Perfectly Imperfect

My perfectly imperfect new art project

This week I attended an Art Journaling workshop, sort of a free-flow mixed media concept class helping trauma survivors be more present and express themselves creatively without constraint. There were no rules. Everyone could take or leave any of the materials offered and combine them in any way they wish. They could share what they made, or not. It was all very thoughtful, supportive, and freeing.

And my anxiety went through the roof.

I’ve attended art classes before, of course. But in those classes there were always rules, steps, processes. If I followed those exactly, then my project may not be the best, or the most creative in the class, but at least I would have done it RIGHT.

And doing things correctly, exactly, perfectly, is the goal, right?

Ugh, of course not! But being perfect is what I strove for for so long when growing up.

If I was perfect, then I wouldn’t get in trouble. If I was perfect, then I wouldn’t get hurt. If I was perfect, I would be safe, loved, and cared for.

But it was all a lie.

As an adult, I now know that even if some fairy godmother could have tapped her magic wand and somehow made me a “perfect” daughter, it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference. In fact, it probably would have just added fuel to the fire of my mother’s insane hatred.

I’m continually learning to create and define my life without the parameters of perfection instilled in me. It takes constant questioning of my intensions, lots of practice, and a whole lot of patience. I know that I’ll never get it “right,” but the more I can work on breaking down these constraints, the more authentic I can feel as I move through the days.

Creativity has always been a method to break these constraints. As much as I can, I’ve engaged in writing, singing, cooking, visual art, and even performing when I can squeeze it into this hectic-work-filled-busy life.

But, throughout these endeavors, I now realize there have been limitations. Until this writing project my stories almost always focused on fiction, the songs I performed were always written by others, the recipes I cooked came mostly from books and blogs, and the plays I performed in were parts created and directed by someone else.

I suppose there’s a safety in following the rules, but it’s pretty fucking boring too. Real art, real creativity often comes from an understanding of these “rules” and an exploration of what’s just beyond them. It involves risk, bravery, and a willingness to make lots and lots of mistakes.

And I’m learning to take that leap.

I’ve put my toe in the water with this writing project, with creating recipes that exist only in my head, and now with art projects where the only parameters that exist are those defined by the size of the page.

As I wrestled with the freedom to be myself in my art journal, and the desire to “get it right” I overheard others, most decades older than myself, saying how this was the first time they had ever engaged in an art project. Others commented how they had always wanted to do a craft, but they weren’t “good” at it, or were afraid they would fail.

I encouraged them, complimented their work, and I’m proud of them for taking that very scary first step to try something totally new.

And I’m proud of myself too.

The more I can take these risks and be myself without these self-imposed boundaries, the closer I’ll be to embracing the perfect imperfection that is me. 

Most of the folks in that room had something else in common too. Sometime along the way we were told that we weren’t “good” artists. And because we weren’t good at it, we decided it wasn’t for us.

But you don’t have to be good at something to enjoy it! Yes, through practice you may learn new skills and improve your technique. But the goal of creating isn’t to be the best in the world at what you do, it’s the opportunity to express yourself, to share your vision with others, and connect with the world through your expression, and there’s no way to be the BEST at that.

I’m not trying to be the best at anything, except at being me, and I’m figuring out what that means every day. It’s still terrifying to take risks sometimes. To embrace the discomfort of following my instincts and risk not being “good” at something. But there’s no longer any punishment waiting if I make a mess, no torture to be had if the meal isn’t tasty, or the song is pitchy, or the story isn’t quite as satisfying as I wanted it to be.

I managed to acknowledge the anxiety I was feeling and push through it to continue on in the class. And I really enjoy what I created in my art journal. Not because it’s the best or most creative in the class. It’s messy, and imperfect, and interesting. And I’m looking forward to working on it more and exploring where it takes me in the process.

Just like I’m looking forward to doing the same for myself.