My Empty “Perfect” Art Portfolio

One of my core memories as a little girl involves a voicemail. It was long enough ago that the voicemail was emitted from my family’s home phone; propped nicely in its charger port.

It was a voicemail from one of my best friend’s Mother. She owned (or maybe directed? The details are fuzzy now) an art studio in the “downtown” area of our small town and was offering me a scholarship for the summer art camp. As a kid, I was known as artsy; new framed artwork always being added to my house’s walls. A pastel piece of mine was even sold at a silent auction at my school at the time.

A short while later, I had accepted the scholarship and was going nearly every day to the studio. Thinking back, I realize how incredibly fortunate I was to have access to top grade paint, pastels, canvases, brushes, clay, and beautiful gems. Whatever was in the studio was free reign for me to use and there were no rules.

A “normal” child might have let loose the vivid creativity that comes with childhood. Colors, and textures mixing together to create beautiful the imagery seldom recreated once in adulthood.

However, I let perfectionism take control over my mind. Flash forward to the last day of camp, a day where all the students proudly showed off their full portfolios to their parents, and I had almost nothing to show for myself.

Everyday would start the same: with a vision. In my mind, I would see profound and beautiful paintings and drawings. I wanted beautiful, perfect works of art with complex brush strokes. Behind my eyes, I would see art comparable to the pieces of a museum; the kind that takes your breath away and leaves you wondering “how does someone even make that?” I wanted to be the one to make those types of pieces.

I didn’t want to make the types of art the other young students around me were making: beautiful but childish; complete with the imperfect elements that gives the art charm. I didn’t want to make anything that might be evidently the work of a child.

And so I would gather all the supplies I needed in order to make the vision in my head come true. While the other students sat down with a reference for their artwork (something from a magazine or a photo) I would sit down in front of a blank canvas and refuse to use a reference. I wanted everything to be perfect and in my twisted mind, using inspiration or having a reference might taint the level of perfection I hoped to achieve.

It was bizarre, but it made it perfect sense in my head.

All my pieces would start off well. The first few strokes would frame the canvas beautifully; laying the groundwork for the vision in my head.

But there was always a turning point; a point, triggered by nothing specific or identifiable, where the canvas would sour and it seemed like the brushes or the pencil would go stiff with rigor mortis. My mind would decide that it was over and the beautiful image in my head would shatter into the dark space of my mind. I would hate myself so immensely for “messing up” and ruining something that could have been so beautiful. Sometimes there were attempts to save the art and sometimes it was decided in the court of my mind that there would be no saving; that any attempt at a rescue would be futile.

The inner shame was so deep that I refused to catalog the artwork into my portfolio (that was reserved for “perfect” pieces only) and so it met its fate into the black plastic of the bottom of a trash can. It was thrown away where no one, not even I, would be able to see it.

Naturally, it fills me with deep regret and sadness to have reacted the way I did at the “imperfections” of my childhood art career.

Today, I firstly wish that I never chased perfection in the first place and instead created art that fulfilled me. The art I created was indeed beautiful and impressive; there was no need for me to create hyper realistic pieces reminiscent of the ones inside The Louvre.

But secondly, I would have loved to see the rejected pieces I threw away. I wish that shame did not compel me to throw away the art that I created. To imagine a little girl unable to face her art that she deemed unworthy according to unrealistic, self-imposed standards devastates me.

And perhaps the worst part is that the little girl curling her lip in disgust is still very much inside of me (the main reason I do not partake in art as much as an adult). Not just in the domain of art, but in so many other aspects of my life there seems to be a formula: a vision of perfection, the exhausting pursuit of it, and the inevitable shame that comes with it. With the goalpost of perfection constantly moving, it is hard to feel anything other than shame with any outcome. It is hard to feel happy with something I create because it could always be better.

Today, I often remember my empty portfolio and how it disappointed my Mother to not be able to see the beautiful ways I spent my time at the camp. I often remember how much time and energy I wasted chasing something so unattainable.

While I still struggle immensely with perfectionism in my adult life, it has been easier for me to cope now that I have identified what it is that I am struggling with. Moving forward, I have decided to combat perfectionism by remembering the deep sadness and regret I felt when I realized how empty my portfolio was. I try to live a life that is authentically mine and not controlled by perfectionism. While that is easier said than done, when I feel strong enough, I fight back.

To those who experience the shame of not being “perfect” or “good enough”, I encourage you to remember the child that is still inside of you. How sad would he or she be to see you upset with your achievements? If I tell myself that I am not good enough, it is not only 20 year old Soha who hears that statement, but it is also 13 year old Soha, and 10 year old Soha, and 5 year old Soha along with all the Soha’s in between.

Remember, an art portfolio showcasing experiences, memories, and your authentic life is better than a nearly empty one. Which portfolio do you choose to represent your life?