The Curriculum of Rejections

When Rejection Becomes My Art, and My Art Becomes My Humanity

 

Before We Begin

I love to write about contemporary art.

Not because I have to, but because I simply cannot resist.

Art pulls me in deeply, persistently, sometimes even obsessively.

I study contemporary movements, uncover forgotten voices, follow radical thinkers.

I read, research, question, and reflect.

While I examine the giants, I am equally captivated by those who remained in the shadows,  artists who created not for applause but because they had something urgent to express.

Alerne Rush - Rejection, Reject, Re... Installation at Pen and Brush (2014-2019)

I believe art should never ask for permission.

It should not compromise for critics.

It should not bend for the marketplace or seek the approval of curators.

It should exist because it must.

For me, art has always been about coherence, about truth, about standing firm in your voice even when no one is listening.

Art is not a strategy. Art is existence.

And yet, I am human.

Even for someone who consciously chooses to live outside the rules of the game, rejection still cuts deep.

This is one of those stories, not about triumphs, but about vulnerability.

And about how I found comfort and strength in the voices of others.

 

That White Wall

Not long ago, I invested myself fully in an art project.

I submitted my paintings to a major international competition.

I spent countless hours perfecting my portfolio, refining my statement, polishing every detail.

I even exchanged emails with the curators. The conversations were encouraging. Everything seemed aligned.

And in my mind, I saw it already:

My works displayed on those tall, immaculate museum walls.

Visitors standing in front of them, spotlights illuminating every nuance.

I wasn’t longing for glory, only for inclusion.

I didn’t dream of winning; I simply wished to be seen.

And then: silence.

That white wall remained blank, waiting.

The shortlist was published.

My name was missing.

No explanation. No feedback. Not even a simple "Thank you for submitting."

Just emptiness.

 

The Invisible Weight of Rejection

For artists, rejection carries a unique weight.

It isn’t merely a closed door; it feels like a quiet, personal verdict:

You are not good enough.

But heavier than external rejection is the internal echo:

Maybe I’m not talented enough. Maybe I should stop. Maybe I should throw away my brushes.

And most toxic of all is the silence we impose on ourselves.

Because rejection, in art as in life, carries not only pain but shame.

But here lies a crucial truth:

Failure and rejection are not the same.

Failure means we have stopped.

Rejection means we are still trying.

Every rejection is proof that we continue moving forward. That we still believe. That we are still creating.

There is no shame in rejection. There is humanity.

 

The Hand

And then, a small light appeared: Aviva Rahmani.

“Maybe I could tell Aviva?”

Aviva is not just an artist; she is the towering "Big Mama" of ecofeminist art. But even more, she is a voice of coherence, vision, and integrity.

She had publicly shared her own rejection from a major fellowship on social media.

Even her?

That small act of honesty brought me comfort.

If someone like her, with decades of experience, still faces rejection, perhaps my wound wasn’t so shameful after all.

I hesitated for days. Then I wrote.

She replied almost immediately:

"Rejection is the hardest part of being an artist. It can also be the best teacher."

Later she added:

"Rejection is awful. It tests our vision for ourselves as artists. It’s unfair and cruel. We’re entitled to self-pity and resentment. A friend of mine, Arlene Rush, once created an entire installation of her rejections."

That sentence opened a door. And everything began to shift.

 

Discovering The Art of Rejection Exposed

I searched. And I found it:

"Rejection, Reject, Re..." by Arlene Rush.

A wall.

Golden envelopes displayed like sacred relics.

But they weren’t trophies, they were scars, exposed with dignity.

The envelopes were crafted with imitation gold leaf, resin, wax, and archival materials,  shining under the lights like fragile icons of vulnerability.

Inside the envelopes: nothing.

Each was deliberately empty, a haunting metaphor for the silence that so often follows rejection.

On each envelope was written the name of the institution that had rejected her.

She made visible what most of us hide.

She transformed absence into presence.

She transformed vulnerability into strength.

Silver Lining (2018): The Letters Released

Later, in her installation Silver Lining (2018), Arlene allowed the rejection letters themselves to physically emerge.

Here, letters are placed inside the envelopes, some even spilling out — as if the once-concealed wounds could no longer remain contained.

The silence of Rejection, Reject, Re... gives way to full disclosure: rejection no longer hidden, but fully exposed.

 

"Sorry to Inform You"

Arlene didn’t stop there.

In her video piece "Sorry to Inform You", she created a brutal soundscape, endlessly repeating the bureaucratic phrases so familiar to every artist:

"We regret to inform you..."

"Unfortunately..."

"After careful consideration..."

"Thank you for submitting; however..."

A hypnotic loop of standardized dismissal.

Rejection is not personal, it is systematized, industrialized.

And through Arlene’s voice, this institutional violence gained its proper emotional weight.

A collective, universal wound.

 

Evidence of Being: The Collective Monument

But her most profound work was still to come:

Evidence of Being.

Rejection became not personal, but collective.

At Art in Odd Places in New York, Rush installed:

- Waterproof printed rejection letters

- Portable speakers playing rejection statements

- Informational panels and flyers

- Foam core displays

- Silicone wristbands reading “Evidence of Being”

At first, wristbands were exchanged for visitors' own rejection letters, which were pinned to the telephone booths.

But as interest grew, people began sharing rejections from every corner of life — from schools, jobs, relationships, families.

It became cathartic.

It brought connection.

It brought unity.

Vulnerability became shared humanity.

What started as Arlene’s story became everyone’s story.

 

The Unexpected Friendship

Even across oceans, Evidence of Being resonated.

Irish artist and educator Brigitta Varadi incorporated Rush’s work into her teaching in Ireland.

Later, by coincidence, the two women met at an exhibition opening,  one arriving, the other leaving.

Brigitta ran toward Arlene, called her by name, and shared how deeply her work had touched her and her students.

From that moment, a deep friendship was born.

And in a way, something similar happened to me, though 4000 miles away.

While searching and discovering Arlene’s work, I was drawn into her world.

And now, through this article, I hope that what I share is not only a tribute to Arlene’s art, but also a wider invitation:

To reflect, to see the deeper meaning of art, and perhaps to carry this awareness into your own life.

Because rejection is not exclusive to artists, we all face it, almost daily, in countless forms.

This is the power of vulnerability: it unites us.

 

My Own Curriculum of Rejections

Something inside me shifted.

I decided to create my own Curriculum of Rejections, not a list of successes, but of scars.

Not for pity.

Not for sympathy.

But as evidence of being.

Each rejection proves that I keep going.

They are not failures. They are my path.

Ironically, as I reviewed Arlene’s résumé, I smiled:

My rejection list may even be longer than her Achievements CV.

And there’s beauty in that too.

 

Salvator Mundi

At the same time, I couldn’t help but reflect on the absurdity of the art market.

Salvator Mundi,  attributed to Leonardo da Vinci, sold for nearly half a billion dollars.

Yet doubts remain whether Leonardo truly painted it.

Its price is based not on certainty, but on mythology.

What is the value of my Curriculum of Rejections?

Monetarily: nothing.

Humanly: everything.

 

The Silent Lesson at GAM Torino

Around the same time, I visited GAM Torino.

I saw a Warhol displayed beside lesser-known artists. No hierarchy. No boasting.

The curator presented works as equals,  not based on fame, but on dialogue.

Andy Warhol - Orange Car Crash

This is how art should be:

Not a competition.

Not a pyramid.

But a conversation of souls.

 

The Feminist Core

Why was it Arlene Rush, a woman, who created this body of work?

Because men, raised in patriarchal cultures, are taught to equate worth with victory.

We hide rejection. We hide vulnerability.

But women like Arlene reclaim what many men still fear:

The truth that our humanity lives not in our victories, but in our wounds.

This is not only artistic, it is existential. It is political.

Women artists have shown what it means to remain fully human in art.

My Art Provocation

A memory:

As a child in my tennis club, I loved the game, not the competition.

From that moment, rejection followed me.

Yet my life unfolded in coherence.

And so, I’ve made a decision:

My next portfolio will not begin with my accomplishments, but with my Curriculum of Rejections.

A portfolio that starts with scars.

Not for attention.

Not for bitterness.

But as provocation. As truth.

"This is me. These are my scars. If you dare turn the next page, then let my art speak."

 

The Future We Should Teach

If I could express one wish, it would be this:

Evidence of Being belongs at the entrance of every art institution.

It should be taught in every art school.

Because so many young artists dream, and dreaming is beautiful.

But they also need to know:

Behind every spotlight, there are wounds.

Rejection is not an exception. It’s part of the journey.

True artistry lies not only in victories, but in resilience.