In a previous piece, I mentioned the role mistakes play in highlighting the beauty of a certain creation or performance.
But what of imperfections being beautiful themselves?
Contrast, for a moment, the ancient Japanese’s compassionate perspective towards the deepening of patina on aging silver with the Western polishing of silverware and abhorrence of all flaws/sighs of wear. The Japanese see in the grime and cloudiness — even the “unsanitary” — the power, legacy, and beauty of the past, while the West sees that same imperfection as something to be removed, forgotten, better never seen.
Imperfections often occur in the tiny details, sometimes over time. Sometimes they have become so much a part of our reality that we simply accept their presence and move on despite the discomfort, choosing to ignore or overlook the potholes and bumps on an otherwise level road. But even here imperfections play a part — they show us that some things are meant for certain things and not others, that a one-size-fits-all, mass produced thoughtlessness is not the only or the best way to create things. Eastern paper, uneven and rough, perfectly fits calligraphy brushes while smooth and slick western paper is easy for ballpoint pens and printers to scribble on.
Perceived imperfections, then, might also be simply a matter of intention, or use, or context — not necessarily of mistakes and a lack of “reaching the standard.”
This concept goes beyond only objects and presentations — it includes the times when, as noted in Junichiro Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows, we must use certain tools or handle objects in a certain way, “no matter how cruelly its inelegance may shatter the spell of the day.” This also is imperfection — moments that take us out of the hazy trance of a “perfect day” and force us to engage with present reality. Sometimes these very hiccups and unpleasant interruptions make a day memorable or significant to us in retrospect when it otherwise would not have.
The difference between an amateur and a professional is also one marked by one of imperfections or the lack thereof (at least in perception). Is operating at a defined, pre-set, and “perfect” level that meaningful? Richard Merrick from the New Artisans describes it vividly here: “The cult of the Professional is in danger of draining our economy with an obsessive pursuit of profit and a lack of connection to craft or community. I suspect that no one who carries the label “professional” has created anything truly original in regard to the workplace in the last century.” This is also a reason why AI can never create something truly beautiful and worth existing — its “creations” would be too perfect to be of value.
Here I slip in the iconic mini-lecture on imperfections from Good Will Hunting (1997): “My wife’s been dead two years, Will. And when I think about her, those are the things I think about most. Little idiosyncrasies that only I knew about. Those made her my wife. And she had the goods on me too. Little things I do out of habit. People call these things imperfections Will. It’s just who we are. And we get to choose who we’re going to let into out weird little worlds.”
This brings out a fascinating wonderment on the connections between imperfections and love. Could we possibly love something spotless and untouchable? Would we relate to someone who cannot and does not fail at anything? Would something be beautiful without an inherent imperfection that highlights and gives meaning to its overall loveliness?
As The Brothers Four sang to us, without a hurt the heart is hollow.
A thoughtful way to accept and make the imperfections beautiful — darkness and shadows and all — is demonstrated by black lacquer and the way its used. Before the introduction of electricity, all one had in a room for light was fire — a fireplace, candlelight, a tiny lamp. The shadows in the edges and corners of a room where furniture usually is placed is where you would find these dark pieces of furniture embracing the shadows and making them beautiful in a special way. It is almost as if black lacquer and candlelight are made for each other. The traditional integration of gold flakes into the lacquer is also fascinating — specks of gold catch the soft light and emit a soft shimmer more beautiful and gentle than the bold, brash brightness of a gold bar, thus elevating its usefulness from being just a symbol of wealth to one of light and loveliness. It is this level of specificity that also makes this extra beautiful — using that which is valuable not to have as much of it as you could, but just a little to bring light and beauty.
It is a specific use of a specific quantity and form, and there is beauty in that specificity.
And so perhaps that is the most precious thing about imperfections — they show us the beautiful in that which we would otherwise pass over as plain or bland, or even — as in shadows – scary and unwanted.