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by Charlie Cooper · Seattle, WA
Charlie Cooper is a painter working in oil and acrylic, mostly at the scale of a single window. Water is the recurring subject — the Salish Sea, the channels north of Seattle, the brackish creeks that run behind houses and under roads — though the work has never been especially interested in being a picture of a place. The paintings are built with a knife more often than a brush, in layers thick enough to cast their own shadow. It is a slow and largely unforgiving method: a passage that fails has to be scraped back to the linen rather than painted over. What tends to survive the scraping is the part that was observed rather than remembered, which is most of the reason for working this way. Self-taught, and working outside the gallery system for the better part of two decades, Cooper came to painting after years of reading water for practical rather than pictorial reasons. That history shows up less as subject matter than as an impatience with the picturesque. The sea in these paintings is rarely calm and never decorative. Cooper lives and works in Seattle, Washington, in a studio with north light and a view of the ship canal. Recent work has moved toward larger formats and a narrower palette.
View full profile →Path traces a movement through color rather than across ground. Violet opens the way — deep at the edges, softening as it travels — while greens rise to meet it, sometimes parallel, sometimes crossing, sometimes losing themselves in the purple altogether. There is no single line to follow. The path is made by walking it with the eyes. I was thinking, as I worked, about the trails we take without meaning to: the routes worn into grass by repeated footsteps, the desire lines that cut across manicured parks, the ways our daily movements quietly inscribe themselves on a place. None of these were planned. All of them are real. Oil paint suits this kind of thinking. It holds the memory of every gesture, every hesitation, every decision to push forward or turn back. The greens here were laid down first — the ground, the growth, the patient world. The purples came later, threading through, suggesting a direction without insisting on one. A path is a relationship between a body and a landscape. It belongs equally to the one who walks and the ground that yields. Path asks where you have been going without noticing, and whether the way forward might be a color rather than a line.
Registered by the artist, no Mark attached: nothing on the work points here. How grades work