Encounters with My Face

I wonder how many people there are in the world - women anyway - who like the way their face looks. Years ago I worked with a woman that I thought was too beautiful to be real - we were both in our twenties then. Now I think, who isn’t beautiful at 24? But one time in the ladies room I noticed Barb didn’t look in the mirror. I made some dumb comment about it and she said, “I can’t stand looking at that mess.” I was absolutely stunned. She was gorgeous! What mess?

When I was in art school we often took turns sitting for one another in portrait classes. I never liked doing that and was always very reluctant to look at the results. Once, when given the assignment to paint a self-portrait in oil, I chose a relatively small canvas and painted my face straight on, filling up the whole canvas. My teacher said it was a “defiant” painting but he liked the boldness of it.

Defiant and bold. Well, I guess it could have been a worse critique.

A couple weeks ago I was at a painting demonstration in the parking lot of the North Shore Arts Association. It was early on a Saturday, my hair was a wild mess as always, I wore no makeup (as usual), and was just wearing a plain white T-shirt. Another artist attending the demonstration took a picture of me. She said she liked my face and wanted to paint me. Oh no.

Some days later she emailed a photo of the painting she did. I wasn’t sure I wanted to look at it but she is a talented painter and a lovely person and I was sure her natural graciousness would come through in the work. When I opened the photo my first thought was “Oh God! She painted my mother!!!”

Last night I was out at the NSAA where the Exhibition III is being hung for the opening on Saturday. Kelly, the assistant gallery director, said, “You should go upstairs and see your portrait, it’s beautiful.” My knees went weak. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” I mumbled and made an excuse.

What is it about our own faces that is so frightening? Partly it is that we have this image of ourselves, I suppose, and partly it is just all the messages of the world. I’ve heard them all - fat, ugly, plain, homely - you name it. Now in my fifties, you’d think I’d be used to it.

I came home and looked at the photo she sent again. Kelly said she loved my wild hair and the way the light fell over my shoulder in the painting and softness of it. I tried to see that, too. I sat and stared at the image on my computer monitor for a long time and suddenly I realized something new. That face in the picture - it’s not just mine. It’s the face composed of generation of women who went before me. There’s my Aunt Bonnie’s full, slightly wild, feminine intensity that she kept even into old age. There’s my dear, kind Aunt Mary Dippold’s round chin and cheeks always ready to laugh. There’s my beautiful, wise Aunt Helen’s intelligence and, above all, there’s my Mother’s dignity and proud bearing in that picture. I am a composite of all the women who shaped me.

The painting was done by Lenice Strohmeir and I am very proud of that. She is a beautiful woman and a beautiful painter and has given a gift that I only now appreciate. Tonight I’ll go to the art association and see it hanging on the walls of that building I love so much. I owe Lenny a deep debt of gratitude for showing myself to me in a way I didn’t have the ability to see myself before. I’m a work of art composed of all those women who fashioned the woman I now am and that is very beautiful.

Thank you, Lenny.

Thanks for reading.