Picture (im)Perfect

I have an unhealthy, bordering on damaging, obsession with perfection. Anyone who knows me, knows me to be picky and pedantic, but it's not like I do it on purpose. It's a coping strategy. I'm just trying to keep up.

I look at everyone else -stylish, successful, talented, people who are prolific in their art or craft -or whatever their field may be, people who are on the go all the time, people who juggle jobs and families and friendships and never let anything drop.

I have these ideas about other people, like that if one area of their life is perfect, or seems perfect, that must mean that everything about them is the same, even though I know this isn't true. And it means that I have to try and compete. I know people who are super-fit, but are complete flakes. I have friends who look amazing, but spend little time or effort on anything other than their appearance -hey, everyone knows that people with perfectly painted nails spend waaay too long sat still doing nothing (and clearly can't do DIY!) Some people have the most exciting social lives, but live in pits and exist off beans on toast. Others seem to have everything, but I pretty much know it's been bought on credit. I know this is the reality -that other people don't have extra hours in their days, or super-human energy levels (I have a skewed view of this because I've always been a sickly child, a wilting flower), but I want to be perfect at everything.

I want...

An immaculate home
A flawless appearance
Just the right amount of style (without seeming try-hard)
To cook everything from scratch
As for scratches, my car to be scratch free -and to be able to both drive it well and park it
To be nice to everyone (I know I'm not!)
To make maximum effort at work -and enjoy it!
To have a social life others envy (and no, I won't take photos, because I'll be too busy having fun!)
To still have time to be creative, and successful at it
To blog more than what seems like about twice a year!
To promote myself
To exercise and not hate it
To keep up with current affairs
To read
To remember things I've read/learned
To know what the heck I'm talking about -ever!
For my clothes to never be creased, my wash basket always to be empty
To never have a hair or a thread or anything out of place
To see family
To see friends
To spend just the right amount of money

Is this so much to ask?

I think my quests for order and perfection -not only fuel my crazy, but are also behind my collaging, collecting, assembling, arranging fixations. Taking disorder, the discarded, and making into something unified, composite, harmonious even. Like when I've cleaned the house from top to bottom and can smugly sit back -until I find something else that absolutely needs to be done.

You may remember my every-so-often 'I need to paint more' ponderings.

So I tried, and enjoyed myself, revelling in the gloss and the texture and the tactile experience of oil onto canvas, building up layer upon layer, until, Miss Perfect, I put a brushstroke wrong, and haven't beared to work on it since...

(See offending area encircled in red, which incidentally, to people I've asked, apparently has nothing wrong with it)

So I've taken the motif and interpretted it in collage. See, told you it kept me sane. Or, I just can't stop myself.

I've blogged about my 'hands' fascination not so long ago 'hand-made' blog post, and I'm enjoying using them to depict simplified tree forms.

When we eventually get some decent light (because my camera and my photography skills are far from perfect!), and if I can ever take the time out from my exhausting, self-inflicted schedule, I may share some photos of the new piece.

Until then I guess I'll keep tying myself in knots, being practically perfect -at most, if not all, things.

Face Paint.

This week I realised that instead of my pretty much constant make-up serving to make me look more groomed and grown-up, it's been masking flaws by way of making me look...younger! How and when did this happen? I may be 30, but I more often than not still get asked for ID when out of an evening visiting the choicest nightspots.

It may be because my fragile skin has been chapped beyond recognition by the biting Netherlandish air. Never have I felt cold as such experienced when trekking through Amsterdam in a blizzard between Waterlooplein and the Van Gogh Museum. Snow can be horizontal and razor sharp.

Alex and I only ever seem to holiday when and where it's freezing cold. Often in February around the time of his birthday. I don't know if it's because it's exactly 6 months away from my birthday, so gives me something to brighten the winter months, or if it stems from my distaste for overly hot weather -my Mum is still highly amused by my behaviour on a holiday to Italy in an August heatwave, during which I turned 17. I spent the majority of the time either at the shower block or beneath a parasol. The day we visited Venice I was positively wilting! Or if it comes from my confusion about and misunderstanding of why my fellow Brits seem to vacate our fair Isles at the time of year when our own weather is at its best...?

Our February trips have included Paris, Whitby and Glasgow -the latter is a close contender for coldest holiday ever, and if it wasn't for a kindly IMAX manager sharing the last taxi running, we would have been stranded, yet again in a blizzard -do you see the pattern emerging? -and quite possibly perished from hypothermia.

Unfortunately on the latest trip, the climate rendered me incapable of either removing my gloves, or pausing to take many photgraphs of the surprisingly beautiful (I didn't know what to expect!) Amsterdam. But then, at least I'm not the sort that believe if a photo wasn't taken it didn't happen. Memories count more than a million bunches of megapixels.

I haven't flown many times, so I remain fascinated by the snowy peaks of clouds glimsped through the plane windows, and so inkeeping with our wintery theme.

I also had no idea that Amsterdam was such a destination for deliciousness. I'm no great adventurer, and I swear by my DK Eyewitness Travel guides. How terribly mainstream! And this time we went as far as to eat at 2 restaurants the guide recommended -and weren't disappointed! Fondue and entrecotes at Cafe Bern were the ideal way to thaw out two tremoring travellers.

Plus we had the privilege of sharing pastries with some of the locals...

I'd read that Amsterdam is full of both pigeons and stray cats. Sadly we only made two new friends of the feline variety, but were treated one day to a pre-breakfast spectacle of half a bloodied mouse. Fortunately being 'straight edge (!)' I wasn't nursing any narcotic nausea from the night before!

I also went quite mainstream (for me) in my enjoyment of the Van Gogh Museum. I can be a bit snobby with my art when I want to be, and deny my enjoyment of the artists the world and his dog love, but I have to say, a desire to paint again has been ignited (I recall feeling similar stirrings but a couple of years back-

('all cried out' post, October 2009)

and now I'm feeling inspired enough to have a root through my art cupboard and see if I still have any oil paints hiding there. It's about time I took a break from intricacy, and daubed paint on canvas with wild abandon...

Vincent Van Gogh, 'Wheatfield with Crows', 1890

I shall definitely visit Amsterdam again, although perhaps when it's slightly more temperate. I was able to do the two things I most desperately wanted to -along with Van Gogh there was the Anne Frank House. I was moved to tears. I am now reading her diaries, and am intrigued by what the teenaged mind is capable of when subjected to such extreme, heightened situations. Not that I want to in any way mitigate the horrors of the holocaust, or liken the experiences of the occupants of the secret annexe to the triviality of an American TV show, but I can really see why Angela Chase from 'My So-Called Life' was shown to identify with Anne.

"I'm starting to like Anne Frank."
"Is she a sophomore, too?"
"No, she's dead."
"Oh."

So anyway, until the weather warms and I venture across the Noordzee again, I'll occupy myself with painting, whether the surface is canvas, or my fair and flimsy face.