Imperfection in Art: A Reflection

At the age of seven, I began to write my first illustrated stories. They were mysteries starring three detective horses, accompanied by smatterings of grammatical errors and scribbled drawings. I was immensely proud of my work, gathering my family together about once a week to present a reading. These hastily-stapled pieces were the foundation of my love for creative expression.

As I grew older, my newfound freedom in the arts gradually shrank until it became a form of imprisonment. Frustrated by the misplaced lines and smudge marks on my drawings, I spent more and more time hunched over my work, falling into a pattern of furious scratching and erasing. I maintained the same attitude toward my writing, inserting massive vocabulary words and lengthening sentences into alphabet soup. My art, be it written or drawn, was no longer mine; it was overtaken by my desire for “perfection.”

In my sophomore year of high school, my art teacher, Daryll,* tore up the print I’d been slaving over for days right before my eyes. I watched, eyes wide with shock, as he tossed the pitifully shredded scraps of my dedication into the trashcan along with the torn paper. I was furious. Printmaking required utmost patience and precision, and the image of the flower that now lay in pieces among globs of glue and cookie crumbs had been my best work yet. At least, that’s what I had thought.

“Caroline,” Daryll said, gruffness in his voice. I snapped to attention. He was a spirited man who often sang in class and performed peculiar dance moves to jazz music. He wasn’t often serious. “I just did what I did because that piece was not you. You were so focused on getting every single detail just right that you forgot to mix your soul into it.”

I didn’t recognize the true impact of Daryll’s words until months later, at a summer writing workshop. When I read a piece about my relationship with my twin sister for the class to critique, a friend of mine raised her hand and said something quite similar: “There’s so much flowery language clogging this that I can’t hear any of your voice. I can’t hear your sister’s voice, either.” I thought for a moment, and then I connected some dots.

It was these incredibly honest reflections on my art pieces that marked my slow transition into artistic maturity, for I learned a lesson of great value to bring to my creative endeavors: the importance of “imperfect expression.” An art piece is nothing without the contents of the artist’s heart spilled onto the paper or canvas, however flawed or chaotic these contents are. A flower can be printed with exceptional technique, and a writing piece can demonstrate a superior grasp of the English language, but what value do they hold if an artist has only created them to satisfy others’ ideals? I think back on the illustrated stories that I wrote when I was little—the joy I channeled into them—and I realize that passion and enthusiasm are most necessary to succeed, first and foremost. The technicalities will fall into place later, but you need to let yourself go in order to get the drafts rolling.

Now, I sit before a blank sheet of paper, pencil in hand, and I begin to draw. It’s been years since I wrote those stories about the detective horses. As the image in front of me takes shape, lines look out of place and there are some smudges on the paper. I won’t erase them, though—they’ll bring depth to my piece. I’m pouring the zest from my seven-year-old self into this portrayal of a galloping horse, and I’ve never felt more alive.

*Name has been changed to preserve anonymity.