perfect isn't good enough.

using junk journalling to brute force perfectionism.

I started this post with the intention of explaining the junk journal I've been making. I found an old notebook full of articles and stories I intended to write, and ripped out the pages to paste them down and help overcome perfectionism. Instead, I ended up writing this:

My mother loves to paint. We have a complex relationship. The only time I could have her light shine on me was to make something for her. Above the kitchen bench was a wooden beam. She would bring out her step ladder and use Blu-Tak to stick a drawing, a collage, or a painting. They were ordered chronologically, so visitors to our home could see the improvement over time. She kept every single one of my school reports and one small photo album in the garage. I took home the plastic tub, and inside a manila envelope, I pulled out the retrospective from the kitchen. “I love you, Mum!” was written on one. Another, “For my Mum!”. I underline “my” three times.

One of the last times I saw her, she ran into the other room to pull out a painting she had been working on. A parrot is sitting on a branch. My boyfriend at the time was with me. It was his first introduction to her. His eyes took in the plumage, the brush strokes child-like. I watched his eyes take in the branch where tiny feet didn’t fit the rules of perspective. He smiles. “It's beautiful,’ he says, but I think about his parents, who are academics, they'd never show him something like this? I wanted to take the painting and smash it.

I fear spectacle. If writing or my creations are bad, that would be a relief. If I can get empirical evidence, I make nothing, then I could be relieved of any and all desire to do so. I wish for my mother’s delusion; paradoxically, it’s what I fear more than anything. I don’t fear being mocked. I fear being indulged.