The Moment "Perfect" Walks Out the Window (And Why That’s Okay)

Musings from an Artist's Notebook: Perfection

I recently had a flashback to a tiny pivotal moment in my art practice a few years ago - a one degree turn as Martha Beck would say.

I’m perched at my desk in my attic studio, the kind space that whispers about ideas wanting to come to life. Outside, a flat gray sky threatens rain, letting only soft light shine in through the window. I decide to fight the gloom with colour—something warm enough to coax a smile from the clouds.

I pull out yellows and oranges, toss in a pinch of purple, and begin scribbling tiny swatches on scrap paper. After a few attempts I notice my shoulders hunched, my jaw clenched, and my breath hanging shallowly in my chest. I’m holding my own tension, waiting for the “right” stroke.

The "perfect" sketch that cracks me open

I set the brush down, roll my shoulders back, and let a sigh escape. The realization hits: I’m not just painting a picture; I’m chasing a feeling, a validation that the colours I choose are “right.” The irony isn’t lost on me—watercolour is the most mercurial medium I know. It runs, blooms, and often ignores the artist’s intentions. Yet I’m tightening every muscle, trying to force predictability onto a substance that thrives on chaos.

A flash of my teenage self appears: the kid who skipped a grade, wore the badge of “gifted,” and felt the knot of expectation tighten every time a test didn’t go perfectly. That same knot shows up now, not on a math paper but on a sheet of watercolour paper where I’m supposed to coax light out of pigment. I smile, because my inner critic hasn’t moved—it’s simply changed addresses.

"Sunset Elegance" - Watercolour Painting

Leaning into the mess

Instead of fighting the medium, I lean into it. I push the practice scraps aside and turn to the larger sheet I’d prepared weeks ago. I dip the brush, let the water run, and allow the colours to mingle without a strict plan. The yellows bleed into the oranges, the purple sneaks in at the edges, and a soft, accidental gradient forms—less a perfect sunrise and more a sunrise caught in a dream.

My shoulders loosen, my jaw unclenches, and a small, warm laugh bubbles up. The painting isn’t the immaculate, textbook example I imagined; it’s a conversation between pigment and paper, a dialogue where mistakes are invited guests rather than unwelcome intruders.

Perfection doesn't want to be chased

Perfection, I’ve learned, is a mirage shimmering just beyond the horizon of every creative endeavor. In art, the “perfect” moment is less a static point and more a fleeting feeling—a breath of satisfaction that comes when you stop measuring and start experiencing. When I let go of the need to control the watercolour, I also let go of a part of that inner critic that insists every brushstroke must earn a gold star.

A quick, tongue‑in‑cheek thought crossed my mind: “Add a splash of extra purple and call it ‘abstract weather forecast.’” Humor, I’ve found, is a useful safety net—it lets us step back from seriousness enough to see that a “mistake” is just another colour waiting to be named.

A Gentle Nudge

So here’s a gentle nudge if this resonated with you: the next time you feel that familiar tug toward perfection—whether you’re mixing paints, drafting a proposal, or picking an outfit—set a timer for 90 seconds, close your eyes, and breathe into the knot. When the timer dings, ask yourself what the “imperfect” version looks like. You might be surprised at how much more alive, human, and—dare I say—beautiful it feels.

What’s one imperfect thing you’ve done recently that you’re secretly proud of?

Drop a comment below; let’s celebrate the cracks, the splatters, and the glorious, unpredictable messes that remind us we’re still learning to paint our own skies—even when they’re grey.

Thank you for reading. Go check out some of my other articles below.