Perfectly Imperfect: Why Irregularity Feels More Human

It began with a simple observation in the shop: that not everyone is comfortable with imperfection. I was holding a piece of Tamegroute pottery, its glaze pooling unevenly, colours shifting in the light, and three small resting points where it touched the kiln - quiet records of the firing process. To me, these are the marks that make it beautiful. As I shared this with a customer, another nearby paused to listen. “You know,” she said slowly, “I’ve never thought of it before, but you’re right. I think I do struggle with imperfection.”

It’s something I see often. In much of North America, we’ve been taught to prize the flawless - smooth edges, perfect symmetry, surfaces without variation. We’ve absorbed the idea that irregularity equals imperfection, and imperfection equals less value. But in so many cultures, these “flaws” are cherished. They’re what give an object its soul.

Think of the warped, uneven edge of handwoven mud cloth from Mali, where each weave and dye mark tells its own story. The irregular, hand-knotted pile of a rug that softens and shifts over years of use. The nicks, worn edges, and deep patina of a vintage stool - records of every hand that’s touched it, every life it’s lived. These details aren’t mistakes. They’re the history of the piece made visible.

Wabi-sabi, the Japanese philosophy of finding beauty in imperfection, reminds us that the incomplete, the irregular, and the time-worn carry a different kind of perfection—one rooted in authenticity. Perfect symmetry can feel sterile; imperfection feels human.

I watch it happen in the shop all the time; someone is drawn to a piece without knowing exactly why. They linger, run their hands over its surface, notice the tiny irregularities. And that’s often when the connection deepens. Because in those so-called imperfections is where the story lives. And stories are what we’re really drawn to.