Art of imperfection
Throughout school I heard, “no one is good at everything, and everyone is good at something.” So, I reasoned, there must be some latent talent inside me, just waiting to be discovered. I wasn’t remarkable in writing or math, and reading voraciously wasn’t much admired, so it must be art where my gift lay hidden. My first act of intentional “art” in my teens was a pencil drawing.
About the cover: I painted mountains and trees in watercolour as an exercise, I didn’t intend a deeper meaning but I can say that it’s an exercise in knowing when to stop, and keeping balance between action (subject) and rest (negative space).
But picking up the pencil quickly humbled me. There was nothing “natural” about it for me, except reaching for the eraser, which I did time and time again, until I’d finally drawn something that I felt was worthy of calling complete, and that might scratch the surface of being “art.”
You may have noted that the artwork accompanying this article isn’t pencil. I finished exactly three drawings. Countless others remain incomplete, imperfect, and to me, impossible. I could not make the image on the paper match my idea; no amount of erasing could create the perfection I wished to obtain.
My next attempt at “art” was spurred on by a friend—she provided acrylic paint, canvas, and much more importantly, motivation. On a 9 x 12 canvas I attempted to reproduce a photo of a beloved pet dog. The mindset I’d built in sketching flowed into the new medium, except there was no eraser, and I could not make the brush move the way I intended. I was clumsy with it and grew increasingly frustrated with my lack of proficiency. In the end, I gave up trying to make it look “correct,” fiddled with it a little longer to make it look intentionally impressionistic and—failing at that, too—walked away from the easel, defeated.
When I returned to it long after the paint had dried, I found the proportions odd, the positioning unfortunate and the paint strokes utterly failing to give the impression of fur, and yet, it was recognizably the dog I loved. More charm existed in the imperfections than in the photo I used as reference. All these years later, the charm persists. The imperfection remains, but more lasting is the affection I had for the subject.
Desiring to be perfect, I had nothing to offer that a photograph could not do better. But in the smudges of paint and the clumsy brushstrokes, existed a mark that only I could create.
Allow me to complete the loop.
Desiring to be perfect, we have nothing to offer God that Christ has not already done perfectly. And in fear of messing up the canvas of our lives, we can hesitate to make any mark at all. But God does not ask for our perfection, he asks for our attempts.
