Congratulations on Your Rejection
And Other Lessons from Greece
Reflections from an Artist Residency That Changed Me—Then, and Still
I posted on social media that I got an artist residency in Greece.
What I didn’t post at the time was everything it took to get there.
Before the yes, there were six rejections.
After the yes, there were three more.
That’s nine in total—one short of my personal goal of ten. (What can I say? I like a tidy arc.)
You know what I did to celebrate that ninth rejection?
I re-read the essay I wrote for one of those applications—the kind that asked me to do the one thing that feels both completely natural and impossibly hard as an artist: slow down, name what’s unspoken, and explain how I work.
This was the question:
“How does listening currently exist within your artistic practice?”
The Philosophical Spiral That Followed
Now, if you know me, you know this kind of question sends me into a full-blown philosophical spiral. Not in a bad way. In a “here we go down the rabbit hole with a journal and a cup of tea and an existential crisis” kind of way.
At first, I froze. Listening? Sure. I listen when I paint. But the truth is, my creative process is intuitive. Listening happens so fast it bypasses conscious thought altogether. So fast, I don’t realize I’m doing it.
But the question wouldn’t let me off the hook.
It forced me to stop, to stare, to listen.
And that’s when “Philosophical Jolene” showed up.
Is listening the same as silence?
To listen, must you be silent?
But you can be silent and not listen, right?
Don’t you have to be present to actually listen?
Isn’t creating… really just being present?
I spiraled (you’re welcome), but eventually I landed on something I still believe:
You don’t always know what you’re listening for. But if you’re lucky, you respond to what shows up anyway.
And this—this is what I wrote for that residency:
When my partner and co-creator in all things creative died within months of a diagnosis, everything went quiet, and I had to listen.
I had to listen to my heart beating differently without him. I had to listen to the silence that shook my entire house unstable. And then I had to listen past that to hear myself within all that silence. I had no choice but to listen.
The gift of listening was what it offered me—an ability to respond. I responded by painting again. Slowly, I listened to my world give way to a new form, a new version of myself. In my practice, I have challenged myself to get comfortable with silence. All types of silences. To move and grow within their unknown boundaries. The boundaries I can only see at times because I am pressed up against them, and I have no option. I have nowhere to go but within.
My practice with paint is the same. I am always at the foot of the big, bristled brush, waiting to hear and feel where it wants me to go next—looking down from the observation decks in my mind to distinguish what type of listening will serve me best in the present moment. And when I have heard enough, I challenge myself to get quiet again and listen into the silence for one more sliver of truth.
It was heartfelt. It was honest. It was real.
And they said: “There is no right answer.”
Well, maybe there wasn’t a right answer, but there must’ve been a better one. One that landed the residency because it wasn’t mine.
Or maybe the answer was fine, and it just wasn’t my moment.
Who knows. Rejection rarely offers reasons.
But what I gained—through writing essay after essay, reflection after reflection—was more knowledge of who I am as an artist. Of how I create. Of why I create. And of the deep, sacred importance of listening. That kind of clarity? Worth the submission fee every time.
The Yes That Took Me to Skopelos
And then came Greece. That time I did get accepted.
I landed in Skopelos, a small island wrapped in blue and green. And for the first time in a long time, I had space. Space to paint. To experiment. To be. No expectations. No job to get back to. Just time, and breath, and brushes.
Every day, I hiked the donkey path to the studio, breathing in the scent of herbs and sea. It was about 78°F most days. And it was there—tucked away in the cliffs of inspiration—that I made over 40 pieces of art. One book. One bra-and-sock-rigged time-lapse (yes, really). And a deeper understanding of what it means to make art just to make it.
I didn’t write as much as I expected to during that month. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I was so immersed in the process of living it. And because, let’s be honest, the wind on that island had a habit of taking the internet out completely.
Little Moments, Big Impressions
The best parts of that trip weren’t always what you’d expect.
I met a monk who paints and makes pottery in a monastery older than the country I live in.
A former banker turned beekeeper who showed us the inside of a honeycomb.
A fourth-generation potter.
A taxi driver who took me to some of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen a lot).
I painted postcards, sold little pieces to travelers passing through, and unplugged from everything except the sound of my own breath. At least on the donkey path I did. It wasn’t an easy hike every day but it really made me appreciate the art of living. And remind me of the two working lungs and legs I have.
Coming Home Is a Different Kind of Hard
When I got back, Pittsburgh had already started its descent into fall. The leaves were at their final crescendo. It was stunning. But I missed Greece immediately.
You know that weird time-travel feeling when you come home from a trip and everything looks exactly the same, but you know you’ve changed?
It was like walking out of the light of Athens and into the rustle of autumn, with my hands still smelling like linseed oil and sea salt. The house felt paused. Like it had been waiting for me. But I wasn’t the same person who left.
Another of version of me walked into my space.
I cocooned for a while. Jet lag. Sadness. Reflection.
I journaled. Who is the person who lived here before Greece? I meditated. Who is she now? I stared at my art and wondered: Now what?
I often do this after a trip. I just need a moment to acclimate because I feel like I have jumped a timeline in my own life.
Usually, when I return from a big trip, I also have work lined up. But not this time. The strikes meant everything was uncertain. And while I was proud of the investment I’d made in my art, I’d also gone way over budget.
And yet—I didn’t regret it.
I had promised myself I’d invest in my painting and writing this year. And I did.
Greece was that promise kept.
And now, nearly two years later, I still return to that time in my mind. Not as a fantasy escape, but as a compass. That version of me who showed up on that island? She’s still in here. Listening. Creating. Growing.
The Art of Listening, Still
So yes—two years later, Greece has probably changed.
Maybe the monk has new paintings.
Maybe the studio door is more sun-bleached.
Maybe the wind still knocks out the Wi-Fi.
But I’ve changed too.
And the lesson remains:
To create, I must listen.
To listen, I must be still.
To be still, I must trust.
And to trust… well, that’s the real art.
The strikes have ended an almost two year drought of industry work for me. I have been hustling the last few months trying to recalibrate and continue my own work among the chaos of movie making.
And all the while asking myself if that version of me is someone I still want to hold on to? The 25 year knee deep career which has led me all over the world and into (and through) the darkest periods of my life. Is it still needed now? And if it is, how does the current me show up for it.
I am trying to get okay with not knowing what to do next, because for now, this is what life has set in front of me.
I am trying to be still among the noise and chaos long enough to listen for when the answer does come.
So Let Me Ask You Now…
How does listening currently exist within your life?
Are you rushing past it? Are you resisting the silence?
Or are you tuning in—however imperfectly—to what’s asking to be heard?
Tell me in the comments. Send me a DM.
Or sit in the silence and let it answer you in its own time.
Because I’ll tell you this:
The work may not always get chosen.
The residency may not always say yes.
But if you’re listening—really listening—you’ll know when it’s time to say yes to yourself.
And sometimes, that’s the yes that changes everything.