When I learnt that the Persians weave mistakes into their rugs, I relaxed. Perfection doesn’t exist in man made art, perfection only exists in God, so sayeth the Iranians.
Luckily I am not a perfectionist.
The old git is, well was,
But me, I’m a slovenly old boot who relies on inspiration, intuition and the old git’s input.
I’m knitting a sweater. It’s an easy pattern; two plain two pearl, that’s all it is two plain stitches and two pearl stitches, it creates a ribbing on the bottom of the jumper. I’ve made a complete pigs ear of it so I’ve unravelled it three times and started again. Nineteen rows in it now lives on mistakes and all. On lookers will think I’ve followed a pattern of intricate genius when they see the finished garment. I’ve given in to creative chaos. Who gives a fuck whether my handiwork is neat or not. Nobody other than me cares.
Thats anti-perfectionism at its best.
The old git, once a flourishing actor, write, director, was annoyingly perfect. When I left the play we were in, I would still go and watch him perform. Every night he did a slapstick scene involving blotting paper, a chair and his perfect timing. I would park the car in front of the theatre and slip into the back row of the stalls. Every night I laughed.
When I did my first one woman show the ‘oosbind gave me 11 out of 10
The second show was crap because I have a pathological fear, I repeat a pathological fear of repeating myself,
Acting requires the ability to repeat and replicate properly.
‘How else are you going to get it perfect?” said the directorial spouse.
I cringed at the thought of it.
I have, however, perfected the art of joke telling, reshaping the gag each time I tell it.
The secret to getting it right is that I laugh at my own jokes – don’t need anybody else to validate me.
Maybe an anti=perfectionist needs the maverick ability to not give a shit.
Unlike the old git who became a victim of perfectionism.
He was decorating a friends house, the inability to paper and paint to his own exacting demands, resulted in him surrendering his need for utter perfection.
The hegemony of perfection gave way to practicality.
Practicality became bodging. Bodging of the highest order.
We had a leak in the attic ceiling. We slept in the attic.
The rain came in. Plip plop all night.
The ‘oosbind chewed his thumb and thought. Then, wearing only a tiny t-shirt, ran semi-naked downstairs and returned with a length of string and a hook.
He screwed the hook into the ceiling to which he attached the length of string. He moved the fig tree from the corner and placed it under the string, We had natural irrigation and no more dripping.
Thats genius, perfect bodging.
When cracked perfection becomes creative it is a thing of beauty.
Perhaps my one activity that requires precision is the application of my red lipstick. A trial now since I’m wrinkled and horribly myopic. I have three magnifying mirrors but still I have trouble not looking like Bette Davis in ‘What ever happened to Baby Whatsisname.’
The rest of my life is an approximation.
The old git reads the small print. I haven’t got time to decipher diagrams or ridiculous instructions. I’ll learn how to use it after he’s shown me. Because he’s better than me at everything practical I get first hand knowledge vicariously.
Fuck knows what’ll happen when he dies.
I am deliberate when I’m working, but don’t berate myself if I get anything wring.
The first time I came in on the wrong note was in the Gulbenkian Theatre in Newcastle. So ashamed was I that at the end of the show I hid behind the drum kit. The audience left, the janitor came to lock up, and I was still crouched behind the toms toms.
Nobody else noticed and if they did they didn’t care. Nobody ever remembers your mistakes only you.
Stephen Fry and Ruby Wax had both upset me. They were rude and I was hurt. When I worked with them years later, neither of them remembered their behaviour. I’d carried their burden around for years.
I had the perfect life, or so I thought. I had, in fact, come to the end of a chapter. Wanky work, good money but a lot of travelling and mental instability.
The universe closed all the doors. No money, no work, no apparent future.
The upside of penury was sleeping in my own bed, next to the old git. Having breakfast and taking my daughter to school. She was eight and a half years old and learnt about ignoring phone calls and dodging the bailiffs.
I needed to do something. I applied to work in the dawters school.
I became a playground monitor. I got a fiver every time I did it. That was enough to buy supper.
I would turn up in the school playground and watch my dawters face break into a delighted grin.
It was the most perfect solution. Getting paid to watch my daughter play and watch her watch me playing around with her friends.
Although lusting after perfect outcomes is the way of madness.
The perfect life does not exist, it can appear briefly. But it’s like watching yourself fall asleep, you’re never present.
When the conditions are right a semblance of perfection may creep in.
Who knew that the best part of growing older is the ability to sift through the bullshit and realise that nothing really matters unless its kind and coming from the heart.
One of the best bodging jobs the ‘oosbind did was when I nearly set fire to the attic. I had left a candle burning, it fell over and burnt a hole in the very expensive wool carpet. The Northern Bodger stood chewing his thumb and thought. He waited for a solution to emerge in his perfect brain. When I returned he had cut squares out of a remnant of our bedroom carpet. A delicious tomato colour. Several red patches later the carpet looked sassy with not a burn insight. A sort of Axminster playground hop scotch.
A mistake became an unintentional piece of art.
It as, dare I say, perfect.