"It's Part of the Game": Art Rejection

That small hand, my hand, would reach out, with a childish hope. Look! This drawing, these colours I finally made sing. It wasn’t just a picture; it was a real piece of me, pulled out and held there, waiting. And then… nothing. Or that polite, empty "not for us." Each time, a tiny crack appearing inside.

 

 

"Gifted," they said at school, a word that now feels like a taunt. Art wasn't just something I did; it was the only place I felt whole, a secret, breathing space. But the grown-ups, their voices heavy with what they thought was real, would come and crush it. "Making things won't give you a life" Each word wasn't just advice; it was a blow that landed deep, a gut punch that never really went away (maybe that’s why there’s always this knot in my stomach these days). So, slowly, I built walls to hide the most important part of myself. Why show them something so precious when it only brought a cold dismissal? 

 

 

I tried to do what they said was right, compromising with a sensible degree that felt like wearing someone else's clothes. Two years gone, and I was just empty, like something vital had been drained out. My head, always buzzing with worry.

This isn't just a bit of fun, this clay I've shaped with my own hands, these lines I've etched with hours of focus, these colours I've poured onto the page – it feels like taking a real piece of myself and making it exist. Hours and hours of trying, not just copying, but making something new.

 

 

 

And for what? To always feel like I'm begging for them just to see it? To have the thing that means everything, called a "hobby," something you do when you have spare time? Something you give all your energy for the "love of it," while you're struggling to pay bills? This so-called "gift" feels like a cruel joke, a way to set yourself up for constant hurt.

The "passion tax". The expectation to work for free is yet another manifestation of the belief that my artistic endeavours have no real value, that my soul's work is just a "hobby" not worthy of fair exchange. It's a damaging narrative (my half a degree in Illustration showing here), that I should be grateful for any crumb of recognition, rather than be fairly compensated for my labour and skill in the one area I genuinely excel in (The only area, may I add).

 

 

And what even is art evaluation anyway? It often feels like a murky blend of subjective taste and fleeting trends. For those of us pouring our souls into our work, the art world feels bewilderingly cruel, a place where passion and talent are no guarantee of basic respect let alone acceptance. Art is so uniquely special, a place for boundless exploration and self expression. There is no definable outcome and it's this that makes it so damn harmful, the very reason the rejection feels so personal. 

Then you talk to other artists, and you see that same tired look in their eyes, that quiet understanding of how hard it is. That's the only small comfort, knowing you're not completely alone in this emptiness.

 

 

Yes, there have been tiny sparks. A market where someone actually looked, a kind word from a stranger that stays with you. But this feeling, this heavy, constant ache of not being truly seen, of most people just not getting what this is… it just keeps coming back. It circles in my thoughts when I can't sleep, when I'm carrying my work to yet another rejection. 

So here I am, going through the motions, still making the work because what else is there? But this thought, this raw, sharp feeling of offering the only real thing I have, and just having it fall flat… it hurts so deeply. And you just keep wondering when that feeling will finally leave you alone. Or if it ever truly will.

P.S. My heart overflows with gratitude for every single person who has said yes and who continues to champion my work and whose belief fuels the very fire I'm trying to keep alight.

Gee x