Imperfect optimism

Imperfect Optimism by JT

What happens when we let go of perfection (and STILL want to make something better)? Last weekend I participated in an art lesson hosted by The School of Imperfection founder and creative Mikie Krisztal.

As I’ve shared in the past, drawing and art ain’t my things. I can write. I can talk. I can get up on stage and act like a dork. But, until now, I’ve mostly identified as a person who simply can’t do art.

I am not kidding when I share that folks hesitate to play Drawful or Pictionary with me. It is not a strength. I don't have perspective. I can't "see" how my eyes and my hands are supposed to work together to make something with recognizable proportions.

K: is that a cow?

Me: No. It’s a baseball glove. See?

New choice.

K: Is that a banana?

Me: No. It’s a double-ended duck boat. For when you’re in the reeds. See? See both sides? See the ducks?

K: Ehhh. MRDUCKS?

Painting with Mikie is especially great and horrible because his instruction – especially for this series – is aimed at getting us to let go of the desire to be perfect. Just when you think maybe you’re on to something, he walks by with a “you’re too tight,” and purposefully messes with your canvas.

This past 15 months have been heavy on the imperfect. I’m intentionally trying out stuff that scares the heck out of me, including art and improv. In our intro to improv class, the whole class claps every time one of us drops the ball. Yes, yes, yes, yes...

There’s nuance, tho, in finding the difference between shooting for perfect, and actually wanting to change. In hoping or believing in some better version, or some transformation of what comes next. I want more of that part.

That happened in real time this week. My original creation from this weekend was fun and colorful. But it was also a little forced, and not (good?) something I wanted to actually hang out with on my walls. I talked to Mikie about how to tweak it, or how to play with values, or how to “fix” what I created. At the end of our call, his advice was something close to “Eff it. You do whatever feels right. Whatever is perfectly imperfect.”

It turns out that what felt right was a trip to Ace Hardware to buy five cans of spray paint. I printed a photo I took of an owl who graced our back yard just before Christmas.

Barn owl in Pacific Beach. Photo by Jena Thompson

This fluffy guy landed on our fence in the early morning. But he didn’t do what healthy owls do. He didn’t fly or hunt or startle when I walked into the yard. He sat for several hours, and then rested at the bottom of the fence in our neighbor’s yard. He wasn’t a fledgling. He wasn’t waiting out a cold morning. He was sick.

When I called San Diego Humane Society’s wild animal rescue, and agent came right out. I helped as she gently nudged him into a cardboard bid carrier, and we wiped down all of the surfaces we touched in case the owl had cholera.

San Diego Humane Society Wildlife Rescue

A few days later, I called the rescue center for an update. I was prepared for bird flu – which I know they can’t (or don’t) treat because it is so contagious. What the volunteer who answered the phone shared, tho, was that the owl had an x-ray that showed severe brain trauma. He’d either been hit by a car or flown into glass.

I was shattered. I stood in the Walmart aisle and started to cry. Like a full ugly cry. Now, no one wants to see anyone lose it in a grocery store. Especially not the dudes in the bait and tackle isles.

I guess it was the brain trauma that got me. My sis and I lost our dad, and our mom lost her high school sweetheart, to cancer that metastasized to the brain. It is pretty much always the bulldozer named Greif that knocks over my optimism. I ALWAYS think everything is going to be okay. Until it isn’t.

The result?

I listened to Mikie’s advice in my head. I thought about values and where there was darkness and where there was light. And then I effed it up a little bit. I thought back to when my sweet friends in Austin created street art on cardboard boxes with from spray paint and scissors. I don’t think I was too tight or too loose.

The result isn’t perfect. But it is connected to something real. And I am proud of that.

It’s fun to watch myself change. I am proud of myself. And of course, I am super optimistic about my future. I’m pretty sure it is going to be okay. Especially if and when it’s not perfect.