It's a very weird thing when your artistic medium is your own face. Say what you will about selfies (and I have, and I probably will again) but for lack of a subject artists have been using their own visage for artistic expression since cave paintings. There is something about artistic expression that you wear vividly on your face, but it presumes a certain narcissism.

One, that I have a face that is "worthy" of being art. Which is always yes, because the worthiness of art is not restricted by any of the social mores and other dictates we let humble us.

Two, that I approach the act of doing make-up as artistic expression. Which I do.

Three, that there is some element of creativity, and I fault you not to see that in the work of any "makeup artist".

Four, that there is some understanding of the structure of the piece, in this case the face itself.

But I am not here to talk about art. No, it's too pretentious for me to talk about my art so I would rather show you, and perhaps, inspire your own playful exploration of the pigments and toys that are abundant today.

This look was the product of a whim. A black line dashed into the corner of the eye. Fingers grasping the vivid blue liner as I reached for mascara. An idea. A finger in a pot of shimmering gold. A glimpse of my cheekbones begging for a wash of peach (cloud paint in beam) and then a paper thin layer of skin tint to prime the canvas, but on top of the peach to play with the light. A drop of peach gloss on the very apex of the cheekbone, then a line of moonlight on the knife edge of the cheek, tip of the nose. A wash of the palest lilac gloss under the eyes, a triangle in the hollow of the eyebone to reflect light. An indulgent swoop of blushed pink on the pout. Brows fluffed with conditioner, then careful flicks of thinnest pencil, then a volumizng gel to set.

What else to pair with colorblock eyes than yesterday's crunchy hair, fluffed and tousled by sleep and not much else. A stretchy, soft striped sweater.

It might not be art but I think it's beautiful. I think I'm beautiful. That requires an artfulness and lack of covetous longing that is something of an art form in itself.