The Imperfect Inspires Me
The Imperfect Inspires Me
(original text in portuguese, translated and adapted to english)
July 1, 2026
Can I tell you something I've been thinking about?
I am an artist, or at least I think I am. I make art, illustrations, and, as you can probably tell, I write.
I am not perfect at any of these things, and the truth is, I never will be.
So it is easy to understand why the imperfect inspires me.
When I see a drawn portrait that simply doesn't follow all the rules, all the fundamentals, and yet still has its own charm, that unique quality that makes me like what would otherwise be considered imperfect.
I've been noticing that what draws me most to the art I admire is not only the artist's technique itself. It's not just whether they follow the rules or don't. It's what they put there, the colors they chose, the composition they created, the feeling inside that image.
The truth is, I end up looking at and admiring art as if it were a story, and each one tells something different through its lines, colors, shapes, light, shadow...
I also like a poorly written text.
I don't really care if the grammar is absolutely perfect or if the comma is exactly where it is supposed to be. I like reading because I want to understand the mind behind it, I like reading because I want to savor a story, regardless of the writer's grammatical ability , or sometimes, the speaker's.
Stories told in the heat of the moment, or in the quiet of a colder night, or between friends sitting around a bar table, or among coworkers at work...
That exchange that happens almost without intention.
Writing gives us room to think and elaborate
The "imperfect", this one, in quotation marks inspires me because within it, I can simply be, I can make, I can do, I can share, without too much calculation or effort.
I let myself be, I let myself flow without expectations, without too many limitations, I get closer to something unconditional.
I've never considered myself particularly good at saying what I'm thinking at the exact moment I'm thinking it. I always carry around little pieces of words and sentences I wish I had said, but didn't know how to say in that crucial moment.
And then that key stays with me, unable to open any doors, unable to unlock anything.
I imagine this might sound dramatic, perhaps poetic, maybe even a little nauseating, but I like it.
I like this kind of language that spills over, that spreads out, and sometimes gets lost.
Getting lost isn't so bad, after all It is a place of tremendous vastness
There, in getting lost, you are given the chance to find yourself, even if only for a brief moment.
And what is a moment in time and space? It can be eternal
Still on the subject of a poorly written text, possibly something like this one, it wins me over especially when I can feel honesty in it. The kind of honesty that can almost be uncomfortable, the kind that has a special seasoning to it, that is homemade, handmade, human.
I think it is already obvious that these days, it has become harder to write, to put into words what you see, what you observe, the ordinary things of everyday life.
And yet, there is story there, and value.
What is missing is the attention to notice it, I'd say.
And without that attention, the stories disappear because what are you going to tell if you didn't see anything happening?
When I was a child, I used to play a little game with myself. It was simply pretending that I was seeing something I already knew as if I were seeing it for the first time.
I remember coming home from school and pretending I was seeing that place for the very first time, I would go "Wow."
As silly as it may sound, it made me notice the details more carefully. I would see colors and objects I had already forgotten existed.
And even today, when I remember it, I do the exercise, this game.
Sometimes I even look at myself in the mirror as if I had just discovered what I look like, there is power in that, and some fun too!
It just occurred to me that perhaps I could tell you a little about why I decided to start a blog again.
Back in 2010–2011, I had a blog, It was called "O Papagaio Abusado", and I would write there and have fun. There was a little bit of everything, part of my mind was there, somewhat exposed, and that felt good.
After I stopped writing there, I kept writing, but more privately.
Today, July 1st, I felt this almost crazy urge to come back somehow, until I eventually arrived at the idea of having a blog again.
This simple place where I can write and share whatever is passing through the particularities of my mind.
"O Depois do Agora", now adapted to english as " After now" , was born like that.
Without much planning.
And I think I'll stop here for now. ♥︎
zimarrie