I was sixteen years old when I first saw the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. 40.23 meters long, 13.40 meters wide, Michelangelo started painting it in 1508, and it took four years to finish.

I remember standing under it, awed by its beauty and complexity. But the longer I looked, the more those feelings changed to an uneasiness, almost anxiety, for even then I had already developed and honed this inner dialogue that tortures me….

As I imagined Michelangelo painting the ceiling, I couldn’t help but think of how I would have approached it: Do I start in the middle or at one of the edges? How do I decide the order? Will the progression be vertical or horizontal? Should the orientation be in respect to the door or the altar? How can I ensure a pleasing symmetry? It would have taken me more than four years just to plan and agonize over how to begin — the subjects, the layout, the theme, the tone, the color scheme, the timeline, the order of the work….

Of course, I would have already acquired all the materials, the paint and the brushes, the palettes and the scaffolding. You’d find my skeleton sitting next to them, having never gotten started.

What if there’s something I haven’t thought of yet? What if I get halfway through and realize I should have done something differently from the start? And, even with each day’s work, what if I start something important and get interrupted, or it takes longer than I anticipated?

What I want to produce is like The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, perfect balance and symmetry, sublime color story, serving impeccable realness, and everything in its place. Pure opulence of detail and form. Even though the piece is the portrayal of a tragedy (look closely, see the radiant lamb bleeding into the chalice?), it so so sublimely pleasing to look at that it gives a sense of peace and calming. I could stare at this single panel for weeks, months even. (#aesthetic – amirite?)

What actually goes on in my mind is more like The Abduction of the Sabine Women — chaos, tension, urgency, competing ideas, impulse, indecision, despair…. all muddled, dimly lit at the edges, competing subjects, lines askew. Chaos in a tight space, boiling over.

Even now, I’m procrastinating about writing my actual thoughts by focusing instead on how to portray them visually. Having come this far while still failing to get to the point, if anyone was ever going to read this, they won’t have made it this far. (So, this is a good time to confess that I’m a shit editor, and my prolixity is always the downfall of my writing.)

So, what’s the point?

I started a blog because I wanted to write.

I write mainly about perfume, because that’s what inspires me.

I did all of this for myself. I don’t care about being “internet famous” or building a following, and I don’t intend to try to turn it into a business. I am amazed at the number of people who even look at it, the vast majority of whom I don’t know, and will never know. (Ironically, nobody who knows me in real life seems to have any interest whatsoever….)

I had originally envisioned the blog as a place to hold my thoughts. And a place to just express myself. Nothing more. It’s all supposed to be very personal. So, why is there so much hesitation? Why am I not writing? And, when I am, why am I not enjoying every minute of it?

Because the voices are still there. I don’t have time to write something comprehensive. I haven’t worn that one enough. I need to research <some obscure element> first. I haven’t taken proper photos. Maybe I need to wear this again in warmer/cooler/damper/drier weather? And, the worst, This is a good idea (or a great fragrance), I don’t want to “waste it” by writing about it when I’m not prepared to make everything perfect.

And so, my desk, my house, and my life are littered with samples and notes and test strips and ideas that have gone exactly nowhere, because the conditions weren’t perfect and the stars weren’t aligned. I couldn’t do it justice, and I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

The weirdest thing is that, I have bought all the samples and bottles myself, and I am writing for free, so I guess the main person who would be disappointed here is me. And, I think that any perfumer would prefer to see a review that contains a run-on sentence or a typo or just a stock photo, versus no review at all?

Over a year in, I’m pretty pleased with my blog overall. The biggest fault that I find is that I don’t post often enough. A lot of the ideas that I was so excited about are still just ideas, or unfinished drafts. I can fix this easily, I just have to let go.

If I post things that are imperfect, nothing bad will happen. I already know this, because a number of typos have escaped me (and kind people have pointed them out so that they can be corrected).

Still, I worry that a review based on one or two wearings isn’t worth reading, a review of a sample isn’t visually appealing enough, there’s nothing new to say about my old favorites, and maybe I don’t even deserve to write about them. And, what I like to write most isn’t even reviews — it’s deep dives into stories and history and chemistry and philosophy…. I do all the research, but stop just short, because what if there’s more information out there, and I just haven’t found it yet?

What I really need is some therapy from Dr. Switzer. If you’ve never seen this, or if you just need a kick in the pants (accompanied by a good laugh), it’s worth watching:

Ultimately, instead of being unhappy that I’ve written things that aren’t up to “my standards,” I end up being unhappy that I haven’t written anything AT ALL. So, I’m going to stop it. It’s so silly.

When I try a sample, I’m going to write about it. When I have an amazing experience wearing a perfume, I’m going to write about it. When I have a thought that I want to explore or express, it’s probably going to show up here. So what if it’s random, or raw, or personal, incomplete, or even incoherent?

In the end, I have to let go and embrace the fact that this is not professional writing. This is writing for me, for my mind and my soul.

If people look here and decide never to come back because things are a bit scattered and unpolished, that’s ok. It’s better than presenting an empty blog. Good intentions and potential aren’t tangible and shareable, they don’t encourage thought and discussion, they don’t help you grow if you don’t act on them. You won’t make new friends or climb to new heights sitting at home alone, waiting for perfect conditions.

The elated feeling that comes from creating something brilliant is nice, but it’s fleeting, and there are bound to be long stretches in between. If I’m always holding out for that, then I’m missing out on all of the consistent satisfaction that comes from simple accomplishments, or even just making a good effort.

If I look back later and find that everything here is imperfect, then I will have made a good representation of who I really am. Plenty of substance, capable of logic, but also full of random ideas and emotions, and still a little messy. Honestly, as much as my mind tells me to seek order and symmetry and perfection, I find things that are obviously imperfect to be more compelling.

P.S.

Instead of overworking this post to death, or anguishing over what should be added or taken away and then letting it die in the drafts folder, I’m just going to put it out there, and let it be. If you’ve made it this far, you might enjoy this poem that Michelangelo wrote in 1509, one year into painting the ceiling of the Sistene Chapel. He didn’t even want to do it, and it was hard, and conditions were not at all ideal, but he showed up every day and kept plugging away and created a masterpiece.

I’ve already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water’s poison).
My stomach’s squashed under my chin, my beard’s
pointing at heaven, my brain’s crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy’s. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!

My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine’s
all knotted from folding over itself.
I’m bent taut as a Syrian bow.

Because I’m stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.

My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.

Michelangelo, in a letter to Giovanni da Pistoi in 1509 (while painting the vault of the Sistene Chapel)