How Art Inspired My Own Body Positivity
I’ve always found it difficult to look into a mirror and process my own reflection. Taking the time to look at myself in a mirror has encouraged my dysmorphia to distort how I see my body as well as how I experience my self-image. When this happens, I do not see “me”, I instead see a distorted and completely fictional version of myself. My face is too round and is mudded with freckles. My eyebrows are bushy enough to be compared to faux-fur. I have a blotchy birthmark on the side of my neck that grows hair. My shoulders are too wide and are covered in freckles, scratches and pick marks. My arms are too pudgy and my thighs are marked with stretch marks and cellulite. I weigh about 150 pounds, but my mind likes to contort that number into 250. My torso is too soft. I am too soft. Flaws are magnified and the longer I stare at my reflection, the more realistic these flaws become.
I am a flawed person, but I find the strength to create. I find the courage to stare down the features that make me over think and translate them into paint strokes. The blank white canvas becomes a harbor for body acceptance and positivity. I create beauty when I paint my body of insecurity; I turn those flaws into flowers. I find that, despite my own self-awareness, I am courageous enough to make myself the subject of my art.
Self-portraits are one of the most confident art-forms and do reflect a deep respect for the self. An artist, when painting themselves, most have tremendous respect for themselves as both artist and human being. A colorful oil portrait can take more than a week to complete; There is a lot of time spent with the canvas, the paint, and the face being painted. Sometimes there is more time paid to planning, thinking, and pre-sketching than there is to painting. Even so, the artist spends so much time evaluating and staring at the subject’s face that some form of comfort is inevitable. Over time clinical, artistic observation becomes appreciation. Appreciation is the root of love. The great artist Frida Kahlo is remembered as a master of the medium. She dedicated her life to mastering the self-portrait and—as her art progressed—she coincidently became an icon of self-love and feminine confidence. She once said how she focused on painting self-portraits because of all the possible artistic subjects she could paint, she knew herself the best. She knew herself and accepted her body enough to become her own muse. I strive for her level of confidence. The artist takes the pain of living a fragile life in a flawed body and creates love and beauty. A self-portrait is the autobiography, the poem, and the manifesto. These paintings are a radical declaration of dedication and self-love and by creating them, I actively learn how to respect my body and love the small bits and pieces that make me a beautiful human.
For me—in the age of easy, convenient technology—the oil portrait begins with a digital self-portrait: a selfie. I may choose a picture already existing on one of my social media accounts or I may take a fresh picture if I am feeling particularly confident with my self-image. My paintings usually begin through the process of reverse-digitalization, but very rarely are my paintings a reproduction of what was taken by the camera. I interpret. Feelings become clouds, thoughts become flowers. The strands of hair and carefully painted eyes become stories. The painting in its entirety becomes a metaphor. In a painting, skies can swirl in irregular patterns while sweet grasses grow from my hair follicles. I imagine beautiful surroundings to reflect the beauty I constantly uncover in myself. Interpretation is then a method of accepting and redefining my own unique beauty.
The actual process of painting is meditative; my thoughts are silenced as I concentrate on my face and body. Calculated, I see my body for what it physically is. Auburn hair. Pale skin with freckles. Brown eyes and dark eyebrows. A birthmark on the neck. A soft fleshy torso. Wide thighs, muscular legs, and small feet. My body is what it is and as I replicate it—in my artistic meditation—I try not to judge it. It is a human body that does its job to keep me alive and it is my person that makes it beautiful.
It is difficult not to make harsh judgments because it is very human to do. Our modern culture wants us to judge and criticize ourselves and others. We—of all genders, races, and ages—are sold a very narrow idea of what is beautiful. Though culture is slowly beginning to embrace the idea of different types of beauty, many are still left out of the definition of “beautiful”. We are told to fix and hide our fat, wrinkles, blemishes, cellulite, and hair. We are encouraged to eat less and kill our souls over the prospect of taking up less space. We are tempted to compare ourselves to others: we compare in order to lust over another life or to be grateful that another life is not your own. We begin to see ourselves as ugly, yet, we are all just human beings trying to be comfortable and happy in our own skins. Loving ourselves and learning to love others is a rebellion. I use art as my own personal medicine and weapon.
The pains of dysmorphia and the temptation to hurt my body has not disappeared, but it becomes easier every day. Like painting, self-love takes practice. But the more one practices, the better one becomes. Creating self-portraits is just one of the ways in which I practice self-respect, but it inspires me to practice positivity in other ways. It taught me not to listen to the bragging societal narrative of beauty. It taught me how to remember meals. It taught me how to reach out to others whenever I feel that I am falling into old traps. I’ve relearned how to take care of myself through oil paints.
The best side of myself is brought out through paint strokes, smudges of warm color, and the texture of shiny oils on a white canvas. I paint my reflection and my dysmorphia begins to lose its power. I begin to see more beautiful things. I have warm strands of auburn hair loosely braided like a fiery flower-crown. I have brown eyes that are the color of well-roasted espresso. In the sun, my eyes have small flecks of gold that remind me of the gold-leaf used on saintly altarpieces. I have my grandma’s nose, cheekbones, and chin. I have freckles that stretch all over my body and remind me of thousands of stars floating across a pale universe. I have thick thighs and strong legs for climbing mountains and trees. I am soft so that I can be touched. My shoulders are wide enough to carry my strength and my arms are open enough invite others into my life. My hands are delicate enough to be held gently but are strong enough write and create with force. My body is not perfect, but it was beautifully built for me: A beautiful, messy work in progress.
