I struggle to understand portraiture. Once upon a time it was the highlight of art. Then the camera was discovered. Sure, a portrait mirrors the author along with the subject, however, I think Picasso proved that you don’t need to specify one’s slightly lighter corner of a retina to communicate this, and have an overwhelmingly successful portrait in your hands. Ever since the genius behind the name Kandinski left the business world for brushes and bold colours, realistic art has become pointless – at least in my eyes, that is.
Why represent particular scenery, when instead the feeling caused by it could be captured? Why choose physicality over concept?
Maybe my over-analytical side is getting the best of me, or maybe I enjoy my poetry a bit too much. However, it is not beauty that I worship but the emotions emerging from the observation of it. I am not talking about random splashes of paint; I have little respect for such so-called art. What I care for is planned works, lines filled with feeling, energy, attitude. When I see a person, I don’t think of the form of their eyes, their height or the proportion of their waist. Instead I see the colour of the way they view the world. The edge in the way they speak. The shadow in their anxiety. Living creatures give out the idea of good appearance not based on actual characteristics but rather attitude, habits, feelings towards their surroundings, ambitions, confidence. Recreating the existing on canvas in precisely the same way as it is viewed in reality is painfully similar to enjoying a chocolate’s package but missing the intensity of the taste.
It could be selfish or conceded, though I enjoy the idea of my work being original, personal, unique – and what is more non-transferable than emotion?