One of the main things I love about many of Shakespeare’s plays would be the play-within-a-play theater convention. There was always a self-reflection — the play itself reflecting upon itself and its existence, on the action taking place and the characters creating that kinetic intrigue only Willy could deliver. This meta-play moment was usually the moment when the “clowns” of the play became the voices of reason — the stupid and stupefied clowns among the royals and the aristocracy became the smartest and wisest, showing in plain sight the wrongs of so many human deeds.
And then a day comes when you’re told to self-reflect. You answer: But I have been … too much. I think this would qualify as one of my major problems. But my version of self-reflection has always been negative — feeling and propagating within me the idea I was a failure mostly because my plan as I had envisioned it exactly at like age 13, didn’t play out like a Stravinsky concerto. Life always happens. Things happen. I was a very late bloomer in realizing that I’m afraid. So as part of my ongoing “art therapy” (I am now endearingly calling this “art-apy”) I am going to do a number of self portraits in different stages of my wide range of moods. I think the result will be an eye-opening one — seeing what others see in moody me.
This photo was taken in a bathroom. I feel that is a story within the story of my taking a photo of myself taking a photo, but who knows. I just have to wait and see where this artapy project goes.
Here I was in a neutral mood like: Keep moving. Nothing to see. Nothing to report.
