So I'm looking hard - closely I should say, trying to see everything in the frame. I see me staring back - ‘judgemental fucker’ I think. I look past the obvious - all the blemishes I'm expecting - teeth at odd angles, chins that swell like a bullfrog; then past the mocking curl of a jaw at rest and the irony I expect to misdirect and deceive. Instead I go closer - into the shifts in skin tone, the waft of beard growth and the crooked lines of eyes, nose and mouth.

In amongst the detail I find the worry, the hope and hopelessness; eyes that glance ready to look away, the pale shades of milky white glassing over with a sheen of time passing - refusing to meet my own gaze; lips part, the mouth ready to apologise or to wax lyrical, but only in the safety of friends.

This is my Selfie - a self portrait, begun to explore the possibility of new subject matter (and maybe commercial opportunity), but soon - too soon asking questions of myself and how I appear (and want to appear) to the world. I ask myself what conclusions I draw - after all this interpretation of the sitter at the hand of the artist by the author is very much a dog chasing it's tail - or should I say cat - this is a knowing pursuit at heart, and a cat will tell you it knew what it was doing - even if the opposite is true.

I stare a the image of myself, judging each brush stroke again and again, knowing that by wrapping myself up in technique I can push away the complexity of my inner thoughts that ripple across my outer face. Unsure as to whether the image creates an illusion of ego too inflated, or reveals too much id to the world, I am left holding on to the moment between overwork and the first daub. Turning away I head to the kitchen, though of course at the door I look back.