Esthetically, I am in love with imperfection; not at all with perfection. If imperfection is characterized by a pursuit of excellence, I find that far more interesting, not to say worthy an enterprise, than the supposed achieved excellence of perfection.
Absolute rather than relative excellence would be boring; insular in its achievement, it would stifle and suffocate in its own perfection, or idea of it. It could only be of interest or a thing of admiration to moribund souls that in the closed-minded arrogance of conservative ideals have ceased growing and are as stagnant as their delusion of perceived perfection.
The truth as I see it is that in art there is no perfection, nor should there be. Simply put, it would be—and is—a meaningless concept. There is only the struggle for excellence which is in itself more admirable and excellent than the sad enigma of perfection.