I really love art. Always have, ever since I was a kid. For a season my mom coordinated private art lessons with a gal at her home studio, I was probably 10? The low ceiling, lamp-lit space, expansive tables filled with all sorts of paper and paint and supplies. Print making, pastels, watercolor. The other little girl in the class, a friend of mine, had far more talent and I remember seeing her and the teacher’s final work and feeling pretty crappy about what I’d made.
Perfectionism is not my friend, but it likes to perch on my shoulder and hoot in my ear. Often I won’t share what I’ve made because it looks stupid. My 15 year old niece, Hannah, has more artistic talent in her pinky than I do in my entire 36 year old body and I have mixed feelings about that.
BUT. Instead of saying, “Waaah, I suck. I’m never going to do art. Poohey,” I choose to give it a shot anyway. Because it’s FUN. And I like fun.
It doesn’t have to be perfect. No one needs to buy it. And it doesn’t have to stand up to comparison.
Lately I’ve been feeling the same way about art as I do my body. I’m trying out a new shape. Something fuller. More muscular. A bit rounder, less sharp and stick-like -which has always been my default because, to me, skinny was perfect. And if you weren’t skinny you weren’t -yep, you got it- perfect. Or worthy, or beautiful, or enough.
So here’s to being perfectly imperfect. To color, to vibrancy, to LIFE!
A 38 second video, shot at 30 second intervals revealing this colorful friend who’ll be residing on my wall for a time. My technicolor zebra.