Beyond the Uniform: Can a Portrait Reveal the Real Military Identity?

When most people think of military portraiture, they imagine uniforms, medals, rank badges and ceremonial dress. For centuries these symbols have defined what it means to portray a soldier. They immediately tell us who the subject is and what they have achieved.

But I've been asking myself a different question:

What happens when you remove the uniform?

Does military identity disappear, or does something much deeper remain?

As both a veteran and an artist, this question sits at the heart of my current body of work. Rather than painting soldiers as representatives of an institution, I'm interested in painting people. I'm fascinated by the invisible experiences that remain long after military service ends—memory, resilience, trauma, discipline and identity.

Looking Beyond the Medals

Traditional military portraits have always celebrated achievement and status. Before photography, portraits were often commissioned by senior officers or members of the military elite. Their paintings reinforced authority through carefully painted uniforms, medals, swords and commanding poses.

Even after photography made portraiture accessible to ordinary soldiers, the uniform remained central. Walk into any gallery filled with military portraits and you'll recognise the subjects immediately.

But does a uniform tell us who someone really is?

From my own experience, I know military service changes people in ways that aren't visible. The uniform eventually comes off, but the experiences remain.

That's what I want my paintings to explore.

What Can Painting Say That Photography Can't?

Portrait painting offers something unique.

Unlike photography, painting allows ambiguity. Brushstrokes, colour, composition and expression can communicate emotions and memories that aren't immediately visible. Identity isn't fixed; it's shaped by lived experience and constantly evolving.

I'm interested in whether a portrait can reveal those invisible traces of military life without relying on obvious visual symbols.

Can a painting communicate resilience?

Can it suggest trauma without illustrating violence?

Can it make the viewer pause and wonder about the life someone has lived?

These are the questions driving my practice.

Learning from Artists Who Changed How We See War

As part of developing this series, I've looked closely at several artists whose work challenged traditional ideas of military representation.

Otto Dix: The Reality Behind the Hero

Otto Dix served in the First World War, and his paintings bear the scars of that experience.

Rather than glorifying soldiers, he painted the physical and psychological consequences of war. His figures are often damaged, fragmented and unsettling.

One painting that particularly resonates with me is Skat Players (1920), which depicts three veterans playing cards in civilian clothes. Although they've left the battlefield behind, their injuries and prosthetic limbs tell their story. Their military identity survives even without the uniform.

Dix reminds us that war doesn't simply end when service ends.

Francisco Goya: Shifting the Focus to Humanity

Francisco Goya took a very different approach.

In works such as The Third of May 1808, he rejected heroic depictions of battle and instead focused on fear, suffering and the human cost of conflict.

Rather than celebrating military power, Goya asks us to empathise with people caught in violence.

That shift from institution to individual strongly influences my own thinking. Like Goya, I'm less interested in military spectacle than in the humanity beneath it.

Luc Tuyman's: Memory Through Absence

Luc Tuyman's approaches history in an entirely different way.

His paintings often feel muted, blurred and incomplete, almost like distant memories. Rather than showing dramatic events directly, he suggests them through absence and ambiguity.

His work made me think about how memory itself can become the subject.

Although my painting style is very different—my work is built through expressive brushwork and rich oil paint—we share an interest in what can't immediately be seen.

Sometimes what's missing tells us as much as what's present.

Where My Work Is Heading

Researching these artists has helped clarify something important about my own practice.

Initially, I thought I was making paintings about war.

I've realised I'm actually making paintings about identity.

Specifically, I'm exploring how military identity continues to exist after service, once the outward signs have disappeared.

The uniform may be gone, but the experiences remain.

They're carried in posture.

In expression.

In memory.

In the quiet ways people navigate civilian life.

These are the things I want viewers to notice.

Self portrait oil on canvas 2025

Why Remove the Uniform?

When you take away medals, rank slides and camouflage, the viewer has fewer assumptions to rely on.

Instead of seeing "a soldier," they begin seeing a person.

That shift is important.

It invites questions rather than providing easy answers.

Who is this individual?

What have they experienced?

How have those experiences shaped who they are today?

For me, those questions are far more interesting than simply documenting military service.

The Continuing Journey

Every painting in this series teaches me something new.

The more I paint veterans without the visual language traditionally associated with military portraiture, the more convinced I become that identity isn't something we wear.

It's something we carry.

My hope is that these portraits encourage viewers to slow down, look beyond appearances and consider the lasting impact of military life—not through uniforms or medals, but through the enduring traces left on the individual.