Healing Perfectionism

June 22, 2021

Being an artist is such an interesting and unique experience. The power of my work rests on my own personal health and mindset, which means that sometimes, the best thing I can do for my art (and for you) is to get quiet and disappear for awhile, which is exactly what I’ve been doing lately.

I’ve barely spent any time on social media these last few weeks, and man has it been nice connecting with real-life humans in a real-life, present-moment kind of way.

As amazing as the internet is in keeping us up-to-date with friends and strangers, a string of text messages will never replace the experience of gathering around a dinner table, encouraging someone on a tennis court, or wrapping your arms around a friend you haven’t seen in awhile. All of which I’ve thoroughly been soaking up and savoring this summer. (I hope you have, too.)

During my time away, I’ve had some breakthroughs. I am slowly but surely feeling called to being bolder and braver. To reimagine what I thought was possible and to let some things go in order to make room for something new.

What I’m learning is that art is a gift—to me, especially. Art continues to teach me to be kinder, to defy logic, and to believe and trust in the unseen.

Art softens my heart and reminds me that people are people—which makes me see everyone and everything, including myself, so much differently. 

To make a long story short, art has shown me that so many of us have impossible expectations of both ourselves and others, while at the same time we put ourselves in boxes and disregard the possibility of endless possibilities.

We expect perfection within our little boxes, yet we never pause to question the value of those expectations or limitations in the first place.

Does it really matter whether our spouse/roommate/child hangs up the jacket or washes the dish?

Or are we demanding perfection simply to prove that we have some semblance of control?

What I’ve found is that our perfectionism and insistence on controlling outcomes is actually preventing us from experiencing the freedom and joy that we crave.

It also prevents us from living bigger—because striving for perfection allows us to deny the truth that “failure” and challenges are essential parts of a beautiful life. (And if you’re so perfect that you’re never failing, you’re probably not dreaming big enough.)

It’s so much easier, for instance, to finish the chores or to say yes to everything than it is to follow your heart or try making a new friend and risk failing.

Perfectionism isn’t helping you; it’s actually destroying you and making you and others around you feel unworthy and small.

And when I say “you,” I actually mean me. (And you, too, if it resonates.)

Several months ago, I told someone that my artwork isn’t about the outdoors. I said it’s inspired by the outdoors, but it isn’t about the outdoors, which is an important distinction.

My work is about daring greatly—like the man in the arena covered in dust and sweat and blood. It’s about the trying, the effort, the great devotion.

It’s about admitting that “there is no effort without shortcoming”—because any worthy cause requires a piece of you that necessitates failing, getting back up, and trying again.

It’s why I feel so called to abstraction. I rarely fail to make a landscape painting because that’s a medium and subject matter within my control. It is a learned skill with a set path, something that with enough practice can be easily replicated. It is something that fuels my pride and sense of worthiness through the praise and approval of others.

But abstraction? With abstraction, there are no rules. There is no defined path that I can follow knowing that I’ll emerge on the other side with a beautiful, evocative painting. The journey is just as important as the destination, and perhaps even more so. 

Abstraction requires letting go, releasing expectation, and failing and trying again.

It requires accessing a piece of me which only I can share. It requires me to believe strongly enough in my own voice to let myself be seen, and to be okay and resilient no matter how others respond to it. It requires finding worthiness within myself.

And I think, what I really love about it, is it helps you to see yourself, too. You see the happy accidents and the freedom found in relinquishing control, and slowly, you come to believe in yourself, too.

You realize that you, too, can unchain yourself and experience the pure, exhilarating joy that exists in embracing the unknown and undertaking challenges that are just beyond your immediate reach.

You realize your power as the sole holder of your voice, and you become the one in the arena. You no longer avoid the dust and sweat and blood; you embrace it. Because you recognize that the most exhilarating, beautiful life arises from the truest, most valiant effort.

My thoughts came full-circle this week as I re-wrote my artist statement and confronted some uneasiness that I felt in getting back into the studio. When you spend enough time out of the arena, it can be hard to get back in it. You become accustomed to facing “challenges” that can be easily met, and you begin to question whether the dust and sweat and blood (or in my case, the brushstrokes) will amount to anything.

Your desire to be perfect and to achieve a specific result (and ergo, the approval of others) and your fear of failure overrides your willingness to even try. But slowly, the cause overtakes you, and you realize that if you fail, at least you fail while daring greatly.

Art, I realized, is helping me to heal the wound that perfectionism has dug since I barely learned to talk.

Ever since I allowed meeting others' expectations to substitute for determining my own. And, I hope, it replaces perfectionism with boldness and power for you, too.

I'll have more studio updates for you next month. In the meantime, stay grounded, let go a little, and embrace the beautiful mess of the arena.