On rejection

I was recently reminded of my time working as an art curator at a gallery in Massachusetts, a little north of Boston. At the time, we were preparing to exhibit an artist's work that I really admire. The process was routine at this point in my career. We started with the initial invitation, and the next step was scheduling a visit to her studio.

For the most part, the visit was like many others I had done in the past. She showed me past bodies of work, recent work, in-progress pieces. She gave me more insight into her process and how she thinks about various concepts she was exploring at the time. We had a great conversation, which spanned the personal and professional. I always loved getting to know the work during these visits, but especially when I could spend time getting to know the artists behind the work– to really connect with each other.

Toward the end of the visit, she handed me a book without saying much about it. If I remember correctly, she just said, "would you like a copy of a recent catalog of my work?" To which I said, "of course," of course. It appeared to have everything you'd typically expect to see in a book like this. There were carefully curated, high-quality images of her work, which spanned decades, paired with thoughtful, well-written essays from respected curators from various galleries and institutions in Boston and beyond.

I took the catalog home that day and started exploring it with more attention. For some reason, with these kinds of catalogs, I almost always make a first pass with the explicit intention of viewing all the images of the artwork, then I'll go through and read the essays. This particular catalog was no exception. It was full of impressive artwork and thought-provoking writing. I enjoyed the book very much and I appreciated her sharing this gift.

After finishing the book, it sat on my nightstand for some time. I remember picking it up again one day, but this time noticing how strange the paper felt as I was turning the pages. The paper felt too thick to be just one piece. As I suspected, it was two pieces of paper, held together by a perforated edge, meant to be torn.

I began separating the pages one at a time and felt inspired and a bit emotional reading the first few pages. In each of the hidden pockets were rejection letters– rejection letters from curators, institutions, residency programs, open calls, and more. What moved me the most was seeing that, in many cases, the rejection letters I was reading were placed in between glowing reviews from the very same curators and institutions that had rejected her years prior.

Having the idea, plus the ingenuity required to pull it off, was brilliant enough, but it was the actual story being told that got me, especially as a young artist and curator.

This was a lesson taught to me endlessly in my undergrad education studying painting. I was well aware that failure and rejection were part of what it takes to be an artist, and I was always taught that we would hear no far more than we would hear yes. However, learning this lesson in school is very different than experiencing it in the world. Rejection hurts. It just does. But what I loved about what this artist had modeled for me was a real perseverance to keep going in spite of it, and a deep dedication to her craft. The difference between "rejection will happen to you" that I heard in school and "rejection happened to me… A LOT" from an accomplished artist was astronomical. I can't thank her enough for that.

An artist I studied extensively in undergrad was Agnes Martin. Before the museum solo shows, she was in New Mexico still trying to make a living from painting. In a letter from 1956, she wrote that she'd painted a hundred canvases she was proud of and sold seven. She'd made a serious run at a New York show that hadn't worked out in the way she wanted it to, though Betty Parsons, who would eventually become her gallerist, had encouraged her to give it one more year.

"Of all the pitfalls in our paths and the tremendous delays and wanderings off the track I want to say that they are not what they seem to be. I want to say that all that seems like fantastic mistakes are not mistakes, all that seems like error is not error; and it all has to be done. That which seems like a false step is the next step."

— Agnes Martin, Agnes Martin: Writings

I'm reminded of Agnes, and the catalog because of recent events applying to jobs and various art opportunities myself. I try to apply to art opportunities regularly when I can, and I have a separate goal of getting a new job, which has required a lot of time and energy spent updating my portfolio, building case studies, creating resumes tailored to the job I'm applying to, and (if I'm lucky) interviewing with the companies I've applied to.

A small percentage of companies have invited me to interview, and most of the time I don't make it past the first or second round anyway. But recently, I made it through to the fifth and final round with a company I was excited about. We were averaging about one interview per week, so the whole thing stretched on for over a month once I reached the fifth call. Most of these sessions required prep work on my part. I had to prepare workshop activities, hour-long case study presentations, and more. Many hours and several weekends were spent working on my materials, which made it hard to swallow the rejection I received after the fifth interview.

I'm at a point now where I'm feeling the weight of all the rejections coming in one after the other, but in a strange way, I'm grateful for them. They keep bringing me back to Agnes, and to that catalog with hidden letters between its pages, set there years later beside praise from the very people who had once said no. My own no's are stacking up, but I'm hopeful that someday I'll be able to separate them from the page, and find a yes right beside them, written in the same hand.