In Two Ways
Since 1976, I have made self-portraits at intervals, aiming for one each year, though there have been gaps. Until now they have been representational: not quite passport photographs, but enough for someone to recognise me in the street. And now this? A selection from the earlier years appears on the State of the Art – Self-Portraits page.
At first glance, it may be difficult to see what this painting has to do with a self-portrait. If you have the time and inclination, I invite you to look through it with me.
The change is in what I want the portrait to show.
Why Is It a Self-Portrait?
It does not describe my face. I see it as a portrait of my inner world: where my thoughts and attention stood at this point in 2023. Zen and Daoism increasingly shape that world, and therefore my painting, even when the connection is not immediately visible.
Some Features
Opposing qualities matter greatly in my work. Thinking about yin and yang helps me consider them as related and mutually dependent, rather than as forces that simply cancel one another out.
Some Opposites
I try to let a wide range of opposing qualities coexist. At first, this painting may seem awkward, almost clumsy in its brushwork. I hope that closer attention reveals something more delicate within it: blossoms on a thorn bush.
An abstract whole contains passages that almost resemble stones at the lower right. Glistening white at the centre meets dark corners; for me, that central brightness approaches an idea of emptiness. The corners suggest depth in a space that otherwise avoids a fixed system of perspective. Roughness and sensitivity also sit close together.
A passage may remind us of something recognisable, yet the resemblance slips away when we try to hold it. It brings to mind the thoughts that intrude during meditation.[1]
The Buddhist term upādāna, clinging, offers another association. As a painter, I can become attached to a form or to making it look convincingly real. Here I wanted to loosen that attachment. I was seeking the character of what I painted rather than its outward likeness.
The Composition
Another useful compositional idea is kai 开 and he 合: opening and closing, or expanding and gathering. I think about how a painting draws the eye outwards and brings it together again. This video discusses the idea. How does it work here?
Kai 开: the pale centre suggests an opening, rather like stepping out of a forest into a wider landscape. The lower corners also draw the eye sideways and into depth, as the red arrows indicate. I think of these as directional cues rather than a strict construction of vanishing points.
He 合: the central shape gathers the composition into something like an eye. It recalls the ‘dragon eye’ I discussed in The Essence of Chinese Painting (III). It also suggests the act of looking. The stone-like lower corners give me the feeling of ground underfoot; with a little imagination, two trousered legs and boots appear just left of centre.
The Step Further
In the study above, I feel as if I am still standing in shade, looking towards a sunny clearing. That is one possible reading; others will see something different. Now imagine taking a step forward into the light. In the later version, the light has gained strength. For me, this is also a step towards letting go.
Extra
A few months before this post, I showed my calligraphic version of deng 等, ‘to wait’. I later learned that it had appeared on the cover of Warten auf Mose und andere Erzählungen. The cover design is not mine; my contribution is the character.
Footnotes
[1] On Meditation
I know that some of my readers meditate themselves and certainly, some more have tried it at some point in their lives. So you are aware of the difficulties.
You know about our thoughts that get in the way of meditating. Like a horde of monkeys, they frolic on the tables and benches in our mental upstairs room and draw our attention.
And there are other difficulties. Decades ago, when I had been meditating regularly, I knew a girl who attended courses, workshops, or retreats, read a lot about it, and gave me some recommendations. When I met her again, she had given up and said something like: “It doesn’t seem the right thing for me. I tried so hard, but I never experienced anything. I didn’t see any light, no colors, no pictures….”
Joke and Koan
When I think about it today, a Zen Buddhist joke and a koan come to mind. I think these are very appropriate in this context:
Joke: A businessman appears at a Zen monastery and inquires, among other things, “How long will it take me to become enlightened?”. The master says: “10 years.” “What, so long? What if I try really hard?”. The master: “20 years”.
Koan, paraphrased: a monk newly arrived at Zhaozhou’s monastery asks for instruction. The master asks whether he has eaten his rice gruel. When he says yes, Zhaozhou tells him to wash his bowl. This is case 7 of the Wumenguan (Mumonkan).
These examples fit so well because they address the difficulties of the beginner. Our mind follows an “if–then” thinking in almost every respect. This is how our world works. If I prepare diligently for an exam, then I get a good grade. Fair deal. If I work out regularly and diligently in the gym, then the pounds tumble. Fair deal.
I recognise that expectation in myself too: if I try hard enough, something ought to happen. Yet waiting for a reward can become another way of holding on. The painting leaves me with a quieter question: what changes when I stop asking it to prove that I have arrived somewhere?
Related articles: State of the Art – Self-Portraits · The Essence of Chinese Painting (III) · State of the Art 2025
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