But that’s the tricky thing about art: it’s never strictly good or bad, it’s just expression or excretion. It couldn’t be measured by scales or charts or contained in small manageable segments of the day. It was always, by its very nature, so imperfect – and the imperfections drove me mad. The anxiety and frustration with my creative endeavours turned into an actual fear of blank pages and palettes of paint. There was too much potential and too much room to fail, so, day by day, I chose perfection over creativity; I chose no more creativity and no more mistakes.
