A time honoured tradition among painters is the self portrait, and I, for some probably deeply neurotic reason, have never attempted to paint one. Vincent Van Gogh could fill a gallery with the images he’d painted of himself. Me? I couldn’t fill a stamp.
There’s some barrier that’s prevented me from embracing the idea. Maybe it just feels egotistical or something.
In truth, I don’t even like being photographed. If I see someone aiming their camera at me, I dart down an alley into a dumpster, or throw myself out of the nearest window. I’m not even sure why. There’s nothing wrong with the way I look – I just end up in very few photos, and those that I appear in tend to be in the least flattering of conditions (probably reclining in poor light, eating and crying; mid-blink).
I love photography. I just don’t like being IN photography.
And good god, please shoot me if you ever catch me taking selfies. Shoot me with a gun, that is – not a camera. I hate being photographed.
Actually, you can use an axe if you see me trying to look kind of bemused while looking off into the distance – out the window of a train perhaps – snapping dozens of photos blindly from my outstretched arm. I clearly don’t deserve to have limbs at that point.
So here it is. The first.
And y’know what? I’m actually not all that happy about the way it turned out – and that’s fine, because I’ll do another one in a week. That’s right. Fridays are for self portraits now. I’m going to try and make it a regular exercise, and eventually, I might actually paint one that I like.