Perfect imperfect

How imperfect I was and how trying to be perfect did me no good.

I still remember the pictures that I drew as I was growing up. They were nothing but imperfect. They had smudges of paints, some amended but most of them not. I didn’t care about it but only thing that mattered was that I was happy in my heart. I would run to my dad and  would show him the drawings that I had made. He always smiled that smile. He would hold it in his hand and put it far away and examine; never did he complain. “Baa:lah baa:lah” – he said.

I had picked charcoal sticks for my still life when I was may be 13 or 14, I don’t think I was good with even pencils. I knew the proportions of the shape of my subjects were right (they were blown out of proportions I guess). It didn’t make sense nor I cared where the light source was and where it fell on the object. I went with my instinct of where should I erase the blackness so as to give more realistic touch to the still life. I still remember me making still life arts like I was some awesome artist. I still remember few; there was one time where I went to roof of my aunt’s house and drew the temple standing in the courtyard, I still remember the moment when I was adding the brick tiles on the roof of the temple.Just seeing black smudges on my fingers and palms would make me feel so artisty.

I made what made me happy. I wrote about little things that mattered to me, drew things that mattered, painted colors my brushes picked. Now that I think of, I am quite not sure what made people happy- Was it my paintings and drawings that made people happy or my excitement?

So if you are wondering where all this jibberness is coming from. I just watched a TED talk and it just changed my whole life I guess(Revolution in my life you can say). It was about how the fact that we want to be perfect hinders what we want to do. For me, I like to write and paint. I used to write but I stopped it. I thought I got the writer’s block (myan, this sounds fancy I know but I wanted to use it for so long). I always hesitate to paint. I feel like I need to give people awesome piece to read or an amazing beautiful picture to see. I forget always to remember about me. The joy I feel deep in my heart like a serene calm sea with little waves slapping the shore. (Not making up but I really feel butterflies in my heart when I am painting or writing, actually I am having them right now as well while I write, with my heart beating to the groovy beats I am listening to.)

My friends and people I know through only face book enjoys what I paint and write (not boasting). They don’t judge me but its sad that I am the greatest judge of me. I don’t write often and I don’t paint much. I say “small things are big things” but did I really have faith in it? NO!!!

Guess What? I am gonna write more now and paint more. More, I am firing the judge in me. So… I hope I will write more and paint moreeeee and have all the fun my heart deserves.

 

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