Painter's Portrait

Painter's Portrait

17'' x 26''

I knew the drawing was a portrait of me as soon as I saw it. Apart the thin face, small mouth, and frontal gaze there was the hairstyle or the jewelry. The earrings were a near facsimile of those given me by Jorge in Bolivia; ones I wore daily and to the exclusion of all others until their soft silver was worn too thin to reinforce again. Perhaps twenty years. I would not have thought I was perceived as facing the world with bomb in hand but the homicidal nature of my manic personality probably did leave that impression with my intimates. I liked how elegantly the demon at my back was portrayed with high collared cape making his horny hat and apple lips less than ridiculous. He had been seen looking worse, at least by me. I supposed it a flame of inspiration that burned before my black brow and was glad to see its sweat elevated to a drop that dangled from a mere cut in my coif. I tried futilely to paint it pearly. The medium is, after all, gouache.