This will probably be a relatively short post, but I just wanted to expel some thoughts. I purchased this art book at a Japanese book store in New York City a few months back, and after weeks of setting it aside, I decided to pick it up and look through it. If you didn't know already, I'm a huge Studio Ghibli and Hayao Miyazaki fan; so when I discovered that the entire book was filled with commentary from the artist himself on every painting, I was intrigued to say the least. Though oddly enough, I found his commentaries partially confusing. Every piece, he had rarely anything good to say about it. He points out the flaws, or why he wanted to throw it out or thought it was irrational and unnecessary. He was picking his work apart, disregarding all the beauty or fantasy that flowed through them. Any of them could easily be center pieces of a million dollar gallery show, yet he wasn't happy with any of them
It's something I seem to be noticing more and more amongst the creative and inspirational.
It's like no matter the amount of blaring "yes", "good job's", or even money being waved in an artist's face, there's always a lingering, gnawing urge to tell yourself it's incomplete, wrong, or a failure. I wonder if it's this imperfection of being a perfectionist beyond any reasonable sense of it that causes beauty to exist. Yet, the creator itself finds no sense of completeness. It makes me wonder if any artist can simply stop and enjoy the scenery of what they're creating, or do they just see a mirror that shows their imperfections staring hauntingly back at them.
I may have gone a small measure deeper than I first intended with this, but in the wake of a rather discontenting day of trying to sell my craft to the masses, I'm feeling philosophical and weary. It's a curious thing, a wandering mind.