Letting Go of Perfectionism in Painting

In case you didn’t know, I paint. Or at least, I dabble in painting. My medium of choice is acrylic, basically because I’m too lazy to wait for oil paints to dry and oil painting requires too many steps for impatient people like me. It took me a bit to find my niche; that which I love to paint most. Actually it took like two weeks. So nevermind.

My niche is silhouettes, mainly silhouettes of mountains and climbers (because, in case you didn’t know, I love to climb). I was so jazzed when I painted my first silhouette of a climber soloing the second flatiron. I dipped a tiny brush in black paint and on my first try created a little climber. Not only is painting silhouettes gratifying for me, but it is relatively easy. When I allow it to be, that is. For the first few months after I discovered my love of painting, I cranked out work of art after work of art, creating mountain scenes full of happy climbers (woah, that was such a Bob Ross thing to say...). However, with time, I started becoming a harsher and harsher critic of my own work. I began nitpicking over every tiny brushstroke, berating myself for painting silhouettes that didn’t look perfect. The defeating self talk, bellowing comments like “hm, that climber’s head isn’t proportional to the rest of his body!” grew so loud that I became discouraged. I stopped loving my hobby to the point where I stopped entirely for awhile.

Two happy climbers, two happy ravens! Bob Ross would be proud!

This was one of my first 

This little climber was my first ever silhouette! I hope he’s not falling...

Then one day while wandering the many aisles of Michaels, I found a new tool. It was a paintbrush pen. I rejoiced at the discovery, and realized that with this pen, I could have such control that I would attain perfection in my silhouettes. For awhile, I would simply draw the tiny climbers (climbers had evolved at this point; I had begun painting silhouettes of animals, plants, people doing things other than climbing [gasp!!], etc) with my black paint marker. It wasn’t until this morning that this really bothered me. I realized that I didn’t want this level of perfection in my painting. It didn’t enable me to enjoy my art more. Instead, it gave a megaphone to the self-defeating voice that had criticized my work for so long before. Honestly, using the pen for my silhouettes felt like cheating. So I stopped using it. I felt free almost instantly, as I could embrace the little flaws created by my hand-painting. 

I’m not saying it’s my way or the highway (although with most things, it is!). I completely respect whatever method of painting other artists use, and if that is using a paint pen and it doesn’t make them crazy and dislike their hobby, then that’s great! It just wasn’t working for me, and I had to realize that and respect myself as a painter. I still have some odd little quirks when it comes to painting. When I paint climbers, I always want them to have friends. Same with animals when I paint multiples in a scene. I want them to be happy little silhouettes (Bob Ross again!!). I’m not sure if that was always the case, but it is now. 

I won’t sign anything I paint until I’m truly content in how it turned out. That means happy with all the little flaws I create.

The painting that made me realize I had to return to my paintbrush ways!

Almost 30

In three days, the clock will strike a certain time, and I will turn a dreaded age: almost 30. This year, I’ll have to nix my tradition of wallowing in sorrow by myself, as I’ll be at work. Actually, I’ll just turn my wallowing inwards and cry metaphorical tears.

Men are lucky because they age gracefully and often get sexier the older they get. Two words: John Stamos. I however, am at this awkward age where I have wrinkles AND zits! Perfect example of how unfair life can be. So think of me on March 11th as I wallow internally and externally, when I’ll cry tears that will probably worsen my acne, and scrunch my face in sadnes which will deepen my wrinkles.

But you know what would make me feel better, dear reader?? A contribution to my GoFundMe where I’m trying to raise money for a new guitar. Anyone who donates can request any song and I will sing and record it for you. Check out my SoundCloud to hear my previous recordings if you need more motivation to donate. I mean come on, it’s my birthday after all.

Fili

I realized in yoga today that I am still extremely haunted by a traumatizing event from my past. My first guinea pig and best friend Fili died suddenly and tragically almost two years ago now, and since nothing has helped me move on and ascertain any sense of closure, I have decided to try writing about it to share it with a wider audience. I don’t generally blog about such sensitive topics, but I’m ready to give it a try. So thank you for joining me as I share this story. 

I got Fili almost four years ago from the Boulder Valley Humane Society. It was love at first sight; he was an adorable guinea pig with a loving demeanor and personality. I actually wrote a blog (http://bonvoyage4.blogspot.com/2015/08/pigs-are-people-too-part-two.html?m=1) 

about our meeting, and how incredible of a creature he was. Soon after adopting Fili, I learned about the importance of having more than one guinea pig so they don’t get lonely. I found him a friend at the pet store; a female guinea pig whom I named Khaleesi. She had three babies a few months after they met (this is starting to sound like a Match.com story) and I decided to keep one of them. I named him Bilbo, and he became Fili’s new cage mate and companion. I found a family to adopt the other two guinea pigs along with Khaleesi. 

Bilbo and Fili got along great, and although Bilbo is extremely adorable his personality did not come close to the caliber of Fili’s. I took Fili with me on adventures; he was the first guinea pig I ever took climbing, and I have brought at least six since. He was my precious bub, my emotional support friend, and my right-hand dude. He was my first serious pet, and I didn’t mind peoples’ judgements about the oddity of a woman in her mid twenties owning a guinea pig instead of a “real” pet like a cat or dog. 

One spring day almost exactly two years ago, I decided to put Bilbo and Fili outside in their little playpen. I often did so on nice days so they could munch on grass and enjoy being outdoors. Putting them outside had never been a problem until that dreadful day. I placed them in the pen and went inside momentarily. In the fleeting moments I was not observing them, a neighborhood dog approached the playpen and sniffed it curiously. As he nudged the cage with his nose, it collapsed and fell. Bilbo fled quickly enough to escape, but Fili was not so lucky. He was pinned by the fence, and although I ran out and freed him rapidly, it was too late. The dog did not act in aggression, simply in curiosity, and he ran off in fear when the cage collapsed. Fili had no external damage that I could see, but he quickly exhibited strange behavior issues like having issues with walking. He was no longer acting like himself. Because he was always my treasured baby, I immediately put Bilbo back inside and rushed Fili to the vet. I knew I would do anything to save him, but as I drove him to the vet it became more and more clear that saving him wouldn’t be an option. Tears streamed down my face from the moment I saw him pinned beneath the cage in which I had out him, but they became more of a deluge as he stopped moving altogether. I am not entirely sure if he passed away on my lap In the car, or after I arrived at the vet. Either way, it was one of the most devastating moments of my entire life. Even writing about it evokes unbelievable sadness. 

The vet looked at Fili and declared him dead. I sat and cried and cried, cradling my sweet departed pet in my lap, and hating myself for putting Fili and Bilbo outside that day. I felt disassociated from the whole experience. Did that really happen? How could my best friend be dead? I don’t think I will ever forgive myself for that putting him outside that day. The vet, her technician and really the entire staff at the VCA animal hospital were amazing. They cried with me, and told me I could get Fili’s paw prints in cement with his name and that I could get him cremated. One of the vet techs even told me about a website that turns pet ashes into jewelry and other works of art. I did so with Fili’s ashes; he is now a beautiful pendant that I have with me almost all the time. The rest of his ashes I spread in the mountains where we climbed and hiked and adventures together. 

I miss Fili constantly. His departure left a void in my heart that will never be filled again. I have had many guinea pigs since Fili and none have ever been at the same level of significance. I feel like that is the case for any pet owner. There is always that one pet that instantly steals your heart and never gives it back. I hope that he is somewhere better, running amock with other guinea pigs and eating crunchy veggies all day. I just don’t know how to move on in a way where I can be okay with what I did. Had I not put him outside on that day, he would still be with me.