My inclinations have always been toward the arts. Whenever I hear good music or see wonderful artworks or stunning photographs or read beautiful writing or admire sophisticated architecture, my heart would fill with admiration and utter delight. These would be followed by a slight pang of regret knowing that if I had not turned my back, I would be making beautiful crafts by now.
They say that an artist’s weakness is perfection – that perfect angle, timing, shape, idea, etc. – and I suppose it is true. Perfection is the goal which when aspired unhealthily, extinguishes an artist’s flame. I wouldn’t call myself an artist now. I am far from being one but the idea of perfection remains ingrained in my subconscious, albeit secondary. I have learned to make peace with “good enough” seeing it to be the achievable and realistic alternative to my so-called “standards”.
I take notice of those moments when I appreciate good art. I look at it with clarity and allow myself some minutes of indulgence before resuming to the monotony of an art-less existence.
I look forward to the day when the colors return.