For a while now, I’ve been thinking about writing on the topic of rejection in my art practice. I’m not the first person to ever be faced with rejection, it’s something that everyone has to deal with eventually. However this week, the topic feels especially pertinent.
Rejection is a constant part of being an artist. It rarely arrives all at once, rather it shows up over and over again until it piles on: an application that doesn’t move forward, a waitlist where there was once an acceptance, the list goes on. Even after years of making work, these moments can still land heavily. Especially if it’s coming after a lot of success.
When several of these things happen close together, I can feel doubt start to creep in. I find myself asking questions like, Is my work not as strong as I thought it was? Am I not as good as I believed? Those thoughts can appear even when the work itself hasn’t changed.
At the same time, I know that rejection in the arts rarely tells a simple story. Residencies, exhibitions, and opportunities are shaped by countless variables—curatorial themes, limited space, timing, and internal priorities that I can’t see from the outside. Sometimes the same application that was accepted in a previous year receives a different outcome the next time around. The work may be the same, but the context shifts.
Knowing this doesn’t necessarily make rejection feel easier at the moment. But it does remind me that the outcome isn’t always a clear reflection of the work itself. There could be any reason why something doesn’t get accepted, and I know it’s not personal. But when I’ve devoted so much of my time and practice into my art it’s hard not to take it personally.
This past Sunday we hosted a small gathering at Sunergos to encourage people to come see my show Short n’ Sweet. The event was supposed to encourage people to come, drink coffee, color some coloring sheets I made, etc. The turnout wasn’t really what I expected, and it happened right after some rejection emails I received last week. I was feeling really discouraged.
But then, a close friend of mine came with her daughters and spent time with my studio assistant and I. It really meant a lot seeing them there, even when I wasn’t feeling that great. Moments like that shift the scale of things back to something more human—a conversation, a shared cup of coffee, and the presence of people who care about the work. It was a reminder that the right people and opportunities will show up.
My practice has always been built on showing up to the studio again and again, even when confidence feels fragile. Rejection can make the path feel uncertain, but my work deserves to be seen regardless. The paintings are still there, waiting. And tomorrow, the studio opens again.
Yours truly,
Makara