This post is by guest author, Kelly Sullivan.  This article has been edited and published with the author's permission. You should submit an article and share your views as a guest author by clicking here. We've promoted this post to feature status because it provides great value to the FineArtViews community.  If you want your blog posts listed in the FineArtViews newsletter with the possibility of being republished to our 15,000+ subscribers, consider blogging with FASO Artist Websites.  This author's views are entirely her own and may not always reflect the views of BoldBrush, Inc.

I went to a used bookstore today. The proprietor that sat behind the counter had roamed the alleys for over 25 years. He knew every volume in the store. “Quirky existence,” I thought to myself.

I stood in the first aisle. It contained all of the art books; large, beautiful volumes. I delicately pulled each one off in alphabetical order and thumbed through them. Some quickly enveloped me, others I brushed off as someone made famous by a blind congregation.

I found a hard cover of Manet, a small volume of Degas works, and a book on Russian painters. I didn’t know any of the Russian artists, but that didn’t make them any less impressive. Interestingly, the fact that I didn’t know who they were, and that their work made me hungry for more, drew me in even further.

I’m at an odd point in life. I am more inspired and creatively charged than I have ever been. I am so thirsty for more knowledge and better work that it borders on unquenchable. I see myself progressing. I see my work develop. I know that the 40 years of aching to understand is finally being fueled and my appetite only grows. Like an addict of sorts, I guess.

Friends and clients reinforce my development with gestures that spur me on: sales, commissions, blog posts… but the academia of fine art – the ‘societies’, still reject what I put out. I’d like to pretend that it doesn’t matter. I tell myself that they are swayed by politics and social media. I once heard a master painter quote a fellow juror - “it’s a brilliant piece, but it just isn’t big enough so therefore it can not win”… Perhaps he had heard that reasoning before and couldn’t let go. Perhaps he was just a putz.

Or…there is the reality that my work just wasn't good enough. I may never know. Or more likely, I may just choose to disagree.

I do not want to wane on here, or sing the song of the sad rejected romantic. I want to shout it. For those that persist, though their tune may go unnoticed, are the ones more likely to make an honest statement. No regrets for my voice, just a bit of sadness for the ears it fell upon.

“Quirky existence”... I think to myself.

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Editor's Note:  You can view Kelly's original post here.