The Butterfly Effect: Landscape and Myth in the Photographic Work of Zoe Koke

My favourite arts are the ones that can move your body or make a new world. — Anne Boyer, Garments Against Women, 2015.

At first glance, the work is an ordinary seascape—the midday horizon sits at a slight right-leaning angle, the deep blue of the ocean contrasts against the light blue sky—then you see the waves. White foamy crests form heavily along their edges, but the colour of this water isn’t the usual frothy light blue, but rather a muted blood red. Red Tide (2019) is a photograph of the naturally occurring phenomenon called Harmful Algal Blooms, an event which has increased on shores around the globe in more recent years. Such “natural-supernatural” moments like this are common to find in the impactful work of Los Angeles-based artist Zoe Koke, part of whose interests lie in identifying the way photography “can magnify something tiny—tiny moments of the Sublime, beauty, and tragedy of the everyday.”​​¹

Red Tide is presented in a light wood frame, seemingly neutral. However, these simple gestures are almost always more than they seem in Koke’s work—as I moved my head to the side to better inspect the detail of the waves, I discovered a small silver plaque at the bottom of the frame, reading “ache.” The other edge also contained a hidden message: “repair.” These small gestures reward the careful viewer and add additional insight to the photograph’s Sublime elements. In this sense, the Sublime (as a genre, movement, and word) is central to the embodiment and affect within Koke’s photographic practice thus far. The Sublime historically came to prominence during the European Romantic period in the late 18th century, a movement that revolted against the logic and reason of the Enlightenment and instead “emphasized the importance of emotional sensitivity,”​​² and an appreciation for the pastoral landscape in the face of increasing industrialization in cities. Although less dramatic than their historical counterparts, I’d argue that the contemporary Sublime more effectively exists in smaller or more ordinary moments, where they make a larger impact. Koke’s work is the ideal example of this. 

I was able to view Red Tide in person in the group show “Doesn’t whine by blue moon” at Ochi Projects in Los Angeles just before the first set of COVID lockdowns. The exhibition’s guiding theme attempted to engage the violent potential of climate change on the environment, and in the shadow of the quickly escalating global pandemic, it took on a new terrifying sense of urgency. Red Tide’s initial allure hit me hard, a feeling that also imposed a physical burden on my body; the work affected me with what I can only attempt to explain as an awe of the Sublime, in the rawest sense. 

Like many Sublime images, both beauty and tragedy mark the two major emotive qualities of Koke’s landscape works, and in spite of these definitions being oppositional, there’s almost no other way to describe them. I’m thinking in particular about Fog at the Grand Canyon/Uncertainty (2018). Large, cloudy mists monopolize the frame—the famed rocky valleys obscured almost completely, leaving only a large dark crevice in the centre. As ethereally beautiful as the image is, the tragic element in this work is the fact that the titular canyon is unrecognizable, so shrouded by clouds it could be any landscape. This feeling of unease—brought on by observing the undefinable—is where the image’s power truly lies: an eternally vast, boundless illustration of the environmental unknown, presenting the untouchableness of nature. In this sense, the work redefines the permanence of reality, transporting the viewer to a space of mysterious, esoteric proportions that can’t be tangibly grasped. 

We should also recognize the significance of how the principles of photography affect the ways in which the Sublime can be uniquely captured. Photography straddles a line between two worlds: in one, photography is unbiased and captures the truest form of its subject; in another, as Susan Sontag describes in On Photography, “to photograph is to confer importance. There is probably no subject that cannot be beautified…”​​³

This inherent conceptual conflict is well illustrated in Koke’s piece The Butterfly Collection, 1950 (2019), part of a solo exhibition titled “The Butterfly Effect” at SPACE in Vancouver in 2019. A photograph of pinned butterflies, moths, and their larvae lay affixed to an off-white background. In the centre of the image, aged manila graph paper highlights two butterflies with extra strips of paper fastened to each of their wings, as if containing them from flying off. On one hand, The Butterfly Collection, 1950 documents an extremely delicate antique acquisition: the collage-like composition of the specimens are placed with such intention and care that it seems impossible to be anything but beautiful. Contrarily, the act of capturing and violently pinning these creatures to a surface implies a tragic desire to destroy for the convenience of easy appreciation. In this way, The Butterfly Collection, 1950 simultaneously represents and rejects the principles of the Sublime, employing the colonial mindset of gathering the most beautiful aspects of nature and attempting to suppress them. As cruel as the gesture may be, Sontag’s notion of photography’s tendency to beautify its subject rings true through closer inspection of this work. 

In this way, perhaps the effect of the Sublime in Koke’s photographic work is also a conversation on beauty. Utilizing a beautiful symbol or subject matter is a powerful artistic choice, for one because many historical European art traditions have long primed viewers to equate beauty with “good.” Critic Dave Hickey writes about the accessible nature of this phenomena extensively in his book The Invisible Dragon (1993), where he concludes that “the vernacular of beauty, in its democratic appeal, remains a potent instrument for change in this civilization.”​​⁴ When I think about the symbolism of butterflies to the comparatively immense insight that Hickey’s sentiment holds, it allows for an amusing take on beauty’s definition. In one way, butterflies are arguably the ultimate equalizing symbols of “beauty”—they are, and have been, loved the world over for centuries, appearing in everything from illustrated manuscripts and Greek mythology to lower back tattoos and the covers of Lisa Frank merchandise. Still, it’s difficult to find a depiction of the insect that isn’t considered beautiful. 

However, there is also a need to argue in defence of the butterfly (and, therefore, beauty) and critique their perceived superficiality. In the exhibition statement for “The Butterfly Effect,” Koke defines the effect as “a term in chaos theory, which refers to small events having large effects.”​​⁵ She then points to the psychological concept of intergenerational trauma and asks if utilizing the butterfly effect as a tool to send out small messages of hope and kindness could  accumulate to a greater cultural movement of collective healing. If butterflies can operate as both profoundly beautiful and unfortunately delicate, could not an argument be made that they represent our collective fragility and, thus, embody our collective need for healing and community? When I consider The Butterfly Collection, 1950 once more, the totality of the insect’s kitsch and pure beauty hit all at once—sentiments of freedom and enchantment that are accessible because they can be universally understood. 

The accessibility and encouraged simplicity of photography in our image-saturated age is another major factor in how beauty, and the Sublime, continues to speak to contemporary viewers. Image-based social media apps like Instagram, Snapchat, and Pinterest were founded on the premise of sharing (or reposting) quickly captured images from your phone to others around the world in an instant. The continued success of image-based social media platforms is mainly due to an “increased happiness and satisfaction with life [as a result] of the increased intimacy facilitated by communication through images.”​​⁶ Images, especially beautiful images, are scientifically proven to make us happy, and in this sense it is especially important to further consider the perspective of the wielder of the camera: how they find their subjects, what they choose to highlight and, perhaps more importantly, what they choose to leave out. 

Repair/Elysium (2018) is a photograph of a frescoed roof in a Sicilian chapel. Pastel pinks, blues, and yellows colour the ornate detailing of the chapel’s ceiling, which depicts an angel and cherubs lounging on clouds in the sky. To the left of the fresco, a large rectangular hole interrupts the otherwise peaceful scene, the rough edges revealing the many layers of aged plaster along its seams. The exposure of the wooden beams of the “real” ceiling above lays bare the artifice of the fresco: what at first looked to be elaborate crown moulding is merely trompe l’oeil. A thin red wire and small white fixture mark the only signs of contemporary life in the chasm, turning what initially seemed to be a historic tragedy into a modern restoration project put on hold. The title’s reference to Elysium refers to the mythological ancient Greek version of heaven, which, when considered alongside the fresco’s partially ruined state, further paints the scenario with pain, knowing that the repairs may never be completed. 

Similar to that of The Butterfly Collection, 1950, the uncanny flatness of Repair/Elysium sits on an almost singular plane. This strange anomaly is likely due to the illusory effect of the trompe l’oeil, which at first glance makes the hole seem like a superimposed layer on top of the fresco. What excites me the most about this false flatness is the resulting extreme nature of the voids—any dark crevices or shadows present themselves as infinite vacuums where the eye can’t perceive its exact depths. The cavernous hole in Repair/Elysium hides its precise limits; the only indicator of its presence is the wire and mechanical device affixed to the beam beyond which lies what seems to be the eternal, in striking opposition to the heavenly sky alongside. In this found binary, Koke’s keen photographic perspective is foregrounded in her ability to serendipitously find inherently poetic moments in real life, rather than through meticulous staging, thus enhancing her natural ability to glean for the Sublime. 

Complementary to my appreciation of the affectual power of viewing art, Koke also intuitively searches for this aspect when making and seeking out her subjects. In a recent conversation, she noted that she considers her approach “as someone who is cutting into the world to find these shards that also affect other people. If I feel deeply affected when I make something, there is a strong possibility this energy will translate to others. I could be wrong, but…I rely on my own trust in the Sublime that I randomly chance upon [as] central to the work.”​​⁷ In the show “The Butterfly Effect,” the work Pipe Dream (2019), a small-scale vinyl photo, was installed below a large window in the gallery. In a way, the work presents itself like a fairy door into an enchanted world glowing with chartreuse energy. Flat, depthless black edges surround a decorative arabesque-style window through which a wrought iron gate is illuminated by a bright yellow-green light. The pane of glass is especially odd—the glowing surface is marbled with what seems to be a red ink or liquid, splashed in a downward motion as if from a rain shower. A crack near the bottom reveals the texture of fractured glass, which sets the foreground-background perspective for the viewer. Even after this deep study, so much of this image is still strange: the textures of the plaster edging look as if it was a painting, and a shadow cast by the gate outside suggests an abnormal lack of depth beyond, further complicating the illusion of interior and exterior. 

The window in this image may be symbolic of protection, longing, and perhaps even entrapment. In many ways, the flat, heavily layered perspective of this image references illustrations from the late Middle Ages in Europe, where artists utilized windows and arches toward the back of a scene to demonstrate depth, however poor their technique actually was. Pipe Dream feels similarly ineffectual at depicting any sense of space beyond a very layered surface, which may be part of the reason why it feels more akin to a painting—this piece shouldn’t work, and yet in spite of its abstract nature, it still speaks; it glows with the Sublime, the unknown.

When does a landscape transcend the line between the real and the fabled? If we consider Dave Hickey’s argument for the democratic power of beauty, he brings up an interesting point by Charles Baudelaire: “‘The beautiful is always strange,’ by which he means, of course, that it is always strangely familiar and vaguely surprising.”​​⁸

I’m especially interested in the “vagueness” that Hickey touches on here—it’s the unknown element of the beautiful, the untouchable part, that draws us in. There is danger in this power, and as viewers we should also be critical of the mesmerizing powers of such beauty, especially in photography, which are, more often than not, used as weapons to dismantle, isolate, and sell. It’s these “strangely familiar,” “vaguely surprising” elements of beauty that entrap a viewer to keep looking for answers in a strange new world that encourages a continuous search for something more tangible, more relatable. 

During our conversation, I asked Koke to come up with a few brief answers to a selection of places, symbols, and concepts that came to mind when thinking about “America.” I wanted to try a new approach to get a better understanding about her solo exhibition, “American Myth,” which took place last year at the experimental art space Washer / Dryer Projects in Salt Lake City, Utah. The show was installed in the organizer’s unfinished basement laundry room. The major theme of Koke’s exhibition centred on the concept of show globes, the “large glass vessels filled with colourful liquid which were stationed in pharmacy windows to warn citizens of town illnesses.”(​⁹Originating in England, the show globes moved to the United States and other colonies in the late 1700s where they continued their mysterious tradition of introducing the public to the, then controversial, practice of pharmaceutical medicine. 

Since the exhibition took place in a private home, no viewers were able to see the work in person, and with the documentation only viewable online, the show became an opportunity for Koke to adopt clever installation tactics. The top of the dryer acted as a plinth for a small collection of plastic champagne glasses filled with a rosé pink liquid. Like the show globes, this watered-down red acted as an ominous warning to viewers—of what exactly, it wasn’t clear. The choice to use a baby pink liquid is notable due to its associations with rosé, a popular choice among “wine moms” of Real Housewives fame, who (I would argue) make up a significant part of contemporary American family culture. Koke also describes how she was inspired by the fact that the exhibition would be shared as documentation; thus, the act of “photographing photographs” in the space adds another layer to their translation, which found “their final forms as photographs.”​​¹⁰

Across the room from the machines, a photo is decisively tacked to the unfinished, insulation-bearing wall with hand-ripped strips of masking tape. The overexposed wash of white almost completely obscures the image, with only the bottom right-hand corner properly exposed. What looks like a white metal fence surrounds an also white (from overexposure) horse and carriage, while the faintest vision of a neon “open” sign encircled with a heart hovers overhead. The dream-like quality conjured by this white fog reminds me of a theme park I visited as a child, but like most old memories, their accuracy is obscured by the haze of recollection. This image feels like memory personified. 

The opposite side of the laundry room hosts three more photos, also installed with tape or silver push pins poked into the unfinished walls. In one, the Statue of Liberty holds her torch high against a deep blue sky, with the edge of a postmodern building cut off to her right. Having been to the statue myself, I know it’s not surrounded by such architecture, and quick research confirmed her to be the Vegas imposter. This moment of understanding felt like the defining essence of this exhibition—the essence of “American Myth” is both, all at once, and not at all, held up by a superficial belief in itself, in its ability to satisfy you with whatever you want to believe it is. When I google “vegas statue of liberty” again, one of the first images to pop up is of a very red, overweight white man in a striped button up shirt, cargo shorts, and a bucket hat casually posing for the camera in front of the imitation Liberty. This in its essence is the Sublime “American Myth,” and I am willing to believe it. In fact, I even buy into it. 

Perhaps the most interesting takeaway from “American Myth” was just that: the revelation of the “myth” of an America-centric worldview. Having completed her master’s at UCLA, Koke is still living and working out of Los Angeles, in close proximity to the Pacific ocean and the beautiful and terrifying elements of California’s natural landscape. When I think back to Red Tide and the words “repair” and “ache,” they fuel a deeper connection with her work and my new, often fuzzy, relationship to time, place, reality, beauty, and the Sublime landscape. Maybe my inability to succinctly define my feelings for this piece is due to my first viewing experience taking place in a pre-COVID world, and although it’s still the same reality, it’s now so different—like an overexposed whiteness obscuring half the memory, a fog that covers the details of the moment. I feel both repair and ache at once as I think about the flat photographic surface, the vastness of the water, the concerning growth of the Harmful Algal Blooms, somehow suitably reflecting the challenges and unknowns of this new era. As much as Koke’s work serves as a warning of the potential destructive futures to come, it equally presents a potential butterfly effect, one that allows us to collectively brave this new Sublime landscape together and envision a new reality. 

Lauren Lavery is a Toronto-based visual artist, writer, and editor of Peripheral Review. She holds a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Simon Fraser University’s School for the Contemporary Arts in Vancouver, BC.

1. From a conversation with the artist, May 2020.
2. https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/features/what-is-romanticism.
3. Susan Sontag, On Photography (New York: Picador, 1977), 28.
4. Dave Hickey and Nansen, “The invisible dragon : on beauty I = Der unsichtbare Drache : über die Schönheit I,” Parkett : the Parkett series with contemporary artists = Die Parkett-Reihe mit Gegenwartskünstlern, no. 28 (1991): https://doi.org/10.5169/seals-680638.
5. Zoe Koke, “The Butterfly Effect – A Solo Exhibition Featuring: Photographic and Sculptural Works by Zoe Koke,” September 3, 2019, https://www.allisonthompsonstudio.com/ https://static1.squarespace.com/static/5b6dbe5af93fd4bbef468b55/t/5d753c1ee9cdb53aa958e623/1567964197260/Zoe Koke _TheButterflyEffect_ExhibitionPressReleaseZVERSION2(2).pdf.
6. Emily Lowe-Calverley and Rachel Grieve, “Thumbs up: A Thematic Analysis of Image-Based Posting and Liking Behaviour on Social Media,” Telematics and Informatics 35, no. 7 (2018): https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tele.2018.06.003.
7. From a conversation with the artist, May 2020.
8. Hickey, The Invisible Dragon. 89.
9. From the exhibition statement by the artist, https://washer-dryer-projects.com/exhibitions/american-myth.
10. From the “American Myth” exhibition statement.

This article is published in issue 37.3 of BlackFlash magazine. Get this issue