Slaying The Dragons Of Perfection

I’m not really a festivals person – I’m more than happy to leave the whole port-a-loos thing to hardier souls than I. But due to the happy circumstance of a neighbour gifting me with a spare ticket, I found myself at the Love Supreme festival, in a hot field full of colourful tents, street food vans, and sun-burnt people in sandals. But it wasn’t until July’s ‘Buck Moon’, a massive, shining orb, rose up into the drifting clouds, that it seemed a magical spell was cast over the darkening countryside.

In a sudden blaze of strobe lights and roaring bass reverb, none other than the inimitable Grace Jones – one of my absolute favourite muses – appeared on the main stage. Wearing some sort of skull mask festooned with black feathers, Jones stared us down, stalked and strutted on her mile-long legs, and exhorted us all to sing along with her. There was a costume change for almost every track. It seemed to me that her outrageous headdresses had been created from the kind of random crap you might find at the back of the garage, and yet they conveyed some kind of raw, powerful bewitchment that anything more polished would have missed.

‘I’m in the English countryside, like Alice In Wonderland!’ she cried, in between tracks. ‘With the mushrooms, you know? Making my heels grow taller! I’m sure of it! And I’m looking at that moon!’

As someone accidentally elbowed me in the face, I thought to myself, this is art. Through the context of our careful, brand-conscious, algorithm-courting world, I was thrilled to watch someone expressing their creativity with such riotous abandon, and to see how elated the crowd were. She was giving them permission to shuck off the shackles of affirmation-laden acquiescence.

Today, I picked up a sketchbook and a pen, and I made a mental note to myself. Imperfect joy trumps perfection, every time.