I always feel like I have to explain that I’m not going for realism anymore, because I’m bored with it and prefer a more expressionist approach. I don’t care if it’s a realistic rendering of me. It’s an impression of my view of myself. That’s what I love about self-portraits.
PanPastels in my sketchbook
The world is dark and oppressive.
We’re commanded, corrected, contained.
We survive, but we do not live.
Still, we exist. Defiantly.
9×12-inch acrylic painting on stretched canvas.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
The world is full of people trying to tear each other apart.
Much of what we attack in other people is really our own unexamined pain. We criticize what we recognize, often unwillingly, in ourselves. No one is more threatened by another person’s authenticity than someone who has been taught to repress their own.
When we fail to recognize that we are all part of the same web of humanity, the harm we project outward becomes a kind of boomerang aimed, ultimately, at our own most vulnerable places.
I imagine a world where people are free from the pain that makes them defensive, like trapped animals snarling at offered help. A world where every human being is valued simply because they exist.
I want to recognize the unique expression of humanity that exists in each person, and to have my own recognized in return. I want to feel an interconnectedness where similarities strengthen one another and differences find balance rather than conflict. To love what makes you uniquely you, while remembering that we are the same.
We are human beings. And the nature of a being is not to prove itself, but to be.
There is power in everything we say and do. There is power in merely existing.
If you didn’t exist, many lives would be different. Not just your parents’, not just your friends’. Even the lives of people you will never meet would shift in ways unseen.
You don’t have to be extreme to make a difference in the universe. Impact doesn’t require spectacle. It can be subtle.
You can compliment someone and change the trajectory of their day. You can make a piece of art that moves someone to action. You can quietly do the right thing when the rest of the world has run amok, setting an example simply by refusing to harden.
You can exist as your true, vulnerable self, openly and confidently, and in doing so, provide a space where others feel safe to do the same.
It all matters.
Within each of us is a spark. Some might see it as divine, others as a random bit of chaos. It’s fragile, yet infinitely strong.
The outside world may seek to dull its shine, but it persists. Through storms, quakes, and wars, it persists. Through our own self-imposed masks and shrouds, it persists.
If we let it grow and let it glow, it can become a beacon, a quiet encouragement for others to stoke their own flames.
True brilliance isn’t performance. It’s the steady, warm glow we tend within, for its own sake.
This is the sweetest, most affectionate jerk I’ve ever met. If I’m standing, he stands on his back legs and stretches for me to pick him up like a toddler. When I pick him up, he purrs and eventually drapes himself across my shoulders like a scarf, making it difficult for me to stand up straight. If I’m sitting, he has to be on me, rubbing his head on me and drooling. He hisses at other cats. If one of them leaves the house, when they return he acts as if it’s a whole new cat that he has to defend his territory against. He snatches clothes out of my hands and eats so fast he pukes. I love this little bastard.
Why do I especially love black cats?
Black cats are apparently the least likely to be adopted. Their black fur is actually camouflage for the dark. The internet calls them voids. In the Middle Ages, they became associated with witches and Satan. They were often the unmentioned victims of witch hunts which involved mass killings of black cats. This bias has persisted in the form of superstitions regarding black cats being bad luck omens.
However, black cats are considered good luck in Japan, Germany, Scotland, France, and on ships. They are beautiful creatures, and every black cat I’ve ever had was loving and sweet. I guess in a way I relate to the prejudice and being misunderstood.
Despite face blindness, I used to be obsessed with painting portraits. I think that the face blindness is actually what made me concentrate especially hard on faces. I’m not sure how other people see and recognize faces. Personally, I’m not completely unable to recognize people, but the more average they are, the harder it is for me to tell them apart. I’ve read that studies have shown that when asking people to choose the most attractive face from images that were digitally generated from multiple faces, the faces that were generated by combining the most faces were chosen as the most attractive. For me, it’s the opposite. If someone looks too perfect, I can’t tell them apart from others and I can’t therefore find them aesthetically pleasing. The most attractive faces to me are ones that stand out by having some unusual feature or arrangement of features.
“There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.”
– Edgar Allan Poe
Unless they have some other distinction, I often can’t tell actors apart. The worst kinds of shows and movies are ones where the major characters all dress the same with similar haircuts. I have absolutely no idea who is who. I often recognize actors by their voices rather than their faces.
I used to work for days, hour after hour, trying to nail down every detail. Often I’d get so deep into detail that the overall picture was off. Capturing a likeness was extremely difficult. I got better and better with practice, of course, though I’m still not sure what it is about a face that makes it actually look like an individual.
I’ve reached a plateau with that though. I’m not interested in photorealism. I’m no longer particularly interested in realism. If I want realism, I’ll take a photo. Now I’m more interested in capturing essence and feeling. I think this is a natural progression for artists, and I think it took me personally decades longer than it takes many. I wish I would have arrived here sooner, but there’s no point in regrets. I’m happy to have arrived here now. Bit by bit I am becoming more myself.
