For my painting class this semester, I had to paint a self-portrait, and instead of using a photograph we used the more legitimate method of gazing in a mirror and painting. I struggled to look serious and expressionless—my professor said that a natural facial expression that captured all moods was the goal.
We began with a charcoal sketch, just a simple study. The technique is to connect something across one’s face; by that, I mean connect the darks across the planes of one’s face rather than drawing the line of the nose, the ovals of the eyes, etc. I became immersed in the close study of the shadows under my eyebrows, eyes, along the side of my nose, on my upper lip. The features of my face took shape on the paper before my eyes. Soon, my professor broke my reverie to ask me to stand back and look at my drawing. I set it on the easel, stepped back, and was shocked to discover a witch gazing back at me. “I” had a large nose that easily could have sported a wart, a pointy chin, a large forehead.
Each of my insecurities sat on the paper before me, confronting me with the skewed perceptions I have of my own appearance. I think I have a large nose and that clearly came across in my drawing. The study spurred me to step back with my painting and try to distance myself from the subject—me. I needed to think of the portrait as a painting of a figure. As my professor noted, portraiture is a difficult genre because too often portraits are boring. To be a phenomenal piece of art, a self-portrait doesn’t need to achieve likeness; it needs to achieve a creative and skilled execution of artistic principles and an understanding of the human figure.
For weeks, I gazed at myself in the mirror and watched a figure come to life on my canvas. First, I had a bob, as I decided the hair should come last. My eyes were too large. My whole head was too big. I changed the angle of my face. I played with the background color. The shirt I wore finally stayed blue.
The light played across my features and threaded through my hair. My eyes settled into their right size and color. Gradually I molded my cheekbones and temples, chose the right darkness of shadow on my neck, and brought my lips to life. We watched videos of artists sketching and mapping out the face on top of a study of the skull; understanding the planes of the face is crucial to creating a strong portrait.
I had anticipated painting my own portrait and imagined that each stroke of the brush on canvas would be felt on my flesh itself. In reality I did touch my face at times to understand my features, but overall I forgot I was painting myself. Sometimes I think that painting is like that moment you arrive at a destination and realize you don’t remember the drive over. I lose myself and yet I find myself. Never has this been so true than when I painted my own face.
It felt like rediscovering who I am. It felt like appropriating my insignificant facial features for a higher purpose—art. My professor told us that he has painted over twenty self-portraits. One hangs in his office and a student once commented on the fact that he kept a portrait of himself there. My professor started and told the student that to him, it was just a painting of a figure, done to the best of his ability; he overlooked the fact that it was of himself.
I wonder if I’ll ever reach that stage. I hope I’ll paint another self-portrait. Or twelve. It isn’t vanity: it is one of the greatest challenges I’ve experienced. And I think it can lead to profound self-growth. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll even gain the self-confidence to pose as a nude model for a drawing class. Hmmm…I’d better not get ahead of myself.
