But. I did stop. Drawing was a love/hate relationship to me. I wanted every drawing to be perfect, not just “as perfect as possible”. No. Perfect. I could spend hours working on imitating a certain object. It could drive me in sane. The feeling is hard to describe. But it would make me so devastated if it wasn’t as I imagined. As the real object. I would be so angry with myself. Feeling I was not good enough. It was so visible to me. There on the paper. I strived so hard for perfection. Sometimes I would feel satisfied, and I therefore knew the potential I had. If I only did it right. I would often ask my mom if the drawing was good enough or if she thought it was done. She would always tell me “I don’t know, what do you think?”. Giving the fact that I was screaming from my inside, feeling like the worst mistake, the feedback she gave me was the last drop. I would destroy the paper and cry. That was what I heard "I wasn't good enough".
So I stopped. For a while at least. Drawing was my safe space where I could escape from the real world. Or so it was in the beginning, but then it became a contest. Between my ego and my self.
Some years went by, but one day a very clear image came to my mind of a man with two dead birds hanging from his hat, and I had to put it on paper. It wasn't perfect. The image barely looked like a man. But I loved it, and to me it was right. I slowly began to grasp the concept of imperfection...
Though I still struggled.