Hallomeen


I hate my stupid face. And I love it, and I hate it.

What is a self portrait: An act of vanity, fantasy, of self-loathing? All? None?

How can we even paint ourselves when we don’t even see ourselves as others do?

Or how can we represent ourselves when so much of our selves is unknown to us? – the subconscious, the denied.

How do we represent what we substantially are, in a superficial world?

There are no answers entire offered here but those are some of the questions I’ve asked in between swearing and silence.

I began this self-portrait ages ago. I painted a relatively realistic rendering of my face, then I painted over it a grotesque charicature, then I painted over this a beautified version.

I’ve now returned to it, and using ‘dramatic’ upwards lighting created a layer over this tending towards the grotesque and the realistic at once in an attempt to balance all three versions in one.

I’m not happy with it, but then neither am I happy with my face. Acceptance is the order of the day.

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Lost and found

  
I remember now that she was sat opposite me and I hastily drew this sketch of her in ink as we conversed. Then sometime later I took a photo of the sketch as it lay on my table, with my notebook alongside it, and used the SketchPad app to scratch in somedefining  light and shade. But I forgot and only when my phone had to be restored to an earlier incarnation did it resurface. It is a fair likeness and a reminder to me to draw more.