This is a painting of myself awaiting the resolution of a very bland kind of uncertainty.
I am choosing between several divergent paths whilst, now on the southern side of my 20s, contemplating the sobering scenario faced by many young artists: I’ve been ‘emerging’ for some time; I wish I’d hurry up and emerge.
The process of painting oneself invites a certain degree of brutal honesty and introspection.
Whenever I have looked in the mirror lately, I have felt many things, but not inspiration. This in itself seemed like a great thing to paint about. Here I sit statically in my painting; uniform against a beige, vaguely domestic backdrop into which I have settled much too comfortably since uni. My distorted body emblematic of a kind of psychic sagging, while my little hands flounder ineffectively.
Self-portraiture is a subject I have reverted to frequently whenever at a loss. This artistic circling back and dithering overlaps quite well with my life and state of mind right now. So once again, here I am in paint, as bewildered as ever. A little fatter. My hair a little longer. I’m waiting for my Life to happen; waiting to get my shit together.