; and the storms I had witnessed on her grand beach porch. As autumn slowly arrived, my cane was only needed for long stand up events, and in November walking was normal for the first time in a year. The large painting was hard work, and I was working from a photograph of Grandfather Mountain and lake, and the painting went through much iteration before completion.  I began to hate the picture and the painting, until my nine-year old grandson wisely told me to toss the photograph and make the painting my own. Such a gift, and photo was tossed. As the anniversary of B.J.’s death came, I was feeling lost, angry, and sad, but again, a precious friend gifted me with advice that I should love myself for having the ability to do such a painting. The gifts of good advice gave me the boost I needed to finish the mountain painting, and to give it to my friend for her home will bring me great joy. I am happy with this work and that I am painting and living again. As the year comes to a close, I am so grateful to all my friends who gave their love, nursing, ears for listening, shoulders for leaning, and tissues for my tears. It’s the season for gifting, but every month and every day is an opportunity to give and to love. The seasons of giving are year long.

Size Matters

On February sixth, 2015, twelve of my newest paintings will be shown with other artists in an exhibition titled Size Matters at The Center for Visual Artists in downtown Greensboro. The works in the exhibit are either big or small.

From the time I began painting again in 2010, my work was small in scale and delicate in 
brushwork. Those early paintings depicted skies and quiet oceans; and then in 2012, my subject matter turned to tornadoes, storms and fires. As 2013 dawned, I had a deep desire to work on a larger scale and found birch plywood doors were a perfect surface. Hard and stiff against a large brush, the toothy surface was a welcome change from stretched canvas. I approached these large scaled doors with a vengeance, splashing and pouring color, drawing overlays with graphite and chalk worked over with turpentine and oil paint. The work on doors has opened doors into my own creativity. 

There are three overarching themes running through this group of paintings, all with a sense of the awareness of life’s passage. This work reflects and expresses my ties to hard personal realities of the past two years. The abstract paintings deal with existential, delicate webs, and the woven color works speak to the intricacies of life that are impenetrable and dense. The horizontal landscapes attempt to communicate a profound sense of wonder while expressing a sense of aloneness. The tree paintings mark the passage of time, watching my garden and nature through the seasons. Color is an important component in the work, as is a continuing investigation of possible ways to apply paint, from sheer glazes to heavy impasto. Size does matter in the manner in which paint is applied, and manipulated.

Jane

Born on Christmas day with flowing red hair, intense green eyes, and a dusky voice, Jane was always ready for any holiday. Her mother was an actress, giving her offspring a true sense of drama, and comedy. Jane could walk into a room and her bright smile was incandescent. Her Streisand-like nose was a topic of concern, but she was a great beauty. We met in spring of 1976 when I lived upstairs in a Queen Ann-style grand dame of a house we named; “La Maison Blanche,” converted into tall ceilinged apartments. Jane lived downstairs with two roommates, waitressing for the summer. She was a regular on the Elon University campus, with a wide circle of friends because of her sense of humor, comic timing and empathy.

She met a close friend of mine that summer who had also taken an upstairs apartment, and they were later married. BJ and I traveled many weekends to their North Myrtle Beach home at the very north end, with the endless dunes beginning only blocks away. We spent many lazy afternoons overlooking the ocean playing dominoes and drinking Jane’s signature frozen daiquiris, always laughing and feeling a sense that the moment would last forever.

In May of 1983, we gathered at Myrtle Beach for the wedding of a college roommate. On the afternoon of the wedding, I drank too much champagne, and while running errands, spied a player organ like the ones that were always on display in malls those days. This organ played loudly, and I made Jane sit on the bench with me, singing along while the organ played Todd Rungren’s,  “I Don’t Want to Work, I Just Want to Bang on My Drums all Day.” That tune became our theme song, our mantra, and we sang it to each other every time we visited or talked. 

When our daughter was small, Jane came to visit in our first home; and we laughed over youthful stories, while she held our child, making her squeal with laughter. She was our collective memory, and could remember details of events long after we had forgotten, and could tell stories as well as any comedian. Being around Jane was just always a good time.

Over the decades, we lost touch, communicating through Christmas cards, phone calls, and visits; but she was the kind of friend you could just pick up where you left off, and we would  laugh every time. I saw her last a few years ago at a funeral, and she was still lighting up the room with her humor; now re-married to a fine new man, with a new last name.  Jane loved children, and inherited an instant family with her new husband. She had become a respected Myrtle Beach realtor and community fundraiser at the local hospital.

We spoke recently on the phone, after I became aware of her condition. Ovarian cancer had taken its toll, and her time in this world was ticking away. I told her how much happiness she had brought to our lives; how much BJ and I loved her, and how we treasured every single memory. In her weakened voice, her only concern was about us and our lives. We never spoke of illness, but sang together, “Bang on the Drums,” and spoke of our shared good times and joys, and we laughed. Jane ended our chat with this comment: “there are many good times yet to come, Rod Cooper,” spoken in a voice that sounded like a thrown gauntlet.  

Jane passed a few days later into the great infinity, and I know the better angels have gently guided her through the grand mystery. I will forever remember her loving spirit, and yes indeed, dear Jane, there ARE many good times to come.

Failure to Thrive

In cleaning out drawers, I came across death certificates of my parents, and the cause of death stated in each was, “Failure to Thrive.” I watched my parents die slow, horrific deaths, so I know what failure to thrive means on a death certificate. I didn’t pay any attention to the phrase at their demise, but now; after a decade, approaching my birthday, I wondered what the phrase really means in life. I looked up thrive in Webster’s, and knew that to thrive is ‘to prosper, or to grow vigorously,’ but was surprised to see this third definition: ‘to progress toward or realize a goal despite or because of circumstances.’ My question then became what exactly is failure to thrive? When does failure to thrive begin… at seven, forty, sixty -three?

So stated, our main goal is life, and we progress despite or because of circumstances.  We begin the journey as innocent children, and pass through many portals; never knowing what magic or terror is around the next corner. There are thrills and chills along the tour.

My grandson turns seven this month as I became sixty-three. His path is beginning as he learns extra languages, swimming, and reading.  I listen to him talk about goals that include making movies, building rockets, and maybe becoming an artist. I can remember some of my dreams of life at his age, and some have come to pass over the years, and been expressed in incredible ways. Some dreams died on the vine, and some were destroyed by my own mistakes and circumstances. Webster had that third definition correct.

My body will not do some things it would at seven or at forty, and there are disorders that can confuse and confound as they manifest with my family. My mind believes I‘m young, but mirrors are  truth- tellers. The memory fails; but my brain still learns, and my heart grows in wisdom, as I peer back over my shoulder. I spent my entire birthday month celebrating my grandson’s young life, and my own, “despite and because of circumstances.“ He and I played hard.

Failure to thrive? I think not. I’m still here, and thriving.

In the Woods

As a child, I loved the woods near our suburban home, and particularly the creek that curved through the deepest, darkest forest; with patches of light filtering through the giant cathedral canopy to the damp woodsy floor, reflecting sky on moving water. The creek in the woods was my favorite space, with steep banks. Several fallen trees created a pair of footbridges to cross both creek forks. The first trip across the highest tree bridge was scary, but after a few times across, fear dissolved into confident satisfaction. When I was feeling confused, sad, or alone, the woods brought me solace, and quiet.  I found a tiny pool surrounded by moss that was a magical space, known, I believed, only to me. I was always fascinated with the constant movement and patterns in the water, and how rocks resisted the gurgling flow. My parents were always asking where I had been, and my response was, “in the woods.”

Flash the clock forward over five decades, and imagine a perfect, sunny spring morning with my grandson, who called out, “come on, let’s go to the woods,“ just as his mother did over twenty years ago when she I explored creeks and forests. He just proudly turned six, and his life is an adventure every waking minute.

We walked into the woods with his litany of questions, and my answers on botany almost like chatter. When we found the creek, we paused in silence, and then he was down the bank in a second, stepping from stone to stone in the water. “Come on, Rod, “ he called, “I will help you,” as he offered his little hand up to me. The next hour we quietly cruised the creek bed, exploring the ferns, the clay strata, the amazing array of rocks and roots, surrounded by the sounds of bubbling water and singing songbirds. The canopy of trees allowed bits of sun to penetrate, casting a verdant glow on all surfaces, including his happy face, and in that moment, I experienced joy as profoundly as I believe possible.

Standing in the neighborhood creek bed; the rushing water, scraping down across the rocks by sheer gravity, and time, whirled past my feet, and I felt completely connected to my child-dreams, and to the dreams of my daughter, and grandson. He and I plan to spend some time this summer, exploring the creek, in the woods.

Life Seasons

Edie Carpenter, Curator for Green Hill Center for NC Art writes of my recent work, "Rod Cooper's small paintings of cyclones seen in silhouette against a glowing horizon speak to man's fascination with nature's power to seduce and destroy.  Like the calm after the storm his new studies of coastal scenes explore a different register of emotional response to landscape.” 

My show of current paintings, titled Life Seasons, in the shop at Green Hill, opens March 15 and hangs through April 15. In these small paintings, I have tried to capture moments in time, markers in my own life. I am completely fascinated by the movement and forceful power of nature. My paintings celebrate the colors of light and of darkness, and our solitude in the face of it.

Carpenter has a keen eye. The past few years have sometimes been tumultuous and stormy. The cyclone and storm paintings reflect that darkness and sense of solitude. My most current work has veered away from darkness and into a brighter palette of quiet acceptance, and silent movement. The newest have a more abstract, ethereal surface, as I push toward the next phase of my creative journey.

My Last Exhibit

The 1976 News & Record story headline read, “Hope for Future Grows on Green Hill.” The writer was discussing the opening of an exhibition of two young artists at the fledgling art gallery, Green Hill Center for NC Art, displaying her pastel use of the puny pun. That rainy afternoon opening was held along with the annual meeting, which was directed by the late UNC-G Artist and Professor Bert Carpenter, with over two- hundred people in attendance. Their budget for the new fiscal year was twenty thousand. The article also discussed the budding Alamance County Firehouse Gallery where a young Rod Cooper was curator of creative exhibitions of NC Artists that were bringing in large crowds to a new audience. The N&R critic loved the work of friend and co exhibitor, Robbie Tillotson, praising his style. Her feeling in one sentence toward my work was that I had not yet defined or shaped my voice or sensibility with the brush and pencil.


That afternoon of the opening was glorious in the rain as all my friends and family came and wine flowed, followed with a fun fete. A week later, the same sad writer wrote yet another article, a critical review praising Robbie and questioning my work. That prominent article in the Sunday edition was completely devastating in my mind, convincing me I had no talent or future as an artist. I hid in a deep depression for weeks, wanting to see no one. Not long after, I put down the pencils and brushes. Up until then, I had rarely questioned  my talents. I allowed one silly article to destroy my little world. The writer was totally correct. I had not yet found my voice or style, and gave up that part of my life much too easily. Looking back, I do not regret my actions, because life took other interesting, creative turns.


Robbie Tillotson was living in NYC at the time of the show, hosting college art students in a west side loft owned by a North Carolina university art department. I had met him during college, where he was bullied, scorned, and thought by most as being mad as a hatter. His art was brilliant, and his figures so edgy with color so acid they were almost painful. He towered tall over the heads of everyone with his huge Afro hairdo, platform shoes, velvet jacket and sometimes a boa or long scarf. He was a recognizable Greensboro figure when he a student at UNC-G, getting his masters degree in painting. Robbie achieved fame as a painter and as an actor in New York, burned hot like a blue flaming star that was extinguished much too soon and way too young. He was a friend and character who breezed into my life and out like none I have ever met before, or since. It was Robbie, who took me to see Andy Warhol and the factory. He was right at home in the circus-like shadows of the seventies sexual revolution. It was Robbie who talked me into buying the now funny leather boots one eye-opening 1972 day in the West Village. Outside, he was all flash yet inside was tormented and masked as the figures in his multi-media drawings. If he had survived, his work would now grace every major museum in the country. Two important young artists who saw Robbie’s solo 1981 exhibition in NYC were greatly influenced by his work. Those men were Keith Haring and Jean Paul Basquiat, who became important artists in their short lifetimes. Portraitist Alice Neal painted a now iconic portrait of Robbie. He led the way for many like the Pied Piper he was.


Green Hill Center for NC is now a preeminent North Carolina Gallery showing the finest contemporary art being produced in the state. I am honored to be showing again 36 years later. It's a bit scary to exhibit after so many years, but my mantra is simple, "what you risk reveals what you value." This time around, my old hide is a lot thicker, and I won’t be so easily discouraged by newspaper critics or my very worst critic, myself.