Do you think you can read a person by his or her face? And conversely, do you think the face you present to the world accurately depicts you?
I mulled these over this week as I roamed around the Detroit Institute of Arts. My original intent was to build on last week’s post and find something that represented “secret spaces.” But though I found some interesting paintings, none seemed to quite fit.
Then, in my wanderings, I noticed the grand hall decorated for a reception.
Not long after that, I saw the reason: a bride and her entourage.
I wondered what possesses a person to put herself on display in such a public way. It’s one thing to be surrounded by friends and relatives; it’s entirely another to be intentionally engulfed by hundreds of gawking tourists. (Not to mention sly amateur photographers.)
But as I sat on a bench and reflected on the art around me, I realized that artists have always been doing that: putting themselves on display. And nowhere is that more evident than in self-portraits. The museum had a number of them. Some I recognized.
Some I didn’t. But were impressed with all the same.
There’s something bold and revealing – and vulnerable -- about putting one’s face in a painting. A self-portrait invites strangers to come up and engage, to decide for themselves what kind of a person this painter seems to be.
It’s ironic that in my life, I’ve turned my back on audiences. Literally. Pay no attention to the man in front of the curtain – that interplay of words and pictures I weave. I’ve become the man of a thousand typefaces. Or of at least a half-dozen. But I’m convinced that anything we create as humans speaks about our true selves – whether it’s the paintings we make or the words we write. The clothes we select. Our gardens. Our houses. The mugs we drink out of. The mugs we look out of.
My deep desire it to make all these things in my life speak to who I am. Or better yet, the person I’m becoming.
And put that best face forward.
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