Friday, September 4, 2015

Catharsis, I Swear

Is painting a self-portrait considered an episode of narcissism or is it considered a cathartic experience? I guess it's me who is to judge that in the end and I say it's the latter. You say it's the former? So be it. Either way, I've thrown in some Sarah McLachlan (because I am a masochist) and I've crawled inside my mind, my emotions, and under my own skin and I've painted for the last two hours or so.

I hate painting self-portraits and yet I feel it is a right of passage for every artist to do so and as I have a picture of Picasso hanging on my wall that says to me to just get to it and get it over with (and I listen to him because I think he knows what he is talking about) a self-portrait it is. A nude self-portrait is apparently the real pithy thing to do, incidentally, but as a somewhat narrow alleyway separates me and the windows in my "studio" (read dining room) with my neighbour's windows and as my children do tend to emerge from the bedrooms from time to time, I decided a nude portrait would have to wait. It's not the time or place. I know some artists feel free (or the need?) to be naked at every opportunity, but it is not so with me. I regret to disappoint, but I, alas, am not one of those.

I would say this painting is, so far, adding up to be an honest depiction. I am a natural blonde, but this yellow is not the shade of blonde my hair naturally is. This bright yellow is a depiction of the boxed-blonde that I am somewhat addicted to. Other than that, it's me. Me in my mind's eye. Me in the mirror. Me in living colour. Me. Wonderful-glorious-to be worshipped and adored and revered and desired and lusted after and wanted and needed and loved and hated and fucked and rejected and non-existent if not at least one or all of those things are true of me and so on and so on. Me. This canvas measures 3x3 feet in size and it is all me. Beloved, beloved, beloved me.

Catharsis, I swear.

The work is in progress (as am I).

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