SELF PORTRAIT.



Oil on Canvas, James McDonald, 2013

 

 
Self Portrait.

The alcoholic ex-jailbird, "Seagrave "Softly" Simpson", in the George Cole/Peter Bowles 80's sitcom, "The Bounder", was a skilled portraitist. Unfortunately-his speciality being counterfeit banknotes-all his subjects ended up looking like The Duke of Wellington.

Over the years I have painted portraits intermittently. Some have been commissioned, though most have been purely for my own satisfaction. Auberon Waugh, puffing away on a B&H while tapping away on his typewriter in his Soho Club thought I'd made him look grumpy & like Winston Churchill, while a cheerier Marti Pellow opined: "Whit the .......!!? Ye've made me just like Rabbie Burns!"

Painting 5 or 6 portraits of my Mother over the last few years, the thought occurred to me how rarely we actually look at other peoples' faces, their eyes especially. The eyes are the windows to the soul, but except in the process of portraiture or in the act of lovemaking I can't think of many other occasions when we gaze into them with such intensity.

I've always enjoyed looking at myself in a mirror, though obviously less so in recent years. As you age, the weight of accumulated experience can manifestly change the geography of your face. In a self-portrait such analysis is unavoidable & you can read it's whole sorry history: Eyes remarkably clear & blue-all things considered-if slightly blephiritic. Laughter Lines no laughing matter. A couple of interesting old craters on the tip of my nose-and what's this at it's bridge? A red echo marks the spot where a friendly Glasgow Cabbie's forehead connected with my nose. Mmm, more than a hint of those longitudinal lines that only old folks get, edging upwards along the length of my upper lip (which is itself looking uncharacteristically thin & cruel). I am definitely not keen at all on those downward lines each side of my mouth, which give me a look akin to "Hugo", Michael Redgraves' creepy ventriliquist's dummy in, "Dead of Night". Maybe I should practice smiling more.

My cheekbones are becoming quite prominent, possibly due to tectonic movements below, after years of dental work. There are still tufts of hair atop each that my razor often misses. It's strange, I still subconsciously cleave to some advice my dad gave me on shaving, Circa 1971—" Never shave that high on your face as it only encourages growth". Hair's a funny thing; the more it vanishes from areas you want it to be—such as your head—the more it flourishes elsewhere. Latterly, I've started shaving my ears, & it is a constant struggle to stop my eyebrows joining forces.

I have a gold ring in one ear, handy if I am lost at sea one day & have to pay The Ferryman at some point afterwards. These were all the rage in 1974 & I well remember queuing with a friend outside a gypsy tent near Falkirk to get our ears done. Only I got a piercing, as--on hearing my screams from inside—he did a runner.

My hair is receding, if not vanishing completely around the crown, but I rarely have to see this. Making a last stab at Bohemia & favouring the Servian war crimes suspect look, I've let the remainder grow in the last few years & weighed it down with generous dollops of cheap hair gel. The look of Benign Maseteric Hypertrophy has long vanished from my jaw-line, though it's still awkward to shave the very tip of my chin from the 3 stitches acquired during a Saturday night at Sauchiehall Street's Centre for Contemporary Arts. But shave I must. Where did all that white stubble come from...? I could go on -& on- but, well....you get the picture.

 

 

from, "OUTSIDER", by James McDonald 2013.