AN artist’s self-portrait depicts a moment in time. Whether drawn, painted, sculpted, or photographed, it shows an artist at a specific point in his or her life, as the artist appears at a certain age. For a brief time only, it represents “who I am,” and then it becomes “who I was.” The artist is always becoming.

Contemporary santero Arthur López’s (artlopezart.com) bulto Me, My Selfie and I (2014), depicts the artist himself being hewn from a block of wood, the chips falling haphazardly around its base. The head, arms, and torso are rendered in detail. López is shown donning sunglasses and wearing a black “Fear no art” T-shirt. In one hand, he holds a chisel, and in the other a cell phone, held at arm’s length. On the phone, he’s painted another self-portrait, his “selfie” portrait. Even the tattooed sleeves on his arms are painted with fidelity.

“I took photos or had my wife take photos of my arms so I could use them for reference,” he says. I actually have that ‘Fear no art’ shirt too. It came from the Chicago Art Institute.”

But the rest of his figure — hips and legs — is still encased in wood, as though the portrait is unfinished, which suggests a question: Is a self-portrait ever really complete?

“This was the first time I’ve really done a self-portrait,” says López, who entered the piece into the National Portrait Gallery’s triennial Outwin Boochever Portrait Competition in 2016, where it made it to the semifinals. It’s now in the artist’s private collection.

“It was not only a self-portrait but also a commentary on the modern digital world and how everyone’s self-portrait has become a way of life without even thinking about it,” he says. “Everywhere you look on social media, selfies and how we represent ourselves to the world have become the new normal. I wanted my piece to show the process of my work and, also, me creating myself from carving to painting.” ◀