Once, I looked at a piece of art and saw the whole, not the parts that make up the whole. Youth makes you blind to the details, perhaps because it has yet to weather itself.
As I grow older, I realize that the real beauty is in the flaws, those little imperfections that make the piece real; genuine. They tell the story of the life of the art, the flaws of the artist, the struggles that the art underwent to become what it is.
Love is not pure. Love is flawed, but those flaws are what makes us all beautiful.