Road Map Series Vol. 1 No. 26

Were it not an established fact that the artist is a sane, responsible intelligent practical outstanding young man, one would be apt to consider the possibility that the thirty or so works on exhibit were produced under the influence of some hallucinogenic drug or under the distortive catatonia of some mystical religious experience.

The village of nature in the new Secuya paintings (1986) are well within the exotic grace and charm of the French naturalist Henri Rousseau. The luxuriance of the foliage are stylized within a fantasy context without one losing touch with the familiar.

As it is, the works though exotic and imaginative in coloring to the point of exuding a certain erotic appeal are recognizable foliage in form and shape with only the coloring and artistic disarray providing the deviation from nature.

Hence one finds pink leaves, leaves that are lavender on one side and prussian blue on the other, leaves serrated and variegated stripes in unknown colors, some foliage appearing like painted easter eggs, others like cups, and in between one sees heads of fish or an essence of birds.

That most of them are painted in the artist’s spare time, at night, may account partly for the brilliance of hue due to the artificial lighting in the studio, partly for the use of nocturnal colors in the background – darkest blue, darkest green, darkest brown, darkest black, a fact nevertheless that implodes a sense of depth and mystery to the magical illusions of creation. What else, one is led to ask, lurk in the darkness behind these exotic leaves? What other living things grow and live there? Is the soil moist, the underbrush just as strange? How does it smell? For indeed what titillates the eye invites a sense of smell. It would be tropical, or mountain top cold, but tangled and wild, undiscovered yet by the citified eye.

Was Eden like this before The Fall? Is Nature vain?

Somehow the variegation belies the static in nature – it speaks of change and movement that occur with dynamic vigorous growth, it speaks of phototropism and stored solar energy, of all the natural stimuli to which growing things respond cell by cell, root by tiny root, it speaks of the darkness and rotting compost that goes about its business underneath to produce the beauty, that enchants the beholder. It makes one wonder, in the end, about creation and the cycle of life, the dying and the growing of new things fusions between old and new, tradition and trend, the whole human cycle and design. It hints at the Divinity one catches in the corner of ones eye in passing, at the positive presence of that horizontal line in the landscape that supports and balances what man puts there or what grows wild.