The Beauty of Imperfection
Reflections on patience, stillness, and the rhythm of painting—how quiet attention becomes a way of seeing.
A photograph of cedar shingles on the side of an old Vermont cabin.
There is a quiet beauty in imperfection—a kind of truth that reveals itself only through time and touch. I’ve always been drawn to surfaces that carry evidence of life: a weathered tabletop, a cracked glaze, the soft unevenness of old plaster. These marks remind me that nothing perfect ever truly feels alive.
In both painting and design, I find perfection limiting. A surface that’s too polished seems to close itself off, while an imperfect one invites curiosity. I think that’s why I respond so strongly to objects with patina—Georgian furniture worn smooth by generations of use, Chinese pottery where a glaze has pooled unevenly, or a simple linen cloth that’s softened over years of washing. Each carries a history that becomes part of its form, a record of interaction between maker, material, and time.
When I paint, I often build and remove layers, scraping, dissolving, or sanding back the surface until something unexpected appears. That process of erasure feels essential—it keeps the work honest. I’m not looking for flawlessness but for a surface that feels lived-in, human, and inevitable. Sometimes what remains after something is taken away has more presence than what was first applied. It’s that tension—the balance between control and accident—that gives a painting its vitality.
I suppose this affection for imperfection reflects something deeper: a belief that beauty is not separate from wear, but shaped by it. Just as the Vermont landscape changes with weather and season, each painting evolves through addition and loss. The result may appear simple or quiet, but beneath it lies a history of revision, a record of choices made and undone.
In the end, imperfection reminds me of humility—the acceptance that art, like life, is never entirely resolved. Every painting carries traces of its making, and that unfinished quality allows it to breathe. I think of my work less as a finished statement and more as a conversation between material and time, guided by a respect for what remains.
— Glenn Suokko
Reflections on the beauty of imperfection in art, design, and craftsmanship by Vermont painter Glenn Suokko—exploring patina, process, and the quiet balance between control and chance. Read more Reflections >
