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When I imagined what life as an artist would be like I failed to appreciate the central role
rejection would play. Of course I realized I would have to confront rejection at some point.
After all, I’m not delusional. But still, I didn’t realize the toll repeated rejections would have on
me and my ability to work.
rejection would play. Of course I realized I would have to confront rejection at some point.
After all, I’m not delusional. But still, I didn’t realize the toll repeated rejections would have on
me and my ability to work.
Eighteen months ago, when I first started creating art, the notion of rejection rarely entered my
mind. I was content having an audience of one, myself. “Gallery exhibitions, public praise and
sales, they’re superfluous – mere vanity,” I confidently proclaimed. All that mattered to me was
doing the work. I was an island – neither expecting, nor wanting the comments or praise of others.
But, as the months past my attitudes began to change. After a clumsy beginning, I felt my work
began to mature. Drawing inspiration from a wide variety of existing schools and approaches, I
felt I had managed to create my own unique and identifiable style. More importantly, I felt that
style represented, or captured, the person I am. Or, at least the person I’d like to be.
There’s certain exuberance, a certain confidence that comes with artistic growth. And maybe it
was those emotions motivated me to try and push my artistic efforts out of the garage and into the
larger world. It’s not that I was looking for validation; it was more that I had found something
within myself that had been buried for years, something that might be worth sharing.
It didn’t take long before I realized the degree of worth the greater world placed in my art. And
that would be, with a few very notable exceptions*, none. My submissions to local galleries went
unanswered. Friends couldn’t even bother to respond to e-mails containing attachments of my
work. Even members of my own family greeted my work with an attitude approaching
ambivalence.
Sometimes I can’t help envying those artists who have achieved some measure of success. I
wonder what it must be like to approach a blank slate knowing that the greater world assigns value
to what you create, God that must be so comforting, so re-assuring. I know no such comfort.
My work is ignored. It’s even incapable of even inspiring criticism.
But, I don’t think my plight is that unusual. It’s a reality experienced by millions of my fellow
artists on a daily basis. And that comforts me. To know that somewhere there’s an isolated poet
writing verse that will never be published, a photographer lovingly taking pictures no gallery will
show, or a painter laboring over a composition no one will ever appreciate. We all know the same
struggles.
Art, ultimately, is a contact sport. It’s something that can only be understood and appreciated by
those who choose to leave the stands and enter the game. Given the choice, I would rather talk
about art with a 75-year old housewife from Des Moines, Iowa who paints watercolors of farm
fields in her spare time than an Ivy League educated curator of some world-renowned museum
who has never created a single piece of art in their lifetime. Believe me, the Des Moines
housewife may not be able to tell a Pollack from a de Kooning, but she knows more about art
than the curator ever will.
Somehow, I think I share a certain kinship with that housewife from Des Moines. We both
confront the same dilemmas. We know that our art isn’t viewed as important. Gallery owners
and critics will never praise us. Even close friends and family offer little more than generic
encouragement. Yet, in the face of this rejection, we’re able to focus on the work, and create.
And that ability to remain committed to your own particular vision in the face of repeated rejection
is the very soul of art.
Woody Allen got it wrong when he said, “Eighty percent of success is showing up.” Showing up?
That’s a piece of cake. Showing up doesn’t take much courage. Eighty percent of success is
being able to stick around when nobody really cared that you showed up in the first place.
mind. I was content having an audience of one, myself. “Gallery exhibitions, public praise and
sales, they’re superfluous – mere vanity,” I confidently proclaimed. All that mattered to me was
doing the work. I was an island – neither expecting, nor wanting the comments or praise of others.
But, as the months past my attitudes began to change. After a clumsy beginning, I felt my work
began to mature. Drawing inspiration from a wide variety of existing schools and approaches, I
felt I had managed to create my own unique and identifiable style. More importantly, I felt that
style represented, or captured, the person I am. Or, at least the person I’d like to be.
There’s certain exuberance, a certain confidence that comes with artistic growth. And maybe it
was those emotions motivated me to try and push my artistic efforts out of the garage and into the
larger world. It’s not that I was looking for validation; it was more that I had found something
within myself that had been buried for years, something that might be worth sharing.
It didn’t take long before I realized the degree of worth the greater world placed in my art. And
that would be, with a few very notable exceptions*, none. My submissions to local galleries went
unanswered. Friends couldn’t even bother to respond to e-mails containing attachments of my
work. Even members of my own family greeted my work with an attitude approaching
ambivalence.
Sometimes I can’t help envying those artists who have achieved some measure of success. I
wonder what it must be like to approach a blank slate knowing that the greater world assigns value
to what you create, God that must be so comforting, so re-assuring. I know no such comfort.
My work is ignored. It’s even incapable of even inspiring criticism.
But, I don’t think my plight is that unusual. It’s a reality experienced by millions of my fellow
artists on a daily basis. And that comforts me. To know that somewhere there’s an isolated poet
writing verse that will never be published, a photographer lovingly taking pictures no gallery will
show, or a painter laboring over a composition no one will ever appreciate. We all know the same
struggles.
Art, ultimately, is a contact sport. It’s something that can only be understood and appreciated by
those who choose to leave the stands and enter the game. Given the choice, I would rather talk
about art with a 75-year old housewife from Des Moines, Iowa who paints watercolors of farm
fields in her spare time than an Ivy League educated curator of some world-renowned museum
who has never created a single piece of art in their lifetime. Believe me, the Des Moines
housewife may not be able to tell a Pollack from a de Kooning, but she knows more about art
than the curator ever will.
Somehow, I think I share a certain kinship with that housewife from Des Moines. We both
confront the same dilemmas. We know that our art isn’t viewed as important. Gallery owners
and critics will never praise us. Even close friends and family offer little more than generic
encouragement. Yet, in the face of this rejection, we’re able to focus on the work, and create.
And that ability to remain committed to your own particular vision in the face of repeated rejection
is the very soul of art.
Woody Allen got it wrong when he said, “Eighty percent of success is showing up.” Showing up?
That’s a piece of cake. Showing up doesn’t take much courage. Eighty percent of success is
being able to stick around when nobody really cared that you showed up in the first place.
