NOTE: [For those of you who know me, in addition to writing and blogging, I love working on DIY projects. A friend recently suggested that when I blog about them, I include links to the various materials I use, which is why I included Amazon links in my post below.]
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I forgot to put away my favorite pair of Grecian Goddess planters this winter. And with the snow and cold, Goddess Number One was damaged beyond repair and had to be thrown away.
Although cracked in several places, Goddess Number Two looked like she had a fixable chance. And anyway, I was up for the challenge of fixing something other than myself.
As I photographed her in all her brokenness, I was reminded of the Japanese art of Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with lacquer mixed with a powder of precious metals like gold, silver, or platinum.
What I like best about Kintsugi is that there is no attempt to hide the damage—instead, the disfigurement is highlighted and illuminated, thus embracing the flawed and imperfect.
The repair concept is that damage, breaks, knocks, and shattering—to which all things are susceptible—are fixable if we give them the time and energy they deserve. Highlighting the cracks and repairs becomes part of the object’s life and story despite its broken and damaged state.
The process of Kintsugi ultimately creates an even more exquisite piece of art than before it broke.
As I prepared my Goddess planter for repair, I decided to name her μόνος (monos), which means “only” or “alone” in Greek.
With no lacquer or precious metals on hand, I mixed E6000 craft adhesive glue with some silver oil paint and began carefully mending Monos one crack at a time.
Some cracks required pouring a boatload of the adhesive mixture into gaping, precariously-close-to-crumbling crevices, while others were hairline and barely visible.
From my experience with Goddess Number One, I knew the unsuspecting hairline cracks were responsible for her disintegrating demise. So, I took great care in repairing Monos, addressing as many of her flawed issues as possible.
Midway through the process, I realized I should have used the smallest in my paintbrush set. Had I done so, Monos would have been way prettier.
As a perfectionist, I thought: Urgh. I messed up Monos using the wrong brush, and now I’ve ruined my chance at fixing/beautifying her. Should I toss her out like the other one?
I attempted to toss her out twice. And in the process of moving her around, even more of her face crumbled off, making my repair more difficult than if I had just left her sitting there untouched.
In the end, I decided to keep her. Who am I to be the judge or jury of beauty? Plus, I reminded myself that fixing doesn’t always result in a beautiful outcome.
