Typos, Cracks, and Art

Hello everyone—

I hope you’re having a good week as the sun begins to reappear. There’s a quiet optimism in the air as spring inches closer. Last week was full at the school, and I received quite a few responses to our most recent newsletter letting us know we’d made a typo.

Thank you for that. Care and attention matter here. Words matter. A single typo can change the meaning of a sentence, and for us, meaning is everything.

And—even as I commit to raising the quality and care of the words I put out into the world—I found myself spending the week thinking about critique itself: how we deliver it, how we receive it, when it is helpful, and when it becomes automatic without reflection. These contemplations led me to think about the drive for flawlessness, and how differently it operates depending on the context.

In communication, accuracy matters. A typo should be corrected.

But art asks something else of us.

As an artist, my work is rooted in vulnerability, curiosity, and a willingness to change while I’m making. In the studio, striving for perfection too early can shut things down. It can harden a process before it has time to speak. It can turn exploration into performance.

There’s a line by Leonard Cohen that’s been echoing for me:
there is a crack in everything.

In art, those cracks matter.
They let light in.
They create movement.
They help us move through blocks instead of around them.
They remind us that making is a living process, not a finished product.

So while I’ll continue to care deeply about clarity in what I send you, I also want to protect this space (the blogosphere) as one that values openness over polish—especially when it comes to creative practice.

If something you read here moves you, confuses you, delights you, or lingers, I’d love to hear about it. Let’s practice responding openly to the ideas we share in here and to the art we create together, valuing presence over performance and process over perfection.

This newsletter is made by a human, in motion, practicing openness—alongside you.

Thank you for being here with me,
Pam McDonnell