STATEMENT
I create faces. Faces with pencil. Faces with markers. Faces painted with makeup. Faces printed on vellum. It has oftentimes befuddled me as to why faces are my only subject matter. Why am I drawing faces? Why am I totally averse to drawing anything else? Why do they all resemble me in some way? Why only women? Why so melancholy and/or with such flat affect, frail, and vulnerable? Some are content, and I consider those to be happy. Why is my color palette so muted?
Although I’d studied art since early childhood and earned a bachelors degree in fine art, I had never drawn a human face. However, when my health declined, I became socially isolated and fixated on forming faces. One a day. Every day. No envisioned face—just a face. The etiology and relevance of this behavior was and remains unclear. As a clinical psychologist, I have three standing hypotheses regarding this shift in focus. They follow in no particular order.
One hypothesis is that the faces are manifestations of absence. I am uncomfortable with this thought because it sounds as if I am creating imaginary friends for comfort and/or soothing.
Another hypothesis is that these images are subconscious representations of myself. When sitting down to create, I have no precise final product in mind; what comes out comes out. My work reflects existential themes which loop back into my consciousness, but I often don’t realize the meaning until later. Reactions to my work vary. While some say it is very relatable in an intangible way which makes them feel less alone, others have stated that it arouses confusion, concern, and discomfort.
I must say that while naming my series was an easy cognitive process, it was an extraordinarily painful one. Yes, my art is me.
I am a woman. I am alone. I am trapped both in my glitchy body and confined environment (series: TRAPPED, AWAKE). I am muted by disability and feel the need to appear as normal as possible (series: MADE UP)—there is a contradictory impulse to both disclose and hide the gravity of what is happening in my life (series: CONCEALED, INCOGNITO). I feel vulnerable and invisible (series: TRANSPARENT, CONCEALED) and am a bit rough around the edges (series: LINED UP). I long for both connection and protection (series: INTERACTING, PROTECTED). I feel forgotten due to isolation (series: PENCILLED IN).
My last hypothesis was only recently conceived and is related to my specific neurological deficits and divergence. I am unable to recognize faces and cannot identify most people who know and approach me. My friends, doctors, and neighbors are mostly blank. I do, however, know my own face. In addition, I have an intense and uncomfortable hypersensitivity to sensory stimuli, which includes bright colors. This may explain my muted palette.
In closing, one thing I have learned over the years is that someone’s visceral reaction to my art—or lack thereof—correlates to his or her understanding of me. My art is more me than me. It is raw. It is emotional. It communicates what I cannot articulate in words.