We are no stranger to the portrait as a generation. Nearly daily, many of us end up commenting under a selfie of a friend or acquaintance, proclaiming their beauty, barraging them with semi-ironic emojis. Selfies are just the latest incarnation of an age-old impulse, to control one’s image (and sense of identity) through the medium of portraiture. However, the portrait, from Roman coins to Kardashian Instas, has rarely been an egalitarian medium of portrayal. As street philosopher, mage, and rapper Cardi B noted on her 2017 hit ‘Bodak Yellow’ – “They see pictures, they say ‘goals’, b*tch I’m who they tryna be”. Braggadocious lyrics aside, portraiture as a medium of expressing identity has endured from antiquity to modernity.

How do people use their appearance to express an identity in portraits?

Egotism is in no way absent in Western Art. Roman patricians were particularly focused on posturing, and called on their artists to depict them as their favourite gods. Roman mintage displayed emperors and other powerful figures in austere side-profile – these figures were literally currency. European art’s unfaltering preoccupation with the imperial past has inspired thousands of tronies (which are portraits of subjects playing characters through props and costume). Even in the modern age, we regularly (and maybe subconsciously) apply the use of props and backgrounds – similarly to portraits from early Renaissance period – to tell a story, or represent ourselves in a way that is satisfying and that aligns with our self-perception.

The subject (that is, the person posing for the portrait) now holds far more power than previously, in the execution of their likenesses. This has fuelled derision from those who consider self-portraiture in this direct and accessible way to be nothing but a deep-sea dive into a cesspool of narcissism. Much of their scorn is directed at young women, who are regularly seen as vapid, vacuous, and vain for their frequent selfies and exploration of identity through appearance. Simone de Beauvoir noted that women often turn inwards (regarding the way in which they portray their identity through appearance) to gain a semblance of control over an environment in which control is fleeting. This is evident in the depictions of the feminine persona throughout the ages. Comparing Botticelli’s Venus Pudica (or modest Venus) to a mirror selfie of Kim Kardashian may seem incongruous. But when deconstructed, huge similarities can be found. Both are in similar pose – but where Botticelli’s Venus demurely shields herself from our scrutiny, Kim pouts and is covered with garish black censorship stripes. Botticelli’s Venus exists in a blackened dreamscape. The viewer must project their fantasies upon her. Kim is in a luxurious and intimate bathroom setting. Most of all, maybe the most impudent factor of Kim’s portrait (in comparison to the Venus figure) is that she is the one taking the photograph.

Compare Ingres’ portrait of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte – seated in majesty on his imperial throne, swathed in ermine furs and crowned with golden laurels – to a short video uploaded by rapper Young Thug, flashing several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of glistening jewellery over blaring trap beats. Both are a potent form of self-expression. Both are a flaunting of a wealth and power that is simultaneously baffling and awe-inspiring to the viewer. We gaze dumbstruck at the splendour and stateliness of the imperial portrait, while we disdain similar displays of wealth demonstrated by modern artists in their own self-portraits. Despite all this, the identities we glean from the latter figures is almost incomparable. Perhaps this is due to the preconceptions many hold towards those perceived as undeserving of such visual prestige, due to notions of class and respectability ingrained in societal values, or maybe it’s because of a distaste at their artistic mediums. Frankly, I see little difference. To me, the famous photograph of rapper Cam’ron in a baby pink, hooded fur coat (with matching headband) taking a phone call on a coordinating pink flip phone is just as reminiscent of an era as a painting of a young Renaissance man clothed in leathers, velvets, and furs. Are our preconceptions of admirability skewed when it comes to the iconography implemented by modern stars?

From LA restrooms to Romanticist paintings of steamy Turkish washrooms from the early 1800s, iconography and use of props is still commonplace in portraiture. They serve to give the viewer thousands of visual clues about the subject’s status and ultimately their identity. In the early 17th century, Peter Paul Rubens was commissioned to fill 24 gigantic canvases with portraits of Marie de’ Medici. She was a woman of aristocratic, but quite mundane, background who had married into the French monarchy. The artist took the liberty to elevate the subject’s life to that of one divinely ordained. Her painted portrait is presented to the King of France, Henry IV, by cherub Cupid and god of marriage Hymen. Above her head, King and Queen of the gods, Jupiter and Juno, nod approvingly at her portrait and cast treacly smiles downward.

Is this just a huge caress of the ego for Marie? A wealthy and powerful woman like her could afford to have her rather dull life elevated to one comparable to these allegorical and classical figures. The series stylisation – which include a canvas, detailing Marie’s grandiose disembarking into France – is equally as outrageous. They are comparable to a Hollywood star’s entrance onto the red carpet. Victorious figures overhead trumpet her arrival, sea nymphs curl, writhe, and bask in her presence beneath the boat. A figure caped in blue velvet, adorned with gold fleur-de-lis, bows in deep respect as a consolidation of Marie being accepted into French political life, as well as the celestial otherworld. Despite the subject’s vanity, the artist plays a leading role in the theme’s execution. Was Rubens ensuring Marie was flexing on us mere mortals in order to safely collect his cheque? If so, he did a pretty good job. But Marie, despite the pomp, seems lost in the painting. She is but a void. The props are preeminent. Paintings like this have none of the illusions of authenticity that we equate with modern portraits. We now are willing to see through the posturing painted into such quasi-fictional scenes.

The mediums which artists of the antique used to make their paintings satisfactory to a wide audience are intriguing and still employed today. By distancing the subject of the portrait to the viewer – to give them a sense of the fictional or being untouchable – artists would depict them as classical figures or in far off and exotic geographical locations. The accessibility of devices and software which can take, edit and store hundreds of thousands of images of ourselves and others can lead to a crisis of identity for those seeking to curate themselves online. It doesn’t take much for one to note the difference in opinion people have towards galleries full of portraits to an Instagram account full of selfies. Is the sniffy disdain many hold towards the medium of modern portraiture because we consider many to be unworthy of their self-appraisal?

The most enduring portraits throughout the ages are often those which are the most shocking, strange, and scandalous. Evocative portraits are those in which the subject has distinctive identity. Grace Jones with a flat topped haircut, pointy shoulder pads, cigarette dangling from her mouth; Andy Warhol’s carbon copy of Marilyn Monroe’s sultry and syrupy grin; the Mona Lisa’s knowing smile and watchful eyes; Che Guevara’s brazenly idealistic gaze, and finally Frida Kahlo with two unnerving animal friends balanced precariously on each shoulder.

When viewing a portrait, we attempt to relate to the figure, and distinguish ourselves from the subject. The artist helps us to uncover how we perceive our own identity in the way that they portray another. The paradox of portraiture is that the methods of depiction are often enduring, but the public perception to slight shifts in these depictions can generate tumult. A classic example is the contrasting responses to Titian’s Venus of Urbino and Manet’s Olympia. This almost parallels the reception of portraits of modern beauty – from Kate Moss 20 years ago to Kim Kardashian now. The gap has been closed between the painted portrait in a far-off palace to the selfie taken in one’s bedroom. Does the concern in uncovering their identity lie in the fact that the viewer’s relationship with the subject is now all too personal?