The Original and the Masks

One real face. Many empty ones below. At the top, a human presence — detailed, weighted, carrying the full complexity of a life lived. Eyes that look directly, without apology. Below it, a world of masks: yellow, red, purple, green. Each holds only the suggestion of eyes — no nose, no mouth, no history. A white space divides the real from the performed. Above it: the self. Below it: all the versions we show the world. The real face does not look down at its masks. Perhaps it already knows what it would find. Painting XI asks the oldest question in the series: which one are we, when no one is watching?