I'm not a perfectionist. I don't have enough patience to go over

Hear now the voice of Phil Elverum, the poet-musician who walks among shadows and whispers, who said: “I’m not a perfectionist. I don’t have enough patience to go over the same details over and over trying to get it perfect.” In these words lies not laziness, nor disdain for craft, but a philosophy of creation that resists the endless chase after flawless surfaces. For he recognizes a truth that many fear to admit: that to pursue the mirage of perfection is to risk losing the living soul of the work itself.

The ancients, too, knew this lesson. They spoke of the sculptor who chipped endlessly at his statue until the marble was worn thin, until the figure was not more beautiful but lifeless, its vigor stolen by too much correction. The great artisans of Japan embraced imperfection under the banner of wabi-sabi, seeing beauty not in the smooth and flawless, but in the cracked bowl, the uneven glaze, the mark of the human hand. Elverum’s rejection of perfectionism is part of this lineage: a reminder that art, like life, breathes only when allowed to be unfinished, imperfect, alive.

For in truth, perfection is a shifting horizon. What one calls perfect today, one may reject tomorrow. To circle endlessly over details, to polish again and again, is to fall into a trap where nothing is ever enough. Many creators have been broken upon this wheel, their works never released, their visions never shared, because they sought the unreachable. Elverum declares that he will not bow to this idol. His patience is not for polishing the stone until it vanishes, but for giving voice to the rawness of experience, even if the edges are rough.

History gives us a tale in the writings of Franz Kafka, who left behind works that he considered unfinished, imperfect, unworthy of the world. He begged his friend Max Brod to burn them. Yet Brod, refusing, preserved them, and today those very works—fragmented, incomplete, jagged—stand as monuments of literature. Had Kafka’s perfectionism triumphed, the world would have been poorer. Here we see the truth of Elverum’s words: to seek perfect endlessly is often to rob the world of the good, the true, and the heartfelt.

Yet this is not a call to abandon care, nor to despise craftsmanship. It is a call to balance. One must labor, yes, one must hone one’s skill. But there is a moment when the soul of the work demands release, when to hold it longer is to choke it. The wise creator knows when enough is enough, when the heart has spoken clearly enough that the rough edges no longer matter. Elverum’s refusal to endlessly revisit details is not negligence, but reverence for the fleeting truth of the moment captured in sound, in word, in art.

The lesson for us is this: do not be enslaved by the dream of perfection. Work diligently, yes; polish what must be polished. But when the spirit of the work is alive, let it go. Do not silence your voice by demanding it sound divine. Life itself is not perfect; it is fragile, crooked, broken, and yet glorious. So too should your creations bear the mark of your humanity. Let them be true, not flawless.

Practical counsel is this: the next time you create, whether a song, a craft, a plan, or even a simple act of kindness, resist the temptation to hold it hostage to perfection. Ask yourself not, Is it flawless? but rather, Is it honest? Does it breathe? Does it carry my intent? If the answer is yes, then release it into the world. Better an imperfect truth than a perfect silence.

So let the words of Phil Elverum echo as a gentle but powerful reminder: “I’m not a perfectionist.” For perfection may dazzle the eye, but it is authenticity that nourishes the soul. The artist, the worker, the dreamer—none must waste their lives chasing a ghost. Instead, they must dare to create, to share, to live, knowing that the beauty of their work lies not in its flawless polish, but in its living imperfection.