The Curse of Pygmalian

I find I fall deeply and intensely in love with whichever project I'm working on at any given moment. I work on it until it's perfect and then I admire it passionately. Since, of late, my projects are all computer based, this means I sit at my computer for hours. With the photographs, because I continually tweak them in Photoshop, I have to leave my computer on. I can't bear to even save them and turn the computer off. At some point, when I'm completely satisfied with myself I will reluctantly move on to the next project.

At some point during the second project I'll decide to revisit my previous creation and like Quasimodo it will leap from my computer screen and all of it's imperfections will slice at my eyeballs and leave me feeling defeated and useless. I will have to force myself away from the computer. When I finally summon the emotional strength to return to the computer, I will invariably be angry at myself for the lack of self-critical evaluation, the stupidity of not seeing the obvious flaws that could be so easily fixed. I hate the piece, be it a photo or story and I vow to never look at it again. I attack the new piece savagely, whipping into perfection and when I feel that I am finished I step back and fall in love with the new creation. And the cycle begins again.

Then, after time away, I come back to the first piece and while not all is forgiven, I learn to appreciate it for what it was. I'm thankful for the lessons learned. Sometimes I'll fix the flaws and sometimes I'll let the flaws stand as a marker to where I was as an artist at that moment.

Over time I'm able to see progress in all of my work. There are even points where I can see almost profound leaps in style and technique, but on the whole progress is achingly slow. Glaciers seem to have made greater progress in less time than I do.

But there's nothing to do but move forward. Reach and when contact is made, fall in love.