Mirror, Mirror on the Easel
- Meera Godbole-Krishnamurthy
- Apr 26
- 4 min read
An eye for an I makes the whole world see.
“There is no self-portrait of me,” Gustav Klimt said, though he could have solved this problem easily by picking up a brush. “I have never painted a self-portrait. I am less interested in myself as a subject for a painting than I am in other people... Whoever wants to know something about me... ought to look carefully at my pictures.” Genuine disinterest in self-reflection (no pun intended)? Or was he manifesting Samuel Johnson words: “Each person’s work is always a portrait of himself.”
Every art student has grappled with the self-portrait assignment – the intimidating and quintessential ‘Who Am I?’ Whether it is a freshman in Studio Art 101 or an established artist, the undertaking never gets easier. Looking in the mirror is not for the faint of heart, no matter your age or profession.
In a previous article we discussed portraiture, but the artist’s self-portrait is a genre entirely unto itself. After all, “Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom.” (Lao Tzu) Artists painting themselves is almost metaphysical by construction. Manjit Bawa painted himself like one of his typically serene, isolated sages against a flat, deep maroon background. Souza’s self-portrait is a distorted head, Husain is barefoot in a white kurta pyjama, Raja Ravi Varma is regal in an academic classical style. The artist’s identity is inextricably tied to their art. Francis Bacon said, “I loathe my own face, and I’ve done self-portraits because I’ve had nobody else to do.”
The self-portrait is undoubtedly the most convenient subject for a painting, always present when you are, but it requires confronting your own demons and making decisions about what to show, how to show, how much to edit, how much to ignore. It requires an “ability to observe without evaluating,” to quote philosopher J. Krishnamurti. Artists’ self-portraits span the spectrum from realism to performative theatre. Leonardo da Vinci and Rabindranath Tagore with their flowing beards and locks, depict themselves with equally inscrutable countenances. Dali, with his trademark moustache and brilliant eyes makes a knowing caricature of himself. They are evidence to Henry Ward Beecher’s statement that “Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.”
Rembrandt van Rijn’s fascination with himself is unmatched among artists. Creating more than a 100 paintings, etchings, drawings and sketches of himself, it is in all likelihood, a record for self-portraiture. Almost always set against a dark or stark background with no objects for distraction other than the occasional hat, the paintings focus entirely on the artist’s visage – documenting his life and the process of ageing. Though nowhere as numerous as Rembrandt, Picasso’s self-portraits, lined up chronologically from age 15 through 90 are a record not just of his development as an artist, but can double as a lesson in modern art history itself.
It is Van Gogh’s self-portraits which are possibly the most well-known, always him staring directly at the viewer with that dizzy, swirling background, presenting his vision without guile. The unique power of his brushwork causes the viewer to pause, forgetting if only for a moment, that they came to see the portrait of the man who cut off his ear. For absolute directness, however, it would be difficult to find self-portraits more compelling than those painted by Frida Kahlo. “I paint self-portraits because I am the person I know best,” she said, presenting herself unforgivingly, not just physically but emotionally – the canvas truly was her mirror on an easel. In this era of selfies and filters, these works are, if nothing else, a lesson in honesty.
Amrita Sher-Gil painted herself delightfully in various incarnations, including as a Gauguin inspired Tahitian. Perhaps misguided, but she was young, one might say unfiltered, and trying on different personas to see what fit. In more recent times, Cindy Sherman is her own artist, subject, muse and viewer but says, “Everyone thinks these are self-portraits but they aren’t meant to be. I just use myself as a model. I feel I’m anonymous in my work. When I look at the pictures, I never see myself.” The viewer, however, is always looking for the morphed Sherman in her work. Even when disguised and dressed up to be someone else, both artists are still conveying a truth about themselves to the world.
The self-portrait exercise soon teaches the art student that identity and representation isn’t confined to facial recognition. Every religion, philosopher, and neurologist has explained that the self is so much more than one’s physical entity. Doesn’t a person’s book collection often reveal a lot more than the smile on their face? Contemporary artist Gurusiddappa GE is front and centre in his self-portrait which doesn’t show his face at all. Fingers to ears with his back to the viewer, there he is, surrounded by the names of masters and peers, who crowd his own creative practice. Carrying the weight of the artistic endeavour, searching for his own identity, that faceless person is, without doubt, a portrait of the artist himself and of every artist past, present and future.
(Meera is an architect, author, editor and artist.)
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