There’s something quietly radical about a face that doesn’t smile. In a world that constantly asks us — especially artists, women, people socialized to be “good” — to soften, to entertain, to make ourselves more approachable, painting a still, unsmiling expression is not just a stylistic choice. It’s resistance.
My portraits don’t perform for you. They don’t try to win you over. And that’s very much on purpose.
As an artist, I’m deeply aware of the cultural expectation for faces — particularly feminine ones — to carry charm, joy, or at least some trace of warmth. A pleasant face is easier to digest. But I’ve always been more interested in the faces that are unreadable. The ones that don’t offer a clear emotional cue. The ones that refuse to comfort. There’s so much emotion — tension, fatigue, defiance, restraint — in a face that just is. No grin. No sparkle. No effort to be liked.
In many of my artworks, you’ll notice this recurring motif: faces that gaze, confront, or turn inward, but do not smile. These are portraits of selfhood without apology. They ask you to sit with discomfort. To experience a moment of ambiguity. To ask: why do I want this face to smile for me? What does it mean when it doesn’t?
For me, these expressions hold power. They are about boundaries. Silence. Emotional sovereignty. Sometimes they reflect the inner world of the subject — detached, observant, elsewhere. Other times, they reflect my own refusal to flatten emotion into something pretty or palatable.
“HER”, one of my most intimate pieces, explores this exact tension. The figure appears soft and composed, but her expression is impenetrable. There is no warmth in the usual sense. Instead, there’s presence. A quiet “no.” It’s subtle, but once you notice it, it stays with you.
Similarly, in “ME, MYSELF & I”, the split self gazes forward with a strange detachment. Three identities emerge — not one of them smiling. The refusal to grin reads as a refusal to merge. A way of saying: I don’t owe you anything. Not even a pleasant performance.
I’ve received questions over the years — why aren’t your portraits more “inviting”? Why do they feel so serious? But isn’t that the point? Not every portrait should be a mirror of joy or desirability. Sometimes, it’s a mirror of resistance. A mirror of stillness. A mirror of rage, exhaustion, contemplation, or neutrality — all states worthy of visibility.
We are so used to interpreting expression through the lens of performance. Art is often expected to give something to the viewer. And while I do want my work to evoke — to move something in you — I’m not interested in emotional transaction. These faces aren’t there to give you what you want. They’re there to be, to exist with quiet intensity.
This discomfort we feel in the presence of an unsmiling portrait says more about us than the subject. And perhaps that’s what makes it powerful. When a face doesn’t give us the usual cues, we start projecting. We dig deeper. We wonder what they’re hiding, what they’re thinking, whether they’re angry, or worse — indifferent. This tension is where the real engagement begins.
You’ll see this theme echoed again in “SHADOWS”, a moody portrait that explores identity and fragmentation through layered faces and obscured features. None of them smile. All of them speak, but silently.
It’s also central to my ongoing blog post series about visual identity, performance, and emotional symbolism in color — including “Color as Emotion: How to Choose Art Based on What You Need to Feel” and “Eyes in Art: The Gaze, the Mirror, the Spell”. These explore the deeper emotional languages we use when words and gestures fall away.
Art is not always about clarity. And it certainly isn’t always about pleasing. That’s something I remind myself when I paint — especially when I’m tempted to soften a face, to tilt a mouth upward, to add a sparkle that doesn’t belong. I pause and ask: whose comfort is this for?
There is a strange kind of freedom in creating a face that doesn’t need to explain itself. It’s not for approval. It’s not for marketing. It’s not for the algorithm. It’s for truth.
So if you’ve ever looked at one of my works and thought — “Why aren’t they smiling?” — know that this is the invitation. Not to be pleased, but to feel something deeper. Something real.
