I believe that the messy parts are the beautiful parts.
It took me a long time to come to see this and even longer to believe it, but now that I do I find that I’m drawn to the imperfections - in paintings, in people. I’m picking up the broken shells, the irregular rocks (ok, I’m picking up the regular rocks too so maybe that’s not the best example).
I’m loving peering into artists’ sketchbooks to see the scribbled bits and crossed out parts. I appreciate paintings with the same, and I’m pushing myself to scribble and cross out, to let it be ok to make things messy because there’s beauty and freedom there.
And it’s not just in paintings. It’s the flower with a scraggly stem and the jeans with visible mending. It’s the well-loved tea towel and the friend with battle scars and stories to tell. I feel a certain appreciation when someone else drops/loses/forgets something-or-other because then I’m not the only one and we are all being human together.
In fact, I’m almost put off by what purports to be perfection these days because I have come to see that there is no such thing, and time spent pretending otherwise is time wasted. In my opinion.
The messy parts are real and real is compelling and that is what’s beautiful. In my opinion.