Imperfection: Keep It Real
Because, To Be Honest, Perfect is Boring
Complex and simple—two seemingly contradictory terms that perfectly describe speaking.
Speaking is complex, it originates in the human brain, with thousands of neural connections and physical processes working together to allow our body—more specifically, our voice—to automatically reflect our emotions. It’s fascinating to think about how difficult it is to hide emotions in our voices. We can carry on a conversation, but it is the sound, with its subtle and nearly imperceptible modulations, that will always be more eloquent than the words themselves.
Speaking is also simple because, when we express ourselves, we are unaware of the nerve impulses, muscular movements, and vibrations that generate sound. It all happens automatically, like typing on a computer without noticing the mechanisms that make letters appear, almost magically, on the screen.
That’s how human sounds are born: magical, subtle, precise, and complex. When everything works as it should, we don’t even feel them; they glide out of our bodies, through our mouths, leaving us exposed and vulnerable. Others perceive our voice far more clearly and authentically than we ever can. We will never truly hear the qualities in our voice that others instinctively link to our identity.
Every tiny detail of our body influences our sound: the crevices, curves, and ridges inside our throat; the size of our bones; the arrangement of our cavities. All of this shapes the resonance and color of our voice. These small differences, combined with the unique vocal gestures and mannerisms of each individual, are what set us apart. And it is these singularities that we must cultivate, protect, and nurture.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how imperfect yet natural my singing was at 8—singing without thinking. Then came formal study and, with it, the tendency to intellectualize my craft. As I discovered how deeply other artists could move me, I began searching for my own identity by imitating them and, inevitably, comparing myself to them. It’s a natural part of the journey. But through this process of imitation and comparison, we gradually uncover our individuality.
Every stumble and obstacle enriches what you do as an artist. Although academia often teaches us that art lies in the absence of errors, the true essence is found in the imperfect nuances that emerge through the cracks of what appears perfect. That’s where the artist reveals their humanity. For me, that is the essence of what we do.
Every misstep, frustration, and dead-end forced you to listen closely to your body and your voice. Every time people fail to listen, they end up (it happens to me too!) in trouble. This process of discovery never ends. The body changes, the mind changes, life changes.
Now, I wonder whether it is possible to teach this journey while preserving the singer’s essence. Or is it necessary to first get lost to rediscover that essence? Could there be a way of teaching where aesthetics naturally arise from human expression rather than being imposed as ideals disconnected from our nature?
There is a truth resonating in an unpretentious sound that lies within each of us. Each body feels, resonates, and expresses itself uniquely. That’s why I believe any attempt to generalize, standardize, or homogenize singing is a mistake.
In a world where people are looking for recipes to succeed, I see singing as an opportunity to defy this idea of following a pre-established path that will guarantee a result and take the risk of finding what’s unique to create something new.
Becoming aware of how the voice works takes time, patience, perseverance, and, above all, passion: that unrelenting need to communicate.
When we honour and respect our nature, the result is organic, a profound connection that you only see when you have dared to embark on this internal search.