Imperfections are the backbone of artistic expression

When something is perfect, we notice. We notice because it feels a little wrong, a little off. We're tuned to slight flaws as signs of human presence, as signatures of personal expression. When these flaws are absent, we can't help but notice. Imperfections make us human.

When we strive to make anything 'perfect', what we usually mean is that we aim to give it our best effort. Achieving perfection in anything is as elusive as attempting objectivity. Our point of view is subjective, it is tainted by our perspective, our opinions. Our flaws. Our subjectivity is what makes each of us unique. Because this subjectivity comes across through our flaws, those flaws define us as individuals. Flaws are our identity.

Character is often defined as a series of imperfections that compensate some other positive attribute. It is what we put up with in order to enjoy the good stuff. What we often fail to realise is that the good stuff needs the flaws in order to thrive. In a strange karmic flow of balance, anything positive requires an offset of some kind, a negative yang to its soothing yin. So flaws can be taken as solid evidence that something precious and valuable is also hidden beneath the surface. They are the symptoms of quality.

In artistic pursuits, an author's quirks and unique touch can often be interpreted as mistakes. Picasso's cubism was inherently wrong from a geometric standpoint, but it brought so much more from its unique, flawed yet deeply personal approach. Balzac and Proust's heavy handed written styles, though hard to experience as a reader, made their prose stand out from an otherwise bland crowd of anonymous writers. And Brancusi's sculptures, abstract in their beauty and style, are true signatures of their author's hand. They are not perfect. Neither were the artists. And that is why they are beautiful.

The key is to see faults and quirks as tokens of identity and to embrace those as part of a larger whole that is unique and human. In trying to be like everyone else, in trying to erase these little imperfections that make us who we are, we lose ourselves in the crowd. That crowd is perfect in its uniformity, and therefore no longer truly human. If we become perfect, we are dead.

Particularly in art, but also in love and life, we must look for cracks in the veneer of perfection. We must seek out the kinks and the misalignments. We must distinguish what is hand made from what is machine made. When we learn to celebrate the departures of objective flawlessness as a step in the direction of human touch, we will be that much closer to a real emotional connection with one another.

Nobody is perfect.

And that's perfectly fine.