They tell us that perfection is unattainable. An unreasonable benchmark that haunts and hinders creatives like a hovering black cloud with impeccable eyeliner. It seems fair enough to ward people off the idea of striving for perfection. It halts a great deal of projects. Stirs up inner conflicts. Turns people into quitters.

“Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it.” Dali said that . But I often have a problem believing the impossibility of attaining perfection because, quite honestly, I feel confronted by perfection constantly and relentlessly. What drives me towards seeking perfection is the pure evidence that it exists. In John Lennon’s Across The Universe. In Mark Rothko’s 1962 Blue & Grey. In Pinterest photos of naked cakes. In fine lace detail on AP lingerie, antique jewellery, pink peonies and Marilyn Monroe in All About Eve.

Now, creative & aesthetic perfection is objective. I’m sure you could actively find fault in any of the examples I’ve listed above (not to my face though, or I’ll cut you). But I think that they’re perfect. And if they can be perfect, then why can’t I? Or at least why can’t I create something that is?

I think the corruption comes from the creative process itself. The sweat and anguish about selecting just the right colours. Or having the lines just the right length or nailing the texture, or perfectly balancing the composition. It’s all trial and error. And even when we’re finished and are left with something that we’re mildly happy with, it still seems far from perfect, because for the creator, that completed work is still charged with the memories of all those little failures that went into creating it. And nothing feels less perfect than failure. Where as when we look at the work we admire of others, there are no memories of failure. No recollections of struggle, or disappointment, or regret. Just something beautiful. Complete. Perfect.

Perhaps the real challenge lies in the ability to allow oneself to recall those struggles and see perfection in the final work even still. God knows its possible, or should I say, Kanye knows its possible…(same thing really. According to him). Or is the greater task to not aim to see things as perfect and imperfect, but rather just as they are, and as they affect you.

I did a painting of some pink peonies. The flowers were perfect. The painting, far from it. And I guess that’s okay.


Abstract art’s a tricky one. People who don’t get it discount it on account of it looking like something they could’ve done one afternoon whilst watching Bold & the Beautiful. Everyone who does “get it” seems to do so in order to appear superior to all those that don’t. Kind of like claiming to understand a language that all the “basics” haven’t managed or cared to learn.

I think that’s crap.

I’ve always been a huge fan of abstract art, more so as I get older. Twentieth century greats like Cy Twombly, Willam de Kooning, Franz Kline and Mark Rothko, have always hit me right in the feels.

Cy Twombly
Willam de Kooning
Mark Rothko
Franz Kline


















And the idea that only those that “speak it’s language” can really derive any pleasure and satisfaction out of it seems ludicrous to me. I’ve always thought that abstract art is the easiest to respond to as a viewer, because it doesn’t require you to make any rational or logical deductions. You don’t have to “see a sunset” or “spot the ocean”. You can respond viscerally. With feelings and emotional reactions that are completely unencumbered by subject matter or content. They’re raw. And I think they’re more reflective of both the artist and the audience than a figurative portrait could ever be.

I’ve been feeling messy. But in sort of a soft, pink, fairy floss kinda way. The air has been thick and sweet, like treacle, and for the first time I’ve started to find lightness in the unbearable weight of being. I picked up my paint brush and started a study for a large scale abstract piece (see feature image).

And whether you get it, or not, is really of no consequence. To quote the great Freddie Mercury, “…I say what any decent poet would say if you dared ask him to analyse his work: if you see it, darling, then it’s there.”


When it comes to the task of creating, I have often faced the issue of worthiness. Somehow I’ve led myself to believe that one must be worthy of creating art. One must have something important to say, or to have faced considerable challenges in ones life to make something worth making. I’m lucky enough to have led rather a privileged life, with a happy family, great friends and never in want of anything. What could I possibly have to say that’s of any interest to anyone?

Now, I know I’m not the only one who is afflicted with this particular mindset. And I’m sure it’s put a lot of great people off every making their first mark. Today, I made myself pick up a pencil and make some marks. Whilst in the process of drawing, I didn’t consider my worthiness. I drew for the act of drawing. I drew to express my oneness with the craft and with the subject matter. I made marks and erased marks, but even in the erasure, an indication that the marks were once there still remained. And it reminded me of me. Of all the marks that, over time, have made me who I am right now. A restless, dirty-blonde romantic with some busted dreams and a good record collection. Some marks you see, some marks you can’t, but you gotta own them eventually, and you might as well try and turn them into something beautiful.

So that’s what I did today. And that might not be worth much to you, but to me, it’s a bloody epiphany.