Rejection
I truly believe that rejection is even harder for an artist, because we put our heart and soul into every single piece that we create. When our work is rejected, it feels like a knife to the heart. Of course we take it personally. I don’t think there’s a single creative type out there who can completely deflect rejection, even if they try. For me, rejection has always cut deeper. I think it affects me more than the “average” creative type. I was never popular or one of the “cool kids” growing up. I look back at those years and still wonder how I made it through what I often refer to as torture.
In elementary school, I can honestly say I never had one true friend. I was an outcast — the youngest kid by almost a year, wearing Tough Skins and off-brand clothes while the “cool kids” had parachute pants and designer labels. At a very young age, I discovered that art was my escape. Creativity made everything else disappear. It was also at that age that I knew I was going to grow up to be a creative person. I had dreams of painting, having a studio, seeing my work in a museum someday. I loved to read and practiced my penmanship constantly — almost obsessively.
Middle school was one of the major turning points in my life. By eighth grade, I was what most would call a complete nerd — honor roll, teacher’s pet, absolutely not athletic, and completely uninterested in sports, cars, or any of the other things boys my age were supposed to like. That changed during the second half of eighth grade when I discovered music — new wave and punk. I had heard it before, but never really paid attention until King for a Day by the Thompson Twins. I don’t know if it was the sound, the lyrics, the hair, or the clothes, but something about it stuck.
It felt like something clicked. I had found my tribe. For the first time in my life, I had friends who were just as quirky as I was and accepted me at face value. I went from the “perfect angel” at the end of eighth grade to the rebellious high schooler — from honor roll to a 1.7 GPA my first semester. It wasn’t because I was incapable. Looking back, it was boredom. I was uninterested in the classes, frustrated by the absurdity of the high school popularity system, and unwilling to play along. I questioned my teachers, argued more than I should have, and found myself in the principal’s office more than once.
French class became an unexpected turning point. I had always been fascinated by France and Paris, and my grandfather had been born there before immigrating to Louisiana. I picked up the language easily, but in the middle of my rebellious phase, I didn’t apply myself and ended up with a D+ at the end of the first semester. My teacher saw through it. She recognized both my ability and where I was at, and she made a deal with me: if I earned an A the next semester, she would recommend me as an exchange student.
I followed through. The only A on my report card that year was in French.
The following year, I was in France, and everything changed. Being immersed in a completely different culture — surrounded by art, history, architecture — opened my eyes in a way I wasn’t expecting. It made me realize that there was an entire world beyond where I had grown up. More importantly, it made me realize that being an artist wasn’t just a dream. It was an actual possibility, despite everything I had been told about needing a “practical” career.
When I returned, my perspective had shifted. And when I eventually left for college — far enough away to escape, but close enough to still have a connection to home — I felt like I was finally living. For the first time, I chose my environment, my friends, and the direction of my life. I found my people. I found a place where I didn’t have to explain myself. I also thrived. I wasn’t the typical first year college student discovering freedom and losing focus. I had a 4.0 my first year. I loved being in class, being in the studios, and finally working toward something that felt real. For the first time, my “dream” of being an artist didn’t feel like a fantasy.
Art became more than something I made. It became how I processed everything — my emotions, my experiences, my perspective. The more I poured into my work, the more connected I became to it. Every piece carried something of me. And that’s why rejection hits the way it does. When your work is that intertwined with who you are, rejection doesn’t feel like simple feedback — it feels personal. Over the years, I’ve learned to process it better. I don’t take it as hard as I once did. But it still stings.
Recently, I was rejected from a show I had been wanting to apply to for quite some time. It had been highly recommended by other artists, and I went into it with a certain level of confidence — maybe too much. What made it even more ironic was that earlier that same morning, I had received an acceptance to one of the most prestigious shows in the Pacific Northwest. I’m still amazed every time I’m accepted into that show, and I’m always humbled to be included among so many talented artists. Then I opened the next email, NOT ACCEPTED and it hit like a brick.
Not to say one show is better than another, but this wasn’t exactly a high caliber art show. It was more what I tend to think of as a “Pinterest show,” where selections lean toward what is trending rather than what is truly original or well crafted. Shows like that are often more focused on volume, drawing in as many vendors and attendees as possible, with less emphasis on the work itself.
Yes, my ego was bruised, of course it was. But after sitting with it for a day or two, I started to remember a few things. First, I broke one of my own rules. Over the years, I’ve learned that if a show includes the word “craft” in its title, it’s usually not my audience. That’s not a criticism — it’s just a reality I’ve experienced time and time again. Those environments tend to attract buyers who are more focused on price than process, more interested in quick purchases than in the story, materials, or time behind a piece. That’s not where my work belongs, and that rejection reminded me of that. It made me stop and ask a better question — not “why didn’t they choose me?” but “was that ever the right space for my work in the first place?” The answer was a resounding no.
Rejection has a way of clarifying things. It forces you to step back and recognize where your work fits — and just as importantly, where it doesn’t. Which brings me back to that first email — acceptance. That’s where I’ll be this weekend, celebrating mu success at The Best of the Northwest, showing my work alongside artists who are focused on originality, craftsmanship, and creating something that isn’t driven by trends.
Not everyone is going to connect with what I make, but the right people always do and THAT is the one golden rule I always remind myself to get through rejection to be the amazing, talented artist that I am.