“…self portraits,” my drawing teacher says. It’s eleven in the morning. Countless self-portraits are already pasted to my walls; it’s a pretty basic drawing thing that most artists go through. My stomach sinks, because hell, I have to do this again, but my hands itch at the promise of something to do.

“Thirty of them,” my material exploration teacher finishes. It’s one-thirty in the afternoon. Drawing class had ended hours ago. And yet here we are, trapped in purgatory, staring at ourselves. “You have an hour to make ten, for now. The whole thing is due by Wednesday. Be creative. Don’t just draw things.”

It’s weird, holding a hot glue gun and clumsily grappling with it, humbling yourself— but also being surrounded by your own face and only making more images of it, you prove that as an artist, narcissism will chase you like the stringy bits in hot glue. You tape something down and then it changes, some sticks to you, and you get burned at least ten times.

There’s something odd in seeing just yourself. You feel so alone but you also know that the only reason you’re looking is to please others.

I’m going insane. Probably. Doing the same thing over and over hoping for something different: that’s insanity, right?

Nevertheless, by the end of the period, I have ten portraits done. My fingerpads are burnt. There’s tape all over my desk. Exacto knife scars cut deep into my tabletop, because I don’t have a cutting board.

To my already full wall of memorabilia of myself, I add ten more clones. I am insane, I think— but I’m already in my asylum.