WIP: Twilight Alignment V0.5 | Begrudge the Smudge

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I’m at a point where this piece has stopped feeling like something I’m making and started feeling like something I’m part of.

The paper is overworked. It’s warped from saturation. I smudged ink while trying to control a section that didn’t want to behave. Normally, that’s the point where I reset, restart, or quietly abandon the work.

This time, I didn’t.

That decision feels small, but it’s become the core of the piece. It isn’t really about the image anymore. It’s about staying.

Staying means resisting a very familiar impulse. I have a strong instinct to erase, redo, perfect, or start fresh whenever friction shows up. Not just in art. In projects. In plans. In life.

The past couple of days carry that same feeling. Being mid-stride, mid-decision, with no clean reset available. Work, finances, energy, time, all slightly misaligned.

The warped paper mirrors that state exactly. The conditions aren’t ideal, but they’re real. And I’m already here.

In the short that accompanies this post, I use the phrase begrudging the smudging. That wording matters to me because it’s honest. I don’t like the smudge. I wish it weren’t there. I notice it every time I look at the page. But I’m not pretending it’s a happy accident, and I’m not treating it like a fatal flaw either.

Begrudging is a very specific emotional position. It’s resistance without retreat.

That’s where I am right now. Not at peace, but not fleeing. Still working. Still showing up. Still pushing the ink around.

I also say welcoming the warping, and that’s different. Smudging feels like a mistake. Warping feels structural. I knew it would happen before I started. I chose this sketchbook for its size and simplicity. Thin paper came with that.

I call it practice, but I never treat it casually. Once I’m in, I push the piece to its limits. I work the details, accept what’s lost, and continue. I don’t finish everything, but I’m getting better at following through.

At some point, you either fight the material endlessly, or you accept the conditions and work with them.

The short closes on the line Progress, and catastrophe. A perfect symphony.

Right now, that line reflects how I’m thinking about movement itself. I’m no longer convinced that progress and damage are opposites. Things don’t improve just because they continue. But they also don’t stop breaking just because you pause.

Most of the meaningful changes in my life involve improvement and loss happening at the same time. More skill. More clarity. More exhaustion. More wear.

That’s why the symphony metaphor fits for me. It suggests structure without control. Many parts moving at once, each following its own logic.

Progress is intentional. Catastrophe is often unintentional. They don’t take turns. They coexist.

Life keeps moving whether you like every sound or not.

Lately, my energy shifts away from urgency. There’s less panic about speed and more attention to endurance. This piece comes out of that shift. It’s smaller, quieter, less ambitious on the surface. But it’s closer to the truth of where I actually am than something polished would be.

I’m tolerating imperfection longer. I’m letting things exist in an unresolved state without forcing closure.

That feels like a real change.