A Shattered Portrait, 2019
acrylic on primed canvas
This piece was created in my first Studio class at Parsons. The assignment was to create a portrait of one of our classmates.
I chose to create a non traditional portrait because portrait making is not my strength and I did not want to do my subject injustice. I feared that if I attempted to draw a realistic portrait of Ania’s (my classmate’s) face, I would not be able to accurately translate the essence and feeling I was looking for. So, I created what I call a “landscape portrait” - in reference to both the orientation of the painting as well as the subject matter. The portrait includes various elements that pertain to Ania. Since I am more comfortable depicting landscapes, I felt that my leaning into my strengths, I could create the atmosphere I wanted. In doing so, I attempt to reframe and question the common idea of a portrait.
Now, the difficult part : how do you capture the essence and personality of a person you just met and in one piece? It was a difficult endeavor, for it is impossible to know the entirety of someone through only a couple of meetings, which is another reason I focused more on essence and feeling than specific representation. While you can’t access the depths of someone on a first meeting, you can certainly get a feel for them, as in you can identify their vibe and aura. I used my observations and this aspect of Ania to create the portrait.
***
The contrast between the purple blue upper half of the background and the peachy sand tone bottom half echoes the disparity between dreams and reality. Indeed, the cool hue used for the sky creates a space-like and otherworldly sensation while the beach portion is closer to reality, thanks to the grounded quality of the warm colors. The discreet details - such as the margarita glass and the plantain - are purposefully dissimulated into the painting in an attempt to conserve the abstract nature of the piece while also clearly referencing those elements which Ania identifies with. Overall, the choice of abstraction and the landscape format is both stylistic and conceptual: stylistic because I am not comfortable with drawing people or faces - and I did not want to mis-represent Ania - and conceptual because I want the viewer to construct their own narrative behind the portrait, based off of my visuals. What do you see between the lines? What do you see in the colors? The shapes? Who is this “portrait” of?
I started by applying the patchwork of colors to create the main body, and then painted the sky and beach layers. The details were next. Initially, I had painted a basic ear shape and eyebrow to echo the idea of a face, but I was not satisfied with this; it was too literal. I thus transformed the ear into a plantain, which satisfied my desire to discreetly insert details within the composition without them being too obvious. The plantain is a reference to Ania's favorite dish - tostones - which are fried plantains. The next detail I added was the golden paint in between the lines. For this, I was inspired by the Japanese philosophy of Kintsugi which - as applied to objects - promotes the idea that breaks or cracks in an objec are not imperfections, but simply part of its history and should be highlighted rather than hidden. In pottery and ceramics, this is translated by applying gold to the cracks of an object, once again, to emphasize the imperfection rather than attempt to disguise. In short, it is the art of embracing imperfections. In this context, the element of Kintsugi serves to show how Ania has herself embraced her "imperfections", and, despite her struggles, she has risen above and now lives a lush life. The final details are the margarita glass in the bottom right corner of the center shape - purposefully very discreet so as not to draw attention - and the signature at the bottom right corner of the frame "BLEACH". This last detail alludes to the brand that Ania created with a friend some years ago, which carried this name, itself a reference to the title of one of her favorite band's songs.
All in all, this piece is meant to evoke, not show, the essence of Ania.
The piece was realized in conjunction with my first Seminar class in which we focused on writing. The following essay is thus the written portrait of Ania, also entitled A Shattered Portrait.
A Shattered Portrait
Tostones.
A delicacy. Simplicity in physical form. A metaphor for life.
The long tough green fruit, cracked open to reveal a curiously yellow flesh. Sweet, bitter, mushy.
Once peeled, the fruit is cut into small little coins, each a pebble of euphoria.
Gently, they are placed in the pan, snuggled together.
The oil sizzles and spurts under the heat of the stove, the skin of the fruit slowly searing,
developing a delicious golden brown crust. PAM! The fruit is smashed, meaning more opportunity for caramelization. The crevices assume the
shapes of petals. The fruit becomes a flower.
Once again, the pieces bathe in a pool of greasy dreams. One more time for that ultimate level of
crispiness.
They are ready. All is left is a showering of salt.
***
To be a Puerto Rican meant to live in a world of in-betweens. You are not American, but you are
not independent. You live in the crosshairs.
However, that did not deter her from being Puertorriqueña ; from being who she wanted to be.
But, who is she?
***
It didn’t matter that she was adopted. The detail was irrelevant. Puerto Rico was all she knew, all she grew up with. There was no other
heritage or family. She was an only-child and was not very close with her immediate family.
She did have a dog though. And that was enough ; just her, her mom, her dad. And the dog.
Enough.
***
Thankfully, her parents supported her in her choice not to reach out, not to search for a lost life.
Why should she? She wasn’t unhappy, she wasn’t sad or angry. She had a good life. There was
no reason to risk messing things up.
Why bother?
For now, this reality remains untouched. It is not significant enough, in the moment, to attempt to
search and uncover what lies underneath. To dig up the past.
For now.
***
She takes a bite ; she is at once confused and ecstatic. There is a confluence of textures - crunch,
crisp, soft, dense - her taste buds cheer and sing.
She relishes this moment, her fingers oily and her lips stained with salt.
The sea. The ocean.
She finishes the plate, only a speck of salt remains. She moistens her lips. The last taste.
One moment.
She smiles for the sweet memory of tostones.
***
Life is a beautiful thing, for none other than the fact that it is absolutely unpredictable. It always
surprises you, always shocks you.
Fickle.
It makes you smile, scream, laugh, cry. It makes you want to disappear the same way waves
wash away words in the sand.
It makes you dance long into the night. It makes you curl up in a ball under the heavy duvet
covers of your bed.
For her. It hit like the frantic winds of a hurricane.
The straight and steady line of her life suddenly veered completely sideways. One faulty move
disrupted the flow of the trajectory. Her life was stable until it wasn’t. Sadness drenched her home, while despair permeated the air. In the midst of the chaos, displacement was inevitable.
***
The cool liquid traveled through her veins ; she could feel it refreshing it every cell in her body.
This cocktail of ecstasy, bitterness and relief. The salty rim just barely touching her lips ; the
sourness yielding a pleasant tingling feeling.
***
It is so incredibly hard to capture someone’s essence on a page. A few words cannot do it.
Neither can a few pages. But a person is not just made up of an essence ; they are also a tangible
being, an amalgamation of experiences, and a fountain of knowledge. So why not focus on those
elements as well? The details matter.
***
She brushed it off as if she were wiping away crumbs from her lap. She didn’t give much detail,
just a few shrugs.
“What is your artistic “thing”? What’s your hobby?” I ask.
“I like to sow, mostly embroidery.” That piqued my interest. Why was she going into a design
management program?
The obvious question ensued : “why did you not pick fashion design as your major?”
This time, with more conviction : “I don’t like the industry. It’s too competitive and harsh.”
Cutthroat.
I smiled because I related. I understood. This was the reason I personally had decided not to
pursue a dance career. I nodded vehemently and scribbled in my notes, a smile still creeping on my face.
I knew that, under that veil of insouciance , there was a person with clear ideas and a strong opinion.
Slowly, she would unravel.
***
The hurricane devastated her home, the island. No electricity, no data, no connection. Houses
toppled over. Trees torn from the ground, their roots spreading sporadically into the air as if
strands of uncertainty. Electrical lines broken, now dangling aimlessly from a pole.
What was she to do? Schools were closed. No one knew when - or even if - they would re-open.
Her parents let her decide. You either stay or you go.
She went.
Thusly was interrupted her life on the island. All her life, the accumulated years in Puerto Rico
suddenly indented by a voyage to New York.
It was hard at first ; she could not reach any of her friends back home. She had no means to
connect. But, fortunately, she was with her parents in a place not unfamiliar to her. She was back
in school. Things would be ok.
Things are ok.
***
“Describe yourself in five words or less,” I said.
…
Nothing. A minute passes. She looks into the air, pondering the question. I make it easier for her : “It
doesn’t have to be five.”
She squints, compresses the features of her face. Nothing.
I smile, understanding her discomfort.
Finally, she says : “I don’t know, I’m just … myself.”
***
Lazy tanning by the beach.
Margaritas by the bar. Hot and sizzling tostones bursting in your mouth.
***
She was proud. Proud to be from the small island. Proud to have grown up an only child. Proud
to be who she is.
But, she hid her ambition and strong spirit under a facade of carefreeness and minimal
emotiveness.
Her appearance does not hint at her story or her past. In fact, she may not realize herself, just
how rich her life has been. To her it seems normal :
Learning your parents are not your biological parents. Starting a company with a friend.
Surviving a natural disaster. Being displaced. Casual experiences, you know?
***
After a pause, she pursued : “I also did some stuff on Illustrator.” Another lightbulb went off in my head. “Can I see?”
She showed me a few examples, works with bold artificial colors, curvaceous shapes, and
geometric patterns, as if they were born out of a dream or a vision. Space-like.
They looked professionally done to me.
“Why do you make these,” I ask, “just for fun or do they serve a purpose?”
“I don’t know … just for fun.”
I was not convinced.
Again, I could sense something was hiding under her mask. Being held back. But I do not know what.
***
Who is this person?
She was herself. Undeniably, shamelessly, simply herself.