WHEN DESPAIR BECOMES PLAUSIBLE
Elad Copler's pictorial arsenal is varied. I think of Mathehew Ritchi's and Inka Isenhigh's in relation to Copler's painting and I immediately withdraw. They both paint with layers of images, just like Copler; they both master the creation of chaos, yet again - just like Copler's. But while Ritchi and Isenhigh chaos is organized, buttoned down, almost "Anglo-Saxon", Copler's chaos derives from a different realm: a realm of playfulness, of bargaining, of trail and stumbling upon it, of being "smart ass". I almost want to say: "Levant". The paintings flirted with architecture, they were thorough doing so. The first time I encountered Copler's paintings they were sweaty of their laborious flirtatious effort. Painted lines, depicting architecture utopians were gathered free handed on top of wide canvases. They were serious and deceiving at the same time. I believed them. I came back to the studio after a short while to find out the same painting but different. The architecture utopians were gone. They were covered with paint. Some were transparent, some were opec. The early architecture remained at the background, like an ancient geological layer providing the painting with a sense of surreal depth (Gerico?). On the painting's foreground one could notice paint drips as well as images of skulls, or maybe ones taken from computer games - Packman? Space Invaders? It was chaos at its best, funny at one hand and alarming on the other. There you have it: Mies Van Der Ro-he and Walt Disney's Goofy under the very same roof top, in subdued colors, with a hugh tongue in cheek. Yet again, I believed them.
The canvas that has been covered with paint, the point where painting reaches completion and becomes "complete". All mark a celebrated moment- Archimedean. It's not an easy matter to know how to finish a painting. We tend to think highly of this kind of knowledge. While timed finish culminates with pleasure, one that is not - upsets us. "Good painting" one may argue "can stand or fall on its ripeness". In kids' painting the end is a matter of technicality. Ripeness, in other words, or what's a good painting, is not an issue. Without a clear notion of time and space, kids keep being surprised every time they run out of white surface; they're surprised of the pictorial gesture to continue endlessly; they're surprised of the failure they inflict on themselves. These surprises are usually accompanied with a notion of an insult, of betray: "yet again we haven't finished", "yet again we ran out of blank space". The most literal procedure that follows is of flipping the page and starts all over again on the other side. There something of purity in this act, something that does not take responsibility of the previous pictorial action, but rather exited of the new one. Something that is done out of a sheer passion to the act of painting. Something almost anarchistic. Within this action, which creates and immediately erases, within giving up painting's genealogy and memory, there also something suicidal? Memory, we think, is a crucial evolutionary element. Without memory for example, forever we will check the boiling water temperature by putting our finger in it.
Elad Copler's painting never ends. Just before you think it's done, it stumbles, it collides into itself, realizing that it ran out of room, and "I still haven't finished". Then it tries the water temperature and burns itself. That's fine. The insult, the "failure", although is grand, produces new motivation. The carpet has been pulled off under the painting legs. A new "camouflage" takes over the place of its predecessor. The early architectonic images now have gone. Their departure enables the birth of new images and colors taken as if from a totally different worlds. A new painting which is glued to a big one, sort of like an extra limb, or rather prosthesis, creates a new hybrid. One that digs a hole within the representation that tackles its previous meaning and establishes a new one all together.
In many ways, the paintings on the gallery wall have never got to their completion, to a result, because they really never had any. The show in the gallery, with its fixed time table had forced their completion. Hence, briefly before they fail again, before they undergo the next metamorphosis, Copler's own time table levels with a universal one. If so, one can regards Copler's new body of work as part of a continued action, as a verb, and not as a noun, as an ongoing odyssey of faith and doubt; but for a short while, on the gallery wall, and while catching up its breath, Copler's painting (despair) becomes plausible.