Why Artists Keep Entering Art Prizes (Even When It Hurts)

Why Artists Keep Entering Art Prizes (Even When It Hurts)

Australia has an extraordinary number of art prizes; I’ve heard estimates of around 500. Some are tightly defined by location, gender, medium, size, or subject; others are more open. Landscape, portrait, regional, prizes for women, emerging artists, young artists, the range is impressive, and so is the competition.

I’ve been entering a handful of prizes each year for quite some time now. The appeal is obvious: a substantial monetary award, the possibility of exhibiting in a respected gallery (or online), and the chance that the work might sell. There’s also something less tangible but just as powerful, recognition and validation. Being selected feels like a quiet affirmation that not only the work, but you, have been seen.

The Emotional Toll

Entering prizes takes time, energy, and emotional labour. You need a finished piece. It must be photographed well. You’re asked for an artist statement, bio, CV, and an entry fee, all carefully crafted, written, formatted, and aligned with the criteria. None of this is casual.

Then there’s the cost. $60 for a single entry is common, sometimes more if you enter multiple works. Not many artists have $500 spare, especially when there’s no guarantee of selection. Writing statements remains one of the hardest parts: they need to sound informed, articulate, theoretically aware and yet still authentic. Most artists are deeply connected to their work, which can make writing objectively about it incredibly difficult. Add word limits, themes, and suddenly you’re post-rationalising ideas to fit a framework that wasn’t part of the original making.

I’ve improved over time, largely because entering prizes forces you to. I have worked hard to write about my work and discard limiting beliefs regarding my design training. I often wonder whether words have begun to outweigh image-making itself, and whether simple aesthetic pleasure has been buried under layers of theory. Sometimes I suspect the “emperor’s new clothes” analogy isn’t entirely off the mark.

Stepping Back: 2024–2025

By 2024, I had all but stopped entering art prizes. Not because I didn’t understand, intellectually, that rejection isn’t personal, but because emotionally, the recoil had begun to feel genuinely damaging. I no longer had the fortitude to absorb the silence, the non-emails, or the stomach-dropping announcements without it lingering far longer than felt healthy.

I continued entering the Moreton Bay Regional Art Prize. It’s free, local, and feels grounded in community rather than prestige. I won an outdoor gallery prize in 2023, had no success in 2024, and was selected as a finalist again in 2025. That felt balanced, fair, even. I kept entering because it didn’t cost me financially, though the sting of rejection was still there, especially when comparing myself to other finalists. I know comparison is toxic and pointless, and that seems like another blog.

In mid-January, I entered a prize, again (my third time) and wasn’t accepted again. What struck me yet again was that the entry form asked for my date of birth. I found myself wondering why an artist’s age should matter at all. I’d like to say the rejection didn’t sting, but that wouldn’t be entirely true.

There is a certain portrait prize I entered 4 times, it’s not the big Sydney one, I wouldn’t be so bold. I was rejected every time. Then looked at the finalists and was “huh?” It’s not that I thought my work was amazing or better, it was just HUH? It began to feel like a great deal of work for very little return, beyond proving to myself that I can paint a strong portrait. At some point, ego alone isn’t a good enough reason.

Why It Hurts (and Why That’s Okay)

I’ve recently realised there’s a reason rejection hits me harder than most. People with ADHD often experience Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD), an intense emotional reaction to perceived criticism or rejection. For me, it’s a perfect storm: I most definitely have RSD, though I had no idea it was “a thing”. I used to think I was just a delicate flower, taking things too hard. Now I know why, and that knowledge has been transformative. It is a recognised psychological aspect of ADHD. Another box ticked.

Understanding RSD will hopefully help me approach competitions differently. It’s about self-preservation while still putting yourself out there, balancing masochism and self-care in equal measure. I will no doubt still feel the sting, the “unfortunately” emails will still make my stomach drop, but I’m learning to feel it without letting it define me, to protect my energy while continuing to create and share my work without wanting to throw it on a bonfire. Dramatic much.

Lessons in awareness

I’ve also come to accept something that took a long time to articulate: my work will never suit certain prizes. It’s not conceptual enough. Not realistic enough. Not cool enough. Possibly not ugly enough. Maybe not fashionable, sharp, or theoretically dense in the right way. While that list can quickly collapse into I’m not enough, I’m learning to catch it before it does. Not being suited is not the same as not being worthy, and that has been hard won.

These days, I’m more careful about where I place my energy. Time, money, and emotional resilience are finite. I’d rather spend them making the work, teaching, and building a practice that sustains me than waiting for external validation that may never come, and may not even be meant for the kind of work I make.

Rejection, Resilience, and Daily Glimmers

Rejection still stings. Even after years and dozens of entries, my stomach still lurches when “unfortunately” lands in my inbox. The tiny glimmer of hope is always there, and yes, it hurts when it fades.

But I’ve learned to feel it without falling apart. To name it. To say: oh well, of course and naturally a FU then, and also, enough.

Some prizes ask for things that don’t matter: my age, whether my work is “cool” or “conceptual enough.” I’ve stopped wasting time or money on competitions that drain me. Not because my work isn’t worthy, but because it isn’t designed to fit certain frameworks. And that’s okay.

What sustains me now isn’t validation from a panel. It’s the quieter things: daily walks, noticing small glimmers in the world, planning a new painting, tending our garden, baking for people I love. Making art is still about attention: seeing, observing, staying awake to life.

Rejection may still wound me, but it no longer decides whether I keep going. That fire, the one that sometimes wants to punch people in the face, stays alive. And it fuels me, instead of holding me back.