Read an Excerpt
The Gift of Koi
Paintings and Reflections
By Meredith Cope Balboa Press
Copyright © 2014 Meredith Cope
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-9182-7
CHAPTER 1
Art transcends. Like poetry, it provides the voice that we all hear and sense through collective experience deep in our DNA dating back to our ancient ancestors. Through a memory we can't recall, our hearts know so much more than we could ever conceive. True art speaks to that part of us; the knowing part, the one that is on a constant journey to our own beginnings --only to see it for the first time. Images of koi bring us more than just references of good fortune; but rather, of true abundance. It's not a reminder as a hope and dream, but a deep knowing that surely this is our own true essence. Abundance of grace, inescapable beauty, natural flow, and the truth of our connection to all that is, is laid out before us just for the claiming. Abundance that is our essence. Through their dance with each other in total fluidity, we see and sense our own effortless possibilities.
As a Native American descendent, I have always related strongly to nature and particularly to water. Both water and ponds have been a subject of focus for many years, but when koi came into my scope of attention, their impact was more profound. Seemingly hieroglyphic images in the reflections of the water, visions of cosmic stars and galaxies appeared and the harmony of all things having to be heard. They brought this to me. Since ancient times, koi have been recognized and referred to symbolically, and I think you will see it again in this body of work—perhaps with surprising depth. The paintings simply bring that forward—not so you can hear my voice, but so that you can hear your own.
Carried by current
The sense of it is
I can trust what's coming
Collisions have taught me this
It's the movement
Past the last
Through the next
In spaces so tender I can only whisper about
I remember
What I learned
Allowing the feelings
So they can flow
And pass right through
The energy of healing
It's the movement that carries us through
To the next miracle
We're open to
Refractions reveal
distortions
or deeper reality?
Look
it's here ...
but you can't just see it
Your soul has to absorb it like butterfly wings taking in the sun.
Flay open the courage
to unfold
and expose
fractured crystals
broken surfaces of beauty
layers of light
compounding truth
on truth
and swim straight into
the presence of life
Through the eye; the vision sparks pure energy; flashing forward from within
We are what God is—powerful creators of the possible Imagination? the fuel of creation. We know what changes the world.
Keep me informed
of where you leave off
and I begin
because I've lost track
So interconnected
I'm counting my fingers and finding your toes
Wash over me again
Remind me of our oneness
I want to feel whole
and home
again
in you
Pure joy
In colors that meld and melt into each other
There must be eyes in my heart, for
What I see --
I feel
a direct translation
of unadvertised and volumized bliss
I keep thinking
There could have been life on this planet without it being so beautiful
Inherent in the reflection
is what it came from
Layers of reality
Is it on the surface
Or far below?
Going deep
Means seeing through so much
Of my own stuff
And didn't they tell me it was easy?
Called it the "simple truth"
Maybe I'll never get to that room
I think it's the hallways I like.
Love lingers
through devastation
and separation of souls
Floods and tears
Fears
of losing it
chase it away
But what can stop
the tender heart
from beating
seeking
a way to give
and receive?
At our core
we are expressions
of love
pure and endless
overwhelming
oceans of good
Acceptance
is a breath-taking field
that breaks down
into one
flower—
Peace with All
We make it
unnecessarily complex
There's just
one thing
that needs
to be answered—
Can you approve
of what
has been masterfully
laid out before you
and take responsibility
for the rest?
Maybe it's our judgment,
not God's
That keeps us apart
The footfall of well-being is slow and simple.
Still reflection is blurred by the pace.
I'm planting my feet firmly.
This one life will not go by in a blur.
It's a decision to be really here, really alive, bringing life to the living.
Just now. This glimmering moment.
Making light-play
of the water
Quick turns
flashing fins that
feel the flow
in and out
agile movement trailing evidence
of blessings
like bio-luminescence
with my life's predictably
unpredictability
I feel the presence
their guarding, guiding
essence
Don't tell me we don't have angels ...
I see wings.
Cherished
Like mother to child
Father to family
The ever-presence of love
as elemental to matter
as wetness to water
with lighthouse vigilance
constantly by our side
Nowhere where it's not
Even in our brokenness
and when we have lost our way
From an endless Source
the eternal to us
we are Being
watched over
Color over time
The open shutter of the open heart
Painting ribbons of streaming hues
Caught in watery highways
Like love
Just waiting for us to see
The light
Drops of
yellow
on lily pads
and open palms of petals
held up like hands in meditation
hidden illumination
hidden only from those with eyes shut.
So smart
Can't be fooled, don't fall for that
Superstition—
Just a prejudice of now to call anything that
What if it's true
Called backward but forward
Tension to threads already woven into wisdom
Restricting flow won't welcome anything in
But what's kept out?
Hearts protected or trapped?
The world's already clear
Waters reflecting more than we see
In it—of it—through it
Creatures of the ancient and timeless
You and me ... so smart
What do we see?
Keeping it
under water
Liquid refractions
Visions
in unexpected tones
and shapes
a common rhythm
for the
uncommonness of life
What could be
ordinary
about stardust
in our midst?
Shhhhh
Quiet pours over
stillness
unveils what was
always known
open heartspace
heightened awareness
vibrational bliss
Ohm time
time out
time without time
inaudibly speaks
in brightened tones
sparkles and stardust
I never saw ...
must have missed it
was I blind?
how could I have not seen the world's
million messages?
of love
glass orbs and glint
reflections of the
Source
of peace
The power of one
Gandhi, MLK, Mother Theresa, Mandela
Shifting what's out from within
Spirit sight-ation
Making useless
That excuse of
"What can I do?"
Present waters can't resist waters of change
from the pure-hearted
Ripples of transformation
layers of love
change the balance
to certain change
a truth too big to ignore
one
with thousands
all One with One
The Journey through Art
My First Painting—It all began when my parents were out of town. Well, it's not as bad as all that. It's not about wild parties or destroyed living rooms—just a dog. My brother, Gerry, thought he'd pulled a tricky financial deal by selling a dog to me at a profit. And I guess he's right because whether he owned the dog or I did, we both would have enjoyed having the dog in our home. Now that I think of it, the only privilege which the purchase afforded me was the responsibilities of taking care of it.
Like every other child who owns a dog, I felt the warmth and companionship of this loving creature. But how I got this companion in my life was a bit of a family portrait. Some neighbor, in a desperate attempt to unburden their family of a litter of half German shepherd and half cocker spaniel puppies, sent their kids door-to-door with the puppies all piled in their arms asking, "Would you like a puppy?" And such a deal! They were selling them for 25 cents apiece. I'm not quite sure what the purpose of the 25 cents was. It was too low to prove that we had enough money to take care of the dog. It was too little to prove that we were seriously committed to being pet owners either, and frankly, too little for any profit. My guess is that the parents told their kids to give them away, and the kids thought, "Our parents will never know, and we can buy a candy bar!" But in any case my brother answered the door, and without asking anyone (remember my parents were out of town) bought this bargain dog for a quarter. And in the same entrepreneurial spirit in which it was sold, he offered the dog to me for 50 cents—which I promptly paid. So far we're on a financial roll. And everyone was happy. Clearly, it was a triumph for capitalism. He and the puppy's original sellers were richer, and I was the proud owner of that all black bundle of love. And our parents? Hey they weren't going to know for several more days!
I don't remember the occasion that brought about the gift of my first set of oil paints, but the granting of that wish was marked by a feeling of magic. In fact, that's still, to this day, my association with a box of paints. I remember opening the tubes and smelling that scent. I remember removing the lids and eyeing each color individually as if to greet it with respect for its personal gift. Yellow promises to lighten without weakening, red brings intensity, blue cools and calms, etc. They were already speaking to me. I knew it was a significant gift from my parents because oil paint wasn't cheap, and to say that money was tight in our household was an understatement. My parents had six children, and even though I was the youngest, they had held onto their Depressionist midset that told them you could never overdo guarding against running out of money. Savings, a buffer against hard times, was worth more than any temporary ease of living. So I was, in fact, deeply touched and aware of this extravagant gift that didn't even serve any utilitarian function. I couldn't wear it or eat it, and yet there it was—a gift—just because I loved it.
I don't remember anyone talking about my art at home particularly. I remember certain teachers, one in third grade, making a huge deal about it—to the point that I would rather she didn't, in fact. Instead of praising me individually, she'd stand up in front of the whole class and say, "Why can't the rest of you fill the page, draw larger, and add interesting details like Meredith?" It's funny because those weren't goals of mine either. I just drew to be drawing, and that's what happened. I remember thinking after she said it, "Yeah, I guess she's right," and quickly followed with, "I wish she'd stop that because it's making everyone else feel bad." But as all negatives in life hold the potential for a positive outcome, that experience tenderized me for later experiences with children when I became a teacher as well. I can for sure say that I remembered to not repeat that mistake.
So maybe I brought some of those works home from school, and my parents saw them. I remember drawing from the wildlife photos in The World Book Encyclopedia set we had at home. Remember those? I would even take a volume on trips with my father as he drove his sales route in Northern Arkansas and draw as he drove. One other theory presents itself. Perhaps my mother's brother, Clarence Williams, spoke up on my behalf to my parents. Being an artist himself, my earliest art lessons were with him at his home in Ozark, Arkansas, along with my cousin, Anitra. His role as encourager and holding high expectations for my art remained constant throughout my entire life—all the way to his death, in fact. But one way or another, they did notice and lovingly responded with my first set of oil paints. Which brings me back to my dog, Juno. Juno became my first subject, my very first painting. No one thought to get me a canvas, and after the huge gift of paint and brushes, I certainly wasn't going to ask. So the painting was done on white cardboard confiscated from the packaging of something we had in the house. The portrait did look just like my puppy, I thought, but the disappointment was to be my first lesson in color.
The Question of Color—I had painted the grass green, but it didn't look like the color of real grass. Juno, who was totally black, was painted black, but something was obviously lacking in that too. I was about twelve years old, and over the next ten years I studied art looking for the answer to the question, "What do people do with color that makes it effective?" Well, of course, the answer to that, especially by the 1960's, was all over the place and answered in too many ways to mention. I set out on a journey through art books and museums to uncover the answer. What follows is a brief sketch of why it took me ten years of observation on my own to answer the question. I could learn from Gauguin that broad flattened shapes of vivid color have strong appeal. I could learn from Picasso that form and color are totally subjective and can be manipulated to create new perspectives. I could learn from the Impressionists the impact of immediate color and light but very little about how they did it. I knew they had it, but I also knew I didn't. Expressionists said, "Throw the rules out the window; any color works for any space" (as long as the value is the same, I later observed). But color, in their case, was there to serve the emotion, an allegorical or psychological comment on the artist's reaction to the subject. And honestly, this only scratches the surface of answers that were there to witness. In fact, I think it was after I discovered Piet Mondrian's studies of the effects of just squares and rectangles of color with no subject matter that I threw up my hands. Because after that, came the next logical step which has to be the best tongue-in-cheek gesture ever made in art—Kazimir Malevich's "White on White" paintings. Imagine, after all my searching for how to do color, just imagine my surprise at the ultimate conclusion—not only do you not need a subject; color is just as unnecessary to art. Clearly I was at the end of that road.
The answer finally had to be, "It all depends on what you're trying to accomplish." Well one thing I knew, even though I could appreciate and even madly enjoy Impressionism, Expressionism, Surrealism and lots of other –isms, I wanted to accomplish the ability to do representational art first, and then see where I would go from there. Just as all professions have basic skills that need to be mastered first before one is ready to branch out with innovations, it seemed true of an artist too—at least in my mind.
So even though this search did not end in getting "the answer" to my question, I learned a million ways that color is used and a million ways that I responded emotionally to color—each one stored away for my own future innovations—not wasted effort at all. Art history remains a major aspect of my love of art to this day. I took many art history classes as a part of my undergraduate degree in Fine Arts and loved and learned from every one of them—two more benefits from a possibly perceive failure.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Gift of Koi by Meredith Cope. Copyright © 2014 Meredith Cope. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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