Most days, no matter how bad my week I find joy in life’s imperfections. I lived with a supreme narcissist
and his mother, for years so am deeply suspicious of perfection – in life, interiors, and especially in adults.
Perfectionism excludes the majority, restricts the practical use and pursuits of the minority who attain it and is basically only ever a good look on children unaware of their power to mesmerise. For everyone else it’s suicide.
Achieving perfection is overrated, because it usually involves neglecting the basics. The fact that people like to wear clothes they can breathe in, prefer practical chairs they can sit on, and eat in restaurants that don’t poison them. Who cares about the deliciousness of the fatted calf or duck if kitchen hands are dirty and unwittingly poisoning patrons? Who needs 2 for the price of 1 or clubcard points when 100% beef means 10% horsemeat?
No adult body’s perfect. Neither’s their brand or career.
Truly brilliant creatives achieve brilliance inadvertently without trying. Ask any artist, writer or poet, mathematician or legendary sporting great. Much of their career is spent chasing the perfection they achieved without realising just how they did it.
Most perfectionists are hacks just like the rest of us regaling a devoted audience with flashes of brilliance their PR and advertising agents draw our attention to.
I may only ever write one great sentence, design two decent pieces of lighting and demo three hummable songs. But when I do I’ll reflect and learn from my shortcomings without drawing too much attention to them, in much the same way I lovingly correct my children.
These are not my lights. I just stole them.