The perfect solution to perfectionism.

Or is it?

What happens when you get so fixated on perfection that you never begin?

Never begin drawing.

Never begin making stuff.

Never begin pursuing any sort of passion for fear of not being able to do it incredibly well. Nothing you do will be good enough even for you.

Why bother if you can’t be great?

A variation is fiddliness. Constant reappraisal, erasing, tweaking, reconsidering. Taking your drawing into Photoshop and cleaning it up, coloring it, recoloring it, sharing ten versions of it, asking for comments, on and on, never done, never good enough.

I love James Lord’s book on Giacometti, in which he describes sitting for a portrait in the artist’s studio for weeks while the artist paints it over and over, only stopping when his gallery owner shows up and forcibly drags it away from him.

The book has reproductions of each day’s work and, honestly, he could have stopped after a day and had a decent painting, but he goes on for ages, always dissatisfied, putting himself down, rethinking the idea, scraping it down again and again.

Giacometti was the same with his sculptures, paring them down so they kept getting thinner and thinner until they were barely there.

Maybe his perfectionism made him great. Or just Swiss.

One of the problems with perfectionism is that you think you can see the destination before you embark on the journey.  You believe that you can plan it all out in advance, and that nothing else will intrude and change the outcome you have in your mind.

But, first of all, the world doesn’t work that way.

Unless you are doing something extremely simple and banal, something you can actually hold in your brain all at once, the world will invariably intrude and change your well-laid plans. You aren’t a fortune teller.  You don’t have a time machine.

And, secondly, you should welcome that intrusion.

The accidents, mistakes, serendipities, and ink splatters that the universe throws in your path make your work and your life more interesting.

Perfection isn’t organic. It can be constipated and lifeless.

Meanwhile, if you are waiting to make stuff because you haven’t got the perfect pen or book or subject or teacher — get over it.

We all make crap every day. If we didn’t, we’d die. Or at least be really cranky.

Your imperfect pal,

Danny

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PS BTW, I just found out that Stanley Tucci directed a movie about this story.

There’s a documentary, too.