Unmasking: A Conversation
Unmasking: A Philosophy
I’ve spent 37 years painting every day, and somewhere along the way it became clear that I was really doing one thing: unmasking.
We all wear masks. Not just the ones we show the world, but the quieter ones we wear even with ourselves — the protective layers we build to soften pain, hide vulnerability, or keep going when life gets heavy. Over time those masks become almost invisible to us. They feel like part of who we are.
In Japan there is an old understanding that we each have three faces: the one we show the world, the one we show to intimates, and the hidden third — the truest self we rarely reveal even to ourselves. Over these foundational masks we layer many more: the mask of our profession, the mask we wear to be loved or accepted, the mask we put on to keep friendships, the mask of strength we show our children, and the mask of survival we wear when life demands endurance. We are often told to “put on a brave face,” as if hiding our struggle is a virtue.
In Japanese tradition, some masks — like the fierce Oni — were not only meant to ward off demons, but sometimes to embody them when necessary. There are moments when a mask can serve us: it can give us courage, create distance, or help us survive what feels unbearable. The goal, perhaps, is not to eliminate every mask entirely, but to return to the original three — and to ensure that no mask becomes who we are. That we can wear what we need without letting it wear us.
Eventually the layers can become so thick we can no longer tell where the performance ends and the real self begins, and the bone of self is all that remains.
My paintings are where I try to peel them back. The recurring skull isn’t about death — it’s about truth. It is the bare, honest core that exists beneath every mask we wear. In a world full of performance and constructed identities, the skull stands as the simplest and most unflinching symbol of what remains when we finally stop pretending. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t perform. It simply is. That raw presence — unadorned, unapologetic, and undeniably real — is what I return to again and again.
I often portray figures in the nude because it shows them as they truly are — stripped of clothing, status, and outward armor. In the same way, we should have the opportunity to accept our own skull — our unmasked self — without judgment. To look at it clearly, with kindness, and recognize that this is enough.
Painting has never been my financial goal. It is simply how I experience hope. The weight of PTSD — the long shadow of 9/11 and its lasting health consequences, the bombings in Madrid, the sarin attacks in Tokyo — has been part of what made the masks feel so necessary, and the work of removing them so difficult. My deepest wish is that this conversation — this shared process of unmasking — becomes the real success of my practice. That the work I have no choice but to do might grow in others, as they begin to share their own experiences and stories.
If you feel called to join this conversation, I invite you to look at the work with me. To sit with it honestly. To consider your own masks, your own skull beneath them. I will gladly share these stories of courage if people are willing — and I hope others will feel safe enough to share theirs too. Together, perhaps we can clear the vision forward — not by pretending to be perfect, but by having the courage to be real. The more of us who are willing to unmask, the clearer the path becomes for everyone.
If any of this resonates with you, I’d love to hear from you — stories, thoughts, or simply a hello.
From the masked man (still working on it), blairaiken@raincage.com