Should there be a limit on the number of times you apply for the same opportunity before you come to the realization that they just aren’t buying what you’re selling? The application process for many residencies, fellowships, and publishing opportunities is annual, and it’s tough not to continually try your luck. While obviously submitting the same materials every year would be a fool’s errand, does there come a time when (even with diversified submissions) it’s reasonable to assume they aren’t interested in your practice and you need to move on? Is there a risk of being viewed as oblivious to when you’re being told “no”? Or is it more valuable to demonstrate a little fortitude?

Jim Lambie. Strychnine Seven and Seven, 2004; record covers, tape, photocopies; 125 x 190 cm.

There’s no doubt that one of the easiest ways to get your work out into the world is by applying for exhibitions and residencies/fellowships. (See my prior advice on this subject here.) Ridiculous application fees notwithstanding, the process is fairly low-risk: You mail the envelope or hit “submit” on a web page, dust off your palms, and head to the bar for a celebratory drink with the other hopefuls. Yet despite the overall simplicity, it’s just not worth it—emotionally or economically—to approach this process haphazardly. It helps to have a strategy, so let’s discuss the options.

To start, most competitions are juried by a different person (or persons) every year, so it’s not exactly “the same opportunity.” Some years might present better odds because the juror is someone who is specifically interested in practices like yours; other years, you may want to skip the application after discovering that the jury is primarily sympathetic to new-media work, when you make ceramic sculptures. So the first strategy is: consider your audience and apply only when it would be an advantage to present your work.

Another strategy is to consider the qualifications very carefully. Pay close attention to what the institution requires of its awardees (“we select emerging artists from around the United States” versus “support for internationally established midcareer artists”). If the prospectus doesn’t give you a sense for the expectations, then do some research on recent prior participants. Looking over the websites and CVs of the last dozen or so awarded/accepted artists should give you an impression of the kind of candidate the institution seeks. Ask yourself: What is similar about these artists’ practices? Are there overlaps in age, medium, education, location, previous awards, or exhibitions? Do you match these attributes?

As for being viewed as oblivious, I’m not sure that’s even a factor in most cases. Unless the applicant pool is extremely small, institutions might not recognize that you’re submitting again. Check out Christine Wong Yap’s R+D Blog; her “Art Competition Odds” section tracks the number of applicants versus awardees for many high-profile competitions. For example, the 2014 Artist Studio Program at Smack Mellon had over 700 applicants for six available studios. As a former residency juror myself, I can tell you that even an obsessive evaluator would not remember, a year later, the names of the 690+ artists who didn’t get in. Likewise, I’m not sure that fortitude is a factor, either; no artist ever got a residency solely on the basis that she has already applied for the last five years in a row.

If you’ve applied multiple times and were still rejected even after doing your research and determining a good fit, consider getting in touch with the institution to see if you can find out more. Chances are excellent that you will receive one of two replies: “We don’t do that,” or the not very useful “because we felt that other candidates were more qualified.” But you might be able to glean some tips or find specific information that will help you in the future. I recently was a finalist, for the second time, for a big award, and I felt terrifically awful that I had (at least in my own mind) come so close twice, only to be rejected. Although the institution’s website specifically states that the staff is not able to provide feedback on individual applications, I thought I would try anyway, and I emailed a brief outline of my situation and a plea for some insight. Remarkably, I received an answer: In both years, the institution took only candidates enrolled in PhD programs (which I am not). Though they don’t state this as a requirement for application, and though it means that I will probably never receive this award, at least I don’t have to wonder. Knowledge—even bad news—is power.

If you feel like you’re punishing yourself by reapplying, take a hiatus from applications. You could use the time to try other methods of getting your work in front of people: email them the link to your (updated) website, request a studio visit, ask them out to coffee, etc. You could also contact former awardees—perhaps you know some of them as friends or acquaintances?—to see if they will share their wisdom or even look over the last application you submitted to make suggestions for improvement. Whatever you choose, I hope you will be oblivious, demonstrate your fortitude, move forward, and think big. Good luck!

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Recently I submitted work in response to a thematic juried call by a large, reputable, nationally known and respected arts organization [in my city]. It’s my habit to first inspect a jury as well as examine any theme, to ensure my work is a good potential match before shelling out submission fees. The sole juror was the director of the organization. My work fit the theme. None of my submissions were accepted, but over the years I’ve been regularly both accepted and rejected by various juries, and don’t take either outcome too personally. My rejection letter had said they’d received many hundreds of submissions.

But because I support this organization’s mission, have taken a class there, and have visited curated exhibitions there in the past, I went back later to see the accepted artists. I was stunned to see only eight; curious, I checked out the website of each and was even more stunned. Half were alums of the juror’s alma mater. Two of the eight had previously been artists-in-residence at this same organization, and exhibited there. All were artists [from my city]. Clearly, this juror could easily have curated such an exhibition. And seemingly already had. I feel duped. What they did appears fraudulent. I’m tempted to complain to their board and request they refund all submitting artists’ fees, but I suspect either the board already knew of or has since observed the facts I did, and is either powerless or is complicit. And the art world is so small. I’m torn between reluctance to stand by silently, and reluctance to have “making a stink” be the way my name becomes known in the professional art community. What are your thoughts?

Eberhard Havekost. In Control, 2009; oil on canvas; 27.5 x 15.75 in.

I’m sorry you feel swindled, and I’m even sorrier to tell you that your righteous indignation, while perfectly understandable, is likely misdirected. Without a grasp of the finer points of this situation—including being able to talk to the curator or see the submissions—I’m left with guesswork, but experience and instinct lead me to believe that you should let this go.

Let’s look at your situation from the logical viewpoint: Bearing even that there were hundreds of submissions, no doubt at least half were eliminated for not adhering to the submission guidelines or not actually fitting the theme. (Artists often like to stretch the definition of a theme to include their own work, no matter the reality.) Probably half of what was left was not very good or interesting. Already, the vagaries of visual-arts jurying have narrowed the pool of submissions from hundreds to tens.

Following this, the juror put together a small selection of works from people he or she likely already knew. Is this fraudulent? No. Is it unimaginative and lazy? Certainly, but a label of fraud must by definition include deceit. I have a hard time imagining a juror who is also the director of a “reputed” arts organization setting out to swindle artists, especially at twenty-five or thirty dollars a pop.

Eberhard Havekost. Solitude B09/10, 2009-2010; oil on linen; 47.25 x 31.5 in.

At worst, this juror is guilty of risk avoidance. If you’ve ever sat on a jury, you’ll know that when you look at submissions, you get a lot more out of an artist’s documentation if you are already familiar with the work; it’s just a natural consequence of having a more detailed understanding of the artist’s intentions and execution. This juror may have felt more comfortable putting together a show of artists with whom he/she was familiar and, without necessarily meaning to bamboozle anyone, moved forward with an extremely conservative plan of action.

Is the situation unfair? Absolutely, and not just to you and the other rejected artists. This juror does him/herself—and the public—a disservice by not bringing artists outside your community to show in the space. Great things happen when we exchange ideas, and a strictly regional perspective is not always very engaging.

Should you make a stink? Yes, but not one that involves a board of directors. Ghandi said, “Be the change that you wish to see in the world,” so offer to curate a show at an arts organization that accepts curatorial proposals. Volunteer to sit on jury panels so that you understand what it’s like to be on the other side of a Slideroom application. Write and publish a manifesto on the responsibilities of jurors, and include the idea that an exhibition that results from a juried call should reflect the geographic makeup of the submissions, and not just the juror’s radius of familiarity. Research smart, ethical ways for artists to get their work in front of curators, and focus on ones that don’t involve fees. Take a hard look at your work and make it better every day. You already know that the art world isn’t a meritocracy, so get out in front of it in ways that don’t irritate your conscience. Good luck!

Should there be a limit on the number of times you apply for the same opportunity before you come to the realization that they just aren’t buying what you’re selling? The application process for many residencies, fellowships, and publishing opportunities is annual, and it’s tough not to continually try your luck. While obviously submitting the same materials every year would be a fool’s errand, does there come a time when (even with diversified submissions) it’s reasonable to assume they aren’t interested in your practice and you need to move on? Is there a risk of being viewed as oblivious to when you’re being told “no”? Or is it more valuable to demonstrate a little fortitude?

Jim Lambie. Shaved Ice, 2012; wooden ladders, mirrors, household fluorescent paint; dimensions variable.

There’s no doubt that one of the easiest ways to get your work out into the world is by applying for exhibitions and residencies/fellowships. (See my prior advice on this subject here.) Ridiculous application fees notwithstanding, the process is fairly low-risk: You mail the envelope or hit “submit” on a web page, dust off your palms, and head to the bar for a celebratory drink with the other hopefuls. Yet despite the overall simplicity, it’s just not worth it—emotionally or economically—to approach this process haphazardly. It helps to have a strategy, so let’s discuss the options.

To start, most competitions are juried by a different person (or persons) every year, so it’s not exactly “the same opportunity.” Some years might present better odds because the juror is someone who is specifically interested in practices like yours; other years, you may want to skip the application after discovering that the jury is primarily sympathetic to new-media work, when you make ceramic sculptures. So the first strategy is: consider your audience and apply only when it would be an advantage to present your work.

Another strategy is to consider the qualifications very carefully. Pay close attention to what the institution requires of its awardees (“we select emerging artists from around the United States” versus “support for internationally established midcareer artists”). If the prospectus doesn’t give you a sense for the expectations, then do some research on recent prior participants. Looking over the websites and CVs of the last dozen or so awarded/accepted artists should give you an impression of the kind of candidate the institution seeks. Ask yourself: What is similar about these artists’ practices? Are there overlaps in age, medium, education, location, previous awards, or exhibitions? Do you match these attributes?

Jim Lambie. Strychnine Seven and Seven, 2004; record covers, tape, photocopies; 125 x 190 cm.

As for being viewed as oblivious, I’m not sure that’s even a factor in most cases. Unless the applicant pool is extremely small, institutions might not recognize that you’re submitting again. Check out Christine Wong Yap’s R+D Blog; her “Art Competition Odds” section tracks the number of applicants versus awardees for many high-profile competitions. For example, the 2014 Artist Studio Program at Smack Mellon had over 700 applicants for six available studios. As a former residency juror myself, I can tell you that even an obsessive evaluator would not remember, a year later, the names of the 690+ artists who didn’t get in. Likewise, I’m not sure that fortitude is a factor, either; no artist ever got a residency solely on the basis that she has already applied for the last five years in a row.

If you’ve applied multiple times and were still rejected even after doing your research and determining a good fit, consider getting in touch with the institution to see if you can find out more. Chances are excellent that you will receive one of two replies: “We don’t do that,” or the not very useful “because we felt that other candidates were more qualified.” But you might be able to glean some tips or find specific information that will help you in the future. I recently was a finalist, for the second time, for a big award, and I felt terrifically awful that I had (at least in my own mind) come so close twice, only to be rejected. Although the institution’s website specifically states that the staff is not able to provide feedback on individual applications, I thought I would try anyway, and I emailed a brief outline of my situation and a plea for some insight. Remarkably, I received an answer: In both years, the institution took only candidates enrolled in PhD programs (which I am not). Though they don’t state this as a requirement for application, and though it means that I will probably never receive this award, at least I don’t have to wonder. Knowledge—even bad news—is power.

If you feel like you’re punishing yourself by reapplying, take a hiatus from applications. You could use the time to try other methods of getting your work in front of people: email them the link to your (updated) website, request a studio visit, ask them out to coffee, etc. You could also contact former awardees—perhaps you know some of them as friends or acquaintances?—to see if they will share their wisdom or even look over the last application you submitted to make suggestions for improvement. Whatever you choose, I hope you will be oblivious, demonstrate your fortitude, move forward, and think big. Good luck!

I am a painter who recently graduated from art school but haven’t had much gallery experience and I was interested in submitting work to some juried shows as a way of gaining some experience and making some new connections. I was wondering if you could offer some advice on finding reputable juried shows to apply to. I have googled around but haven’t found much.

Juried shows can indeed be a great way to gain experience and build your resume, but “reputable” is a relative term. Here are a few questions to keep in mind as you go about sorting through the listings on websites such as College Art Association, Re-title and WOOLOO:

1.) Is there a fee? How much does it cost to apply? Most juried shows charge a fee to review your work and this often goes toward administrative costs such as paying the juror. It’s usually around $30 for 3 images, but you’ll find some that ask for excessive fees (I know of one that charges 65 euro!) and some that charge no fee at all (usually at community colleges or other small regional venues). Set a budget for this career expense and decide what your upper limit is. If you’re independently wealthy you can toss your money around with abandon, but if you are on a limited post-graduation budget you might want to target your applications very carefully.

Bear in mind that a high entry fee does not guarantee a high-quality exhibition. Follow the call-for-entry’s link back to the home website and take a look. Does it appear professional? If it’s an annual show, how was the work from previous years? Have prior exhibitions received attention from the press? The information on the website should help you decide if the institution provides quality programming. If there’s no website, don’t apply!

Henry Taylor, Another Wrong, 2013. Acrylic on canvas, 116 x 75 1/2 x 2 1/2 inches

2.) Where is the exhibition? In other words, who will see the show? If it’s at a small town community college gallery, the audience might largely consist of the students and professors (and I’m not saying that’s a bad thing), whereas a commercial gallery in a medium-sized city might draw a more diverse group of art patrons. Think about what audience you’d like to have. Since you’re early in your career, getting work in front of audiences is the first priority. Sales are great, but exposure to an engaged audience is a critical investment in your future.

3.) Who will jury the show? Often times gallerists or curators from museums/other arts institutions will jury exhibitions outside of their normal habitat. If you see that a curator who has shown interest in the type of work you make is the guest juror for a show, by all means apply. You should always google the juror to see what comes up.

4.) Who pays for shipping and insurance? This goes hand in hand with our first question. As you apply to various opportunities, you’ll have to consider what it would mean for your bank account if you actually get in! Very few juried shows pay for the artists to ship their work, so make sure that you have the money to crate and ship a large canvas across the country. This is an important consideration, so factor it into your financial calculations.

5.) Will the show travel? Is there a catalog? If the exhibition is going to travel to several venues, you’ll get more bang for your almighty buck. Nothing builds a C.V. faster and easier than a travelling exhibition! Likewise, a catalog can be a helpful document to have as you begin your career. Publication of your work in catalogues lends credibility to your practice.

Henry Taylor, installation view at Blum & Poe, Los Angeles, 2013

Above all, you should only apply to shows that actually fit your work. If you send images of painted landscapes to a themed show about Futurism, you won’t get in and you won’t get your money back. Take a cold-eyed look at what your work really is and then only apply to exhibitions that would be a good match.

Being organized with your applications right from the start will save you a lot of headaches in the long run. Even if you loathe the mundane realities of administrative work, take fifteen minutes to set up a basic spreadsheet so that you can track deadlines, completed entries, related expenses, etc. This document will serve you very well when you need to remember who has what artwork, and for how long. Don’t submit the same work to shows with overlapping exhibition dates. You don’t want to burn a bridge if you are accepted to both!

As hard as it may be, it’s also important to save rejection letters or emails—I don’t know how it works in other countries, but if you file taxes in the US and are audited, the rejection letters could help prove that you are working as a professional and actively pursuing an income.

While you are doing your research, keep an eye out for alternatives to juried shows: libraries, cafes, and other venues hang artwork but don’t often put out calls for entry. Ask around to see who might be interested in your work. Also, think about staging a show with some friends (see this old column, second Q&A). This has the triple advantage of giving you real experience on how to organize and hang a proper exhibition as well as getting your work out into the world. Good luck!

I am a recent graduate from a somewhat less than prestigious MFA program. I chose the program because, A. they gave me a good scholarship, and B., because I believe that one’s long-term career is based on the quality of one’s work, not the contacts they made in grad school. However, my program focused very little on writing and I am struggling to figure out how much of a handicap this will be in the future. I consider myself a reasonably competent writer but I really don’t like doing it, especially about my own work. How important is writing to an art practice? Can I expect to be able to get by without writing anything beyond a simple artist’s statement (which is hard enough!)?

I get the sense that many MFA programs don’t put much emphasis on writing, and that’s a shame. In the short term it may make the coursework easier to navigate—after all, many artists find the writing process difficult and justifiably prefer to concentrate on their artwork—but in the end it does these students a disservice because they will mostly likely need some writing skills after graduation. Proficiency can be quickly developed with regular feedback from a professor or mentor, but now that you’re already out of school there are plenty of other resources to help you along the way.

Maarit Suomi-Väänänen, Up And About Again (Jalkeilla Taas), 2009. Still from film (photographer: Jarkko Liikanen)

In truth, the relative importance of writing to your practice depends on what you want to do and whether or not you have money for it. Do you need to find a funder for a large project or a body of work? Do you want to travel to a conference or a workshop that will aid your professional development? Have you considered attending a residency? If you are independently wealthy with no interest in residencies, then you can probably skip the rest of this column and go about your merry way.

However, if you’re like the rest of us and need to find sources of funding for projects, travel, research, and time for intense studio work, then you’ll want to sharpen your writing ability so that you can craft applications that will allow you to buy the materials, tools, and time needed to push your practice to a new level. While I agree that an art career is based mostly on the quality of the work, you also need to be able to explain very clearly why it’s important to fund your artistic development. Remember that there are many talented artists out there, and they will be your competition; when choosing among several worthy candidates, a granting agency will consider many factors, and the ability to express your ideas clearly and persuasively is chief among them. An artist I know who recently sat on a grant panel told me, “In reviewing applications, we quickly narrowed it down to a few shining candidates based on the quality of their images. In the end, however, it was the clarity of the writing that made the final selections possible; and we went with the applicant that was best able to present her project in a way that we could easily understand and visualize.”

Maarit Suomi-Väänänen, In a Musty, Misty Thicket (Pöheikön Hönkä), 2012. Still from film (photographer: Jarkko Liikanen)

I recommend you check out The Artist’s Guide to Grant Writing by Gigi Rosenberg; although the book’s focus is specifically on grants, I think a lot of the information translates to other kinds of applications as well. I had the opportunity to meet Ms. Rosenberg in Portland, Oregon many years ago, and I can attest to her enthusiasm and encouragement in addition to her wealth of knowledge about the grant application process. If you want to get a sense for what she covers in the book, there’s a free PDF on her website that lays out her own path to successful grant writing and includes a few basic tips on navigating the grant application process. Some of her helpful advice includes: “Use the grant-writing process to clarify where you want to go, so that even if one grant application doesn’t succeed, you gain something very valuable—your action plan… Ask for help. Don’t write your applications and assemble work samples in isolation… Research the funder so you match what you want with the needs and interests of the people who sign the checks… Write and rewrite, have conversations, let the application sit, edit, and edit again until you wring out the words that describe the who, what, when, where, why, and how of your project.” All good advice, no matter what kind of application you’re working on. You can also find similar advice here, and some regional arts funders will hold information sessions and application prep workshops in advance of their deadlines, so review funders’ websites carefully to see what assistance they might offer.

Many artists use applications for grants and residencies to keep them on track in their practice. Having to meet multiple deadlines over the course of each year means you’ll be constantly writing about what you’re doing, which has three main benefits: first, a regular writing practice means that you’ll be continuously strengthening your writing skills; second, writing about your work will clarify your ideas and direction; and third, you can often recycle the same language for multiple or successive applications (including for exhibition proposals), meaning that you can refine your words instead of starting from scratch with each new application. Maarit Suomi-Väänänen, a Finnish artist and filmmaker, says, “I don’t have gallery representation, I produce all of my films independently. I’m an application machine; I do them all the time. My work depends on that, so I have to take it seriously. Grant application deadlines keep me writing constantly. I write maybe fifteen or twenty applications a year—grants, distribution, residencies. From post-its and my journal and other notes, I make a mind-map and use that writing to begin a grant application.”

Maarit Suomi-Väänänen, Up And About Again (Jalkeilla Taas), 2009 /Minispectacle Douche (Korpee) 2010. Still from film, (photographer: Jarkko Liikanen)

For any application, you have to do your research and consider the reader. London-based sculptor Briony Clarke says, “I’ve applied for over a hundred grants and had about twenty-five funded. The money has been used for everything from creating a piece of artwork (so, small amounts) all the way to creating large-scale events that have enabled me to bring in other artists. The most important part of writing a grant is being clear about your aims and really finding a way of making it accessible and relevant to the granting institution. For example, for the Arts Council England, you have to have a project that has participatory involvement or engagement, so I would only apply if the work included that. You have to find the right grant to apply for. You also have to be careful that the terminology you use doesn’t alienate the reader. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot by using language that the grant funder can’t relate to.”

There are quite a few compelling reasons to write regularly about your work, but the most important are to define and resolve some of the ideas that drive your practice, and to have a body of writing to draw on when you need to apply for time, space, and materials or equipment that will allow you to develop your work further. Good luck!