Learning the Art of Self-Portraiture
(Through Adelaide Damoah’s “This is Me, the Inconsistency of the Self”)
© Adelaide Damoah
“With every painterly trace of her body, she declares and redefines her presence.”
– Rhea Khanna
An article by guest writer: Rhea Khanna
Ever look at a self-portrait and walk away wondering how you’d depict yourself? Where does one even begin? Is there an instruction manual one can borrow? An Ikea step-by-step guide to building your own sense of being?
As daunting as the task sounds, self-portraiture has coursed through the pages of art history like a thick, pulsating vein, delivering stories of interiorities in ways so natural to us that we don’t think twice about it. That is, until we’re actually face to face.
Depicting oneself and putting it on display is undoubtedly an act of immeasurable courage. It’s remarkably hard to pop in and say hello to ourselves—let alone sit and make conversation. But it’s this courage of self-introduction that just as remarkably trapezes off a portrait and tumbles into the stronghold of a viewer. One who is now engaged in a dialogue about what it means to be oneself.
© Adelaide Damoah
For centuries, self-portraits have been symbols of declaration, empowerment, and I’d even go as far as to say meditation. Introduced to a viewer, they transform into a tango of selves, but one that must begin with deep and thoughtful listening. And most importantly, trust, in the artist taking the lead.
I recently extended my hand over the internet, to British-Ghanaian painter and performance artist, Adelaide Damoah, who led me through nothing less than a celestial dance between the sun and the moon. Light that radiates across histories past, present, and future.
Damoah’s performance "This is Me, the Inconsistency of the Self" (2017-19) is a modern-day majestic retelling of body, race, gender politics, and the long-standing tradition of self-portraiture.
Using her own body as a living paintbrush, Damoah powerfully lifts the veil on the practice of self-reclamation, illuminating how our physical forms are tied to our consciousness and who we really are. With every painterly trace of her body, she declares and redefines her presence. She celebrates and dignifies Black female bodies, reconstructing stereotypes and their cultural portrayals. Damoah’s poignant flow of automatic writing ties pieces of herself even tighter into her art. Now this? This is a self-portrait.
Damoah references and quite frankly, capsizes Yves Klein's 1960s “Anthropometries” performances, in which Klein used and directed female participants merely as pliable printmaking tools. Proudly asserting herself as the director and protagonist, here, Damoah is the artist, performer, and art. A fiercely feminist response to Klein (and ohh yess, is it rightly so).
© Adelaide Damoah
A visceral exploration of the self, Damoah's performance is wholly spiritual, translating into a banner of divine iconography. An alphabet of sorts, to map one’s own sense of being. As she reveals layers of her existence, she gives us the space and tools to speculate on our own. What our presence means today, what it meant in the past, and what it can be in the future.
To say I was empowered would remain an understatement, but perhaps awakened is far more accurate. Seeing Damoah peel away and air a rather hidden process, with sheer reverence for every part of it, ignites in me a newfound understanding of what it means to own and honor my body. To look down at my hands and be able to call them wondrous. To perceive the histories and potential they carry. To consciously reflect and decide upon how I want to navigate the world with my being. What space am I taking? What space am I making?
This will be a forever-journey. One in which I will repeatedly return to Damoah’s series, each time engaging in new forms of dance. One day I’ll surely even be in her audience, thanking her for finally giving us a map.
© Adelaide Damoah