Self-Portraits

Alienation and the Frame

These self-portraits do not begin from a stable self waiting to be revealed. They begin from fracture: from the experience of being seen and misseen, recognised and misrecognised. The face appears, disappears, is buried, veiled, interrupted. Sometimes it almost arrives. Sometimes it refuses to.

This preoccupation has a biography. Displacement is not a metaphor here but a lived condition: to move between countries is to be re-described — held in paperwork, accent, category — and to discover that the self does not travel intact. The paintings began long before I could say this. The questions came from the life.

None of these heads is painted from a mirror. They are constructed from memory and sensation: assembled, not copied. And none of this was planned as a strategy. The work unfolded painting by painting, return by return, over many years, before the questions it raises could be named. Only in looking back does a pattern appear: each painting testing, from a different position, the conditions under which a person becomes visible at all.

The paintings arrive unevenly. Some are made in a single sitting, caught rather than constructed. Others I return to over months or years. Some begin on fresh canvas; others are made over existing works, so the self has to inhabit a surface already carrying other images, other failures. Many are painted over earlier self-portraits: a face placed over a former version of itself, the previous image persisting beneath. What accumulates is not only material history but self-history. No work is final; any painting can be reopened.

The paint carries this unevenness as fact. The slow paintings thicken into crusts that hold real relief. The fast ones stay thin: dry colour dragged over a ground that breathes through every stroke. The body holds its shape — a block of red, a slab of white — while the face is where the paint changes behaviour: smeared, scribbled, laid on with brush, spatula and palette knife, each mark partially concealing what lies beneath while letting parts remain. Nothing is taken away; the veiling is done by adding. The marks that build a form elsewhere are used here to bury one. There is no fixed palette; what recurs is a structure — a single saturated hue given to the figure, set against a ground more layered, more uncertain.

The paintings are on stretched canvas in the classical sense, but they are not framed. The edge of the canvas is the only frame: the line where the painting stops and the world resumes. That limit is deliberate. The stretched canvas sets a boundary within which a self can be seen and tested — a small, held territory where visibility is negotiated on the painting's terms rather than the world's. Inside the edge, the self can appear, fail to appear, be buried and reopened. Outside it, life continues, undocumented by paint.

The withheld face is where the work touches the present. The face is where identity is extracted — through recognition systems, databases, documents that ask a person to be consistent and searchable. Against that demand, the obscured face insists on the right to remain partially opaque. Not disappearance: a refusal to be fully read. To be unseen can be a privilege; it can also be imposed. The paintings hold that tension rather than resolving it.

These works are paintings because a painting cannot arrive whole. A synthetic image produces a face instantly, fluently, without hesitation or revision. A painted surface records labour, doubt, and time — not proof of a truer self beneath, but proof that someone was here, working, returning, unresolved.

For the displaced subject, the stranger is not elsewhere. There is the self that persists in memory, gesture, and private feeling, and there is the self that appears in documents and categories. They do not coincide. These paintings hold that non-coincidence without attempting repair. The obscured face is not hiding a truer self; it marks the place where a self has been made foreign to itself.

2026 — Blank Canvas

The most recent paintings were not planned. They began when old canvases ran out — the earlier surfaces used, reused, revisited until nothing remained to paint over. A ground could have been constructed — layers built deliberately, history staged in order to be buried — but manufactured accumulation is not accumulation. So the figure is set down on a blank canvas instead: no prior image beneath, no ground already worked. These paintings sit somewhere between painting and drawing, made quickly, in one or two sittings. The blankness is not background; it is absence given surface. A self without context, without accumulated version — the other condition of displacement. The earlier paintings ask how much can be added before a self disappears. These ask how little is needed before one appears. The restart is an ending and a beginning at once, and also a pause: not a departure from painting but a return to it, a search for new ways of saying what needs to be said, while remaining inside painting itself.