Self-Portrait: An Identity Crisis

I've had two identity crises in my life. 

The first was after I got married and decided to
 change my last name from McMahon to Mandala.
The whole new signature thing was, for some silly reason, cause for personal dilemma. 

Eeee, how many loops should I make?

Note: I cut off the end for security reasons. But let me assure you, it's quite lovely.

This was a BIG. DEAL.
But, alas, it was decided upon,
and without any large casualties I might add.
 I settled on many loops.
(Good choice, self.) 

My second identity crisis was a couple years ago when I decided to take a portraits class.
 One of our first assignments was to do a self-portrait. 
I could not, for the life of me, draw myself as other people saw me. 
Or as I saw myself for that matter.  
Whatever I drew, was not me.  

This is me.

This is not me.

This looks like Ramona from the Beverly Cleary childhood book series.
NOT me.

And I'm pretty sure I'm not this chick either.

Yikes, right? (This is embarrassing by the way.)

Or at least, I hope I'm not this chick. 

I didn't have this problem when I drew other people. 
Just me.  

I stared at myself in the mirror... hard,
and tried and tried to draw who I saw in the reflection, 
who I thought I was... 
and I was consistently unsuccessful.

Every. Time. 

It's been a couple of years, so I thought, why not give it another go.  

Maybe I can see myself clearer now.  
Maybe I found me.  
Or at least something closer to me.

  Our original assignment was to draw ourselves in pencil.  
But this time, I chose to use color. 
 I want to see the me
with auburn hair and pink cheeks. . . 

. . . pale lips . . .

. . .  and blue eyes with a tinge of yellow at the center.

It's been a while since I've touched my chalk pastels, 
and I relished every moment. 

The feeling of my fingers sliding across paper,
blending purples and blues and reds alike.
The chalk leaving trails of dusty pathways 
alongside each feature. . .
. . . until I blow it away with a single breath,
 and I watch as the rainbow of particles fly off the page,
 set off to destinations unknown. 
Maybe into the wood crevices of my beloved antique drafting table,
maybe into the folds of my jeans, maybe into my glass of water. 
But it doesn't matter.

Because I've missed this.
I've missed the broken pastel sticks spralled out on layers of newspaper.
 The Q-tips and paper towels smudged with colored dust.

I've missed getting my hands dirty. Missed getting lost in art.
Missed realizing that it is 12:30AM on a weeknight
and knowing I have to get up in 6 hours. . .
. . . but not caring.
Because I am having entirely too much fun. 



I've missed knowing that the process is more
rewarding than any finished product could possibly reveal.
As each layer of color, each section touched, blended and manipulated. . .
. . . gets closer to something more tangible.
Something more real.

 So this is my modest attempt at drawing me. 
Again.  


(Drum roll, please. . .)

I can sit here and tell you all the things that are wrong with this portrait,
 because there are certainly things that are wrong with it. . .
. . . but I am not going to.


I am going to deem this self-portrait a success,
a vast improvement over my previous attempts,
and accept that there is still more to learn, 
still more to discover about myself.  

The good news is, I think I am getting closer. . . 
 . . . and big plus, at least I don't look like a Beverly Cleary character.