This morning, while walking through the back streets of Richmond on my way to the studio, I noticed a tiny piece of graffiti on the side of an old red brick house.
It wasn't elaborate. Just a little yellow love heart, no bigger than half the size of my hand.
What made me stop wasn't the heart itself.
It was that it wasn't perfect.
The two halves didn't quite match. The right side drooped ever so slightly, as though the person who painted it had hesitated for a moment before lifting the brush away. It wasn't centred. It wasn't symmetrical.
And yet, it made me smile.
I've realised that I rarely respond to perfection.
Perfect symmetry often feels sterile to me. Predictable. Everything has already been resolved.
Imperfection, on the other hand, feels alive.
It reminds you that there was a person standing there. A hand that moved instinctively. A line that wandered just a little. A tiny flaw that somehow became the thing that gave it warmth and character.
That's one of the reasons I paint the way I do.
My lines aren't ruler straight. They wobble. They drip. The marks beneath the surface aren't always hidden. I don't try to erase every imperfection because those are often the moments that give a painting its humanity.
It's funny that something as insignificant as a tiny yellow love heart on an old brick wall could remind me of all this.
That's the point. Beauty doesn't always arrive in grand gestures.
Sometimes it's found in a crooked line or a brushstroke that wasn't planned.
Or a little yellow heart that leans ever so slightly to one side.
Those are the moments that stay with me.
They're the moments worth painting.