On Imperfection

Christiane Pflug   Still Life with Flowers and Tea Pot     tempera on canvas   1957

I have been thinking of the issue of skill in art.  When I think back on previous years spent wandering the galleries and contemporary art exhibitions at museums in Los Angeles, I observed much fetishization of “finish.”  I would describe it as a certain smoothness of surface, a feeling of professionalism about all aspects of the painting or sculpture, a light irony of tone.  It is not what makes me thrill when I look at artwork.  When I was reading a book of Denise Levertov’s poems, I came across one that describes how I do feel when I look at artwork that feels genuine to me, real---like Van Gogh, or Christiane Pflug:
 
Since I must recover
my balance, I do. I falter
but don’t fall; recalling
how every vase, cut sapphire, absolute
dark rose, is not indeed
of rarest, of most cherished
perfection unless flawed,
offcentered, pressed
with rough thumbprint, bladescratch, brown
birthmark that tells
of concealed struggle from bud to open ease
of petals, soon
to loosen, to drop and
be blown away.
 
                The asymmetrical
tree of life, fractionally lopsided
at the trunk’s live-center
tells where a glancing eye,
                not a ruler
drew, and drew strength
from its mistake.
 
The picture of perfection
must be revised.
Allow for our imperfections,
welcome them,
consume them into its substance.
Bring from necessity
its paradoxical virtue,
mortal life, that makes it
give off so strange a magnetic
shining, when one had thought
darkness had filled the night.