Confessions of a Perfectionist by Leen Raddaoui “The benevolence of Medical Students at Alfaisal is certainly very unique and beyond the description of words - a special thanks to each one of you!” —Osama Abosaleh
■ Deep
inside the cavern of the house, namely, my room, I was busy at work on a so-called masterpiece. The room was dimly lit, boxed in, increasing my sense of claustrophobia. The walls were tinted; their tanned, menacing straightness was taunting me, as though they were whispering, “Can you handle it? Will your painting take the crown? It lacks perfection.” The air was pulsing with the sound of classical music, a tune commonly known to my senses, a tune which normally soothed and calmed them, but not now. My hair was in a knotted mop, loosely tousled, with a hint of Einstein, and I gesticulated madly with the paintbrush in my hands, as though I were the Maestro of the orchestra myself. The portrait was near complete; the sight of it sent a warm rush of blood to my face and cheeks. I blushed at the fact that I had created such a delicate, splendid work of art. It was exploding with color, magnificent in every way.
Since then, instances have come where I was prompted to wipe the spots away. Earlier, a child presented to me a note of appreciation which she wrote for her mother, so that I could give her my opinion on it. The words, full of adoration and meaning seemed unrefined and immature when written with such terrible handwriting. S’s were written backwards, the child alternated between capital and lowercase letters, and the entire note appeared to be a scribbled mess, with no proper form. The child’s spelling was atrocious, hence I took charge. I typed out the letter, proofread and edited it, then printed it out. What was left was a regular A4 sized paper with print on it. The warmth and love it previously had were relinquished; any spots of silly cuteness expressing the child’s youth were wiped out, and it was no longer unique to its writer. The errors themselves are what had given the letter its value, and given it a reason to hold as dear remembrance.
Every curve, angle, dimension, and texture echoed beauty. The painting was perfectly symmetrical, from the old cabin stretched out on a prairie of dewy grass, to the crystal lake that shimmered in turquoise. The clouds were realistic enough, tufts of feathery white. One might think they would cry and shower the scene in a shroud. The cabin appeared as though one had pasted oak wood onto the portrait and crafted it onto the canvas.
Another instance occurred when our family was invited to meet my uncle’s new wife. Her first reaction upon seeing us was to shriek like a banshee at the top of her lungs and prance like a weary ballerina with a stubbed toe towards us. She was very strange; she was incredibly tall (a foot taller than he was) with messy, fiery red hair, and glowing orange freckles that covered her face. She snorted when she giggled, and laughed at almost everything we said. Her ultimate demonstration of awkwardness was when she back-flipped and cart-wheeled to the kitchen, which made our hair stand on end. All my uncle ever did was smile; he was satisfied with her exactly the way she was. Her spots, or imperfections, were exactly what made him propose! He never tried to wipe them away, for they made her unique, and in his eyes, perfect.
The landscape scene was breathtaking, but what caught my eye and returned my breath were two rusty brown spots right in the middle of the portrait! I immediately turned away in horror, realizing that the painting had now lost its sheen and glamour. I sprang to fetch a towel much like a snake springs onto its prey, and began wiping at the spots, almost thrashing at them. I was sure that the towel would gnaw through the canvas by the time I was finished, but the painting was already ruined and so was my inspiration. I had smeared the rusty brown over everything, and the scene was dreadful, a gruesome hue overtook it; it now seemed dead and miserable, like the artist who created it.
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Through remembrance of these events, I became certain of this: in imperfection lies uniqueness, and in uniqueness lies beauty. Spots may be considered defects by some, but wiping the spots away forces out the warmth and originality that they provide. So you self-doubting artists, hear this: in your flaws you may find true perfection, a perfection that is ironically imperfect. A N D
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