The Art of Self-Portraits

I am a professional photographer and there are few things in life I hate more than having my picture taken. Which is why, when a fellow photographer launches a self-portrait challenge at the start of 2024, I promptly sign up and tell a friend for accountability because I know I’ll chicken out. Exactly one week into watching other photographers share their images in a private Facebook group, I regret joining.

What have I gotten myself into?

I am not judging their images. If anything, I admire both their courage and creativity. One woman shares a photograph of her reflection in a kitchen spoon. Another posts an image of her hair swinging wildly around her face like a mermaid. One even dares to create a photo showcasing her bare back covered in tattoos. She sits on a bed facing away from the camera wearing nothing but jeans, her hands in the air curved into a heart shape, a la Taylor Swift. 

As I scroll through everyone else’s images, questions and fears start bouncing around in my mind like a bunch of ping-pong balls. 

Am I really going to do this? 
What will people think? 

Stretching is the key to growth. I believe this. We evolve as artists by wobbling around on our little Bambi legs, trying new things, leaning into the discomfort. Taking a risk, doing the thing that feels scary and weird, beating back lies like whacking a pinata—this is vain! this is self-centered! this is so awkward!— is what leads to transformation. Again, I believe this.

I can express myself through words all day. I have no problem cracking open my heart and spilling it onto a blank page, naked and vulnerable. But expressing myself through a photograph? Where I’m forced to look at every insecurity up close, to reckon with my own reflection? 

This feels a thousand times harder.

It takes me six weeks to work up the courage. To wait for a moment alone, a moment when the light hits just right. To figure out where to stand. Where to put the tripod. What to do with my body. What to do with my face. To learn the angles, the shadows, how to make the image in my head match what I am seeing on the screen.

Click. Click. Click.

I have never felt more uncomfortable. At the same time, the artist in me realizes—instantly—the value in what I am doing. I am both in front of the camera and behind the camera. I am the photographer and the subject. I am seeing and being seen. I am creating the art and I am the art. 

What an odd sensation, to split myself in two.

I feel wholly confident behind the camera, capable in my ability to set the shot, the composition, the lighting, the angle. And I feel wholly unconfident in front of it, staring at my own body, my own face, the image reflected back to me. 

Is that really what I look like? 

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Sometimes I envision creativity as a mansion in my own mind. In the center of the mansion, a spiral staircase leads to multiple floors, each one containing multiple rooms. My inner artist is a little girl exploring, tip-toeing up and down the hallways, listening to the floors creak as she winds left and right.

Half the doors are open; half the doors are locked.

Every time she tries something new, every time she embarks on some kind of strange and unfamiliar creative act, a tiny golden key appears in her hand, permitting entry to a room she hasn’t seen yet. 

When she tries planting tulip bulbs for the first time, she is given the key to a glorious greenhouse. When she tries her hand at shooting film, she opens the door to a darkroom. When she tries self-portraits, she opens the door to a room filled with ornate mirrors. 

It’s unsettling at first, the inescapability of the room filled with all her selves. No matter where she turns, there she is.

But as she moves around the room, dozens of reflections move with her. She twirls. Sticks her tongue out. Shakes her hair from side to side. All of the reflections follow suit, like a choreographed dance.

The inescapability turns to familiarity. Joy. Amusement. 

Eventually, even, a sense of comfort.

Pushing past discomfort is a valuable lesson for any artist, but the ability to put myself in the shoes of the women I photograph is what leaves a greater impact on me.

If I want to become a better photographer, I need to become intimately familiar with the whole process, from start to finish, on every side. I need to viscerally feel the discomfort that YOU feel. So when I walk into your home and I tell you to sit on the edge of the couch, to touch your hair, to curve your back ever so slightly and tip your face toward the sunlight, you can trust me. Because I have been there. I have done that. I have felt just as shy and embarrassed and self-conscious and awkward as you do right now.

And yet. My job as a photographer is to help you see what I see: that you are beloved and beautiful just the way you are, fearfully and wonderfully made.

Creative exercise:

Try a self-portrait this week. If you’re not comfortable with photographs, try sketching or painting yourself, or some other artform. Basically, capture yourself in a piece of art. Be creative. Compassionate. Brave.

Journaling prompt:

If creativity is a mansion in your own mind, which doors are unlocked vs. locked? What is the next room you’d love to gain access to? What creative pursuit have you been avoiding, due to fear or discomfort? Journal through your feelings. How might you work up some courage this year?