Birthdays. Don't cha love to hate them? They're an entire day, dedicated for you, do whatever you wish. Except it also means you're getting older, which for most isn't a pleasant thought. Older doesn't imply wiser, or anything particular, other than less time on the clock. Getting older, for me, just shows all the things on my 'to do list' I haven't gotten done, and time, she doesn't stop ticking. Up until thirty, getting older wasn't a big deal. Hell, it was fun. After thirty, the bullets stopped bouncing off and my cloak of invincibility wore thin. New aches and pains said hello each morning. Brain cells stopped bouncing back, wiggling like dry roots in a dusty cranium. Thoughts becoming dried jerky. Sorry, that got graphic. But, it's my birthday, my day.
Since 2002 it's been my tradition every birthday to make a self portrait. A documenting of my face or mental state I guess.
My college art professor has my very first one. She kept it for class room examples. I made it out of newspaper clippings cut and ripped into little pieces arranged in variations of dark to light value to reveal the shadow, light, and features of my face all glued on a 24" x36" matte paper. It was one of the most pain in the ass pieces of artwork I ever created. Cutting bits of newspaper and placing them in the right shade pile to then render my face. I don't even have a photo of the end result.
But I do have the years after:
Oil on Canvas, 2004
Oil on Canvas, 2005
Paint by number: Acrylic on Canvas, 2007
Acrylic and Ink, 2010
Spray paint and stencil, 2011
Carved relief print block, 2012
Oil on Canvas, 2013
Acrylic and Ink, 2014
Acrylic, Ink, and Print Paper on wood, 2015
Ink and Oil on Wood, 2016
Ink and Oil on Wood, 2017
This year I'm thinking plaster cast, or something with 3D relief.