Why You Don’t Need an Artist Residency to Be a Successful Artist (Or an Unsuccessful One)
Think of me as the Beach Boys warning you about artist residencies—posing with the surfboards, singing about catching waves, but never actually paddling out. I dress the part, know the language, but I’ve never “surfed” a residency myself. Never been accepted. Have I applied? A few free ones over the years. Got jack. But every time, the same thought followed: Why the hell am I waiting for someone else to let me do what I could just do myself? I don’t need their overpriced permission slip to make art on my terms.
Let’s Cut To the Chase
So let’s just kill the conversation right here. This is the short version of the article. You don’t need to read any further because here’s the whole damn message: you don’t need anyone’s permission to make your work. Not some panel’s blessing. Not some curated location with “creative energy.” You don’t need someone telling you that if you paint here, it’ll be genius—and if you paint over there, it’s crap.
You don’t even need to leave the goddamn house.
Stay home. Seriously. Stop fantasizing about an art-themed vacation and calling it “career development.” If you need a break, take one. But don’t confuse an artist residency with a holiday. And don’t lie to yourself that Paris or Tuscany is going to cure your Instagram addiction. If you can’t focus now, you won’t focus there. You’ll just burn your money and call it “growth.”
The truth is, most artists just need four walls, maybe a ceiling, and a hard kick in the ass to get to work. Fuck the excuses. Fuck the laziness. Fuck the trend of artist residencies.
If you’re struggling to concentrate or think “getting away” will spark some magical inspiration, chances are you’re lying to yourself. Whatever’s going on in your head—that’s not a reason to apply for an artist residency. That’s a reason to talk to a creative coach, a mentor, another artist, or maybe even a psychologist. Not to fork over cash for a glorified vacation with a side of guilt.
If you strongly disagree with everything I’ve said so far, this article probably isn’t for you—and maybe you’re exactly the kind of person who thrives in an artist residency. But if you just think I’m being loud with my word choice and maybe laying it on a little thick, keep reading. Because if you haven’t applied to a residency before, and you haven’t done your research, you’re likely in for a rude awakening.
What They Don’t Tell You About Artist Residencies
So you get the email: “Congratulations, you’ve been accepted!” You feel validated, chosen, maybe even a little superior for five whole minutes—until you scroll down and hit the part where they want a few hundred bucks to “secure your spot.” That’s when the game begins. What they don’t advertise up front is that a hell of a lot of these residencies come with a price tag. Some charge just to apply. Others hit you with program fees, studio fees, housing costs, material costs, transportation, and some vague “administrative fee” that suspiciously matches the price of airfare to the location.
A lot of these places are operating like Airbnb with an art veneer. They rent out old farmhouses or lofts under the illusion of creative support. They throw in some language about “immersive environments” and “self-directed inquiry,” which basically means: you’re on your own, but thanks for the check. There’s no mentorship, no feedback, and no one actually giving a damn whether you make work or stare at the walls. You paid to be there, and that’s the whole deal. Your presence is the product. Your name is another entry on their list of “participants.”
It gets worse when they dress up the experience like some kind of professional milestone. The copywriting on their websites makes it sound like being “immersed” in a new landscape will magically unlock your creative potential. But what’s really happening is you’re being sold a vacation with a guilt complex. It’s a package deal of loneliness, jet lag, and unmet expectations, all wrapped in buzzwords. If you’re already distracted at home, you’ll just be distracted in a more picturesque location—except now your bank account is emptier.
And here’s the most perverse part: the people running some of these programs know exactly what they’re doing. They prey on the fact that artists are desperate for time, space, and legitimacy. They create programs not to support art but to monetize aspiration. You’re not being “chosen” because your work moved someone. You’re being selected because you fit the profile of someone who’ll cough up cash in exchange for a fantasy. That’s not support—that’s a transaction dressed in artistic drag.
How Artist Residencies Profit Off Your Insecurity
The whole artist residency model thrives on one thing: the lingering doubt that you’re not enough. That your work isn’t serious unless it’s been validated by someone with a clipboard and a headshot on a “Selection Committee” page. That you haven’t “leveled up” as an artist unless you can name-drop a mountain retreat or a crumbling European villa where you painted through your angst. And guess what? They know that. They count on it. They write their copy to target that exact anxiety.
You’re not just applying for time and space. You’re applying for identity. For legitimacy. For a line on your CV so that when people ask, “What have you been up to lately?” you can say, “Oh, I just finished a residency in Spain.” It sounds better than “I’ve been in my apartment making shit and trying not to spiral.” Residencies sell status. Not the good kind—the kind that makes you think you’re behind if you haven’t gotten one.
They dangle prestige like a carrot. They’ll throw in buzzwords like “emerging,” “mid-career,” “collaborative,” and “transformational”—whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. It’s not a coincidence. These programs are often designed not just to offer support, but to hook insecure artists who are desperate for any external sign that they’re on the right path. It’s branding, not mentorship. And when you’re feeling lost, a shiny logo and an acceptance letter can feel like rescue. It’s not. It’s bait.
And here's the kicker: half the time, even if you do get in, you’ll walk away wondering what the hell you got out of it. Because the residency didn’t fix your creative blocks. It didn’t erase your self-doubt. It didn’t magically make your work better. It just gave you new scenery, a new kind of pressure, and a slightly more expensive form of procrastination. But the system keeps rolling, because there’s always another insecure artist right behind you, refreshing their inbox, hoping for salvation that’s never coming.
Who Gets In (and Why You Probably Won’t)
Let’s talk about the gate. You know—the one you’re supposed to be trying to get through by applying to these residencies. Spoiler alert: it’s rigged. Not always, but often enough that you need to stop pretending it's some open, merit-based utopia. The truth is, a lot of residencies pull from the same pool of MFA grads, gallery darlings, and artists with the “right” kind of connections. You could be grinding out jaw-dropping work in your bedroom studio, but if you don’t have the network, pedigree, or art-world fluency, you’re not even in the room.
And before someone throws the word “inclusive” at me, let’s get real. Sure, some residencies toss in a few diversity buzzwords on their websites, but the core pattern doesn’t change. Who curates these things? Other artists, program directors, grant-funded gatekeepers with their own tastes, biases, and cronies. Some residencies are invitation-only, which is a nice way of saying “we pick our friends.” Others open applications publicly but still rotate through the same safe bets. If you’re new, unknown, or unaligned with whatever aesthetic is trending in those circles, good luck.
Even worse? Some programs accept almost everyone—as long as you pay. That’s not a selection process, that’s a checkout cart. Your “acceptance” doesn’t mean your work stood out; it means you had a valid credit card. But they’ll still frame it like you won a competition, just to keep the illusion intact. Meanwhile, the residencies with real clout are often gatekept harder than a Chelsea gallery.
This isn’t bitterness. It’s clarity. You can spend months crafting an application, rewriting your artist statement into something that sounds palatable to strangers, only to get a canned rejection with zero feedback. Meanwhile, someone else gets in because their undergrad professor is on the jury panel. It’s not about whether you’re good. It’s about whether you’re known. And if that’s the game, you’ve got better things to do than beg for a seat at a table you could flip yourself.
What You Can Build Without a Residency
You don’t need a plane ticket, a letter of acceptance, or someone else's timeline to do meaningful work. You don’t need a mountain view or a converted barn studio in Iceland. What you need—what every working artist really needs—is time, focus, and the guts to make shit happen without a handler. And all of that? You can build it yourself.
Start with space. No, it doesn’t have to be romantic. It can be your kitchen table, a corner of your bedroom, your damn garage. Four walls, maybe a ceiling, like I said earlier. If it holds you and your tools, it holds your practice. And here’s the thing: when it’s yours, it’s always available. No deadlines, no contracts, no curators peeking over your shoulder. You set the pace. You control the energy.
Next: time. Nobody’s handing it to you. That’s the lie baked into most residencies—“We give artists the time they need.” Nah. You take it. You carve it out of your life like a motherfucker chiseling out of stone. You say no to bullshit. You shut off the noise. You wake up earlier, stay up later, say no to the endless scroll. You make the time, or it doesn’t exist. Period.
Then there’s accountability. The illusion is that a residency will keep you on track because it’s formal and structured. But you know what’s more powerful than someone else's schedule? Your own commitment. Build a system that works for you. Set your own deadlines. Write them on a whiteboard. Put them on your wall. Tell your partner. Post your progress online. Start a group chat with other artists who’ll call you out when you slack. That’s real structure.
You want community? You can make that too. Residencies brag about giving you access to “like-minded artists.” So do Instagram DMs, Zoom, WhatsApp, Discord, Telegram, email, artist collectives, local meetups, gallery openings, and hell, even Reddit. If you want to connect with people making the same grind, they’re out there. But you gotta reach. You gotta build the network, not wait for it to come catered.
What about exhibitions? Show your work wherever the fuck you want. DIY gallery? Coffee shop? Pop-up in a friend’s garage? Online portfolio? Your own website? A goddamn street corner if you’re brave enough. Some of the most memorable shows I’ve seen were put together by artists who got tired of waiting. You don’t need a white cube to hang your soul on a wall.
Documentation? Do it yourself. You’ve got a smartphone that shoots in 4K. Tripod, window light, clean wall—you’re good. Learn basic editing. Post it. Archive it. Tell your story the way you want it told. Or hire me to do it! Don’t rely on a residency’s “documentation team” to preserve your legacy. That’s your job. And you’re better at it than they are, because it actually matters to you.
And when it comes to growth—personal, creative, professional—you’ll get more from building your own practice than you will from two weeks in a program with strangers. Real growth comes from repetition, risk, failure, adjustment, and getting back in the fucking chair. It comes from doing the work when no one’s watching, and doing it again when it still doesn’t look how you want.
You can create your own residency, right where you are. Pick a block of time—two weeks, one month, whatever. Clear your schedule. Shut out distractions. Set an intention. Build a project. Document it. Reflect. Repeat. That’s it. That’s the whole model. Except now you’re not paying anyone. You’re not waiting on approval. You’re not hoping to be “selected.” You’re already in.
Because the truth is, no one’s going to care about your work more than you. No one’s going to fight for your time, your space, or your voice unless you do. So stop begging for access to someone else’s idea of what being an artist looks like. You don’t need a residency. You need to get to work.
When a Residency Might Be Worth It
Now that I’ve dragged the whole system through the mud—and rightfully so—let’s make one thing clear: not every residency is a con. Not all of them are overpriced vacation rentals pretending to be cultural incubators. There are real, rare programs out there that genuinely support artists, and if you’re lucky enough to find one, it might actually be worth your time.
A legit residency doesn’t make you pay to apply. It doesn’t accept everyone. And it doesn’t send you a congratulations email followed by a $2,000 invoice. A legit residency funds you. Fully. Travel, housing, food, materials, maybe even a stipend. If it costs you anything, it’s minimal—like a refundable deposit or something clearly outlined and reasonable. Transparency is the name of the game.
They also offer structure, not just space. Real mentorship, real feedback, connections to galleries, curators, or communities that can actually move your work forward. You’re not just shipped off to some remote outpost with a key and a vague mission to “explore.” You’re plugged into a network with purpose. That matters. That’s rare. That’s what these things should be.
Another green flag? Time. Not two weeks of scrambling to decompress before being shoved back into reality. I’m talking one month minimum. Ideally more. Something that allows your brain to unfurl, not just panic-produce. And if they pair that time with child care, or partner support, or accommodations that acknowledge real-life responsibilities? Even better.
And finally—intent. The best residencies aren’t chasing prestige. They’re not padding their CV with your name. They exist to nurture artists, not market themselves through them. You’ll know it when you see it. The vibe is different. The application isn’t a gauntlet. The communication is human. There’s generosity instead of hustle.
So yeah—there are good ones. But they’re few and far between. And just because one is “real” doesn’t mean it’s right for you. If you’re applying from a place of desperation or validation-seeking, even the best residency won’t fix that. But if you’re stable, self-directed, and the program offers real resources—not illusions—go for it. Just don’t let the existence of a few unicorns blind you to the herd of donkeys wearing golden saddles.
Final Thoughts (and a Challenge)
If you’ve made it this far, you probably fall into one of two categories: you’re either nodding along with a clenched jaw thinking, “Hell yes, finally someone said it,” or you’re clenching your pearls wondering how I made it this far in life without the spiritual guidance of a residency in Vermont. Either way, let’s get one thing straight—none of this is about bitterness. It’s about sovereignty. It’s about not waiting for permission to become the artist you already are.
We’ve been sold this story that residencies are some kind of rite of passage. That real artists have residencies the way real doctors have med school. But art isn’t medicine. You don’t need a license to be good at it. You just need work. And time. And guts. All three of which you can cultivate without ever setting foot in some rebranded farm house with a daily “creative intention circle.”
If you’re still hell-bent on applying to residencies, go ahead. But go in with open eyes and a skeptical wallet. Scrutinize everything. Ask questions. Demand transparency. And if a program can't give you clear answers or makes you feel like you're lucky just to be considered—walk the fuck away. You’re not some desperate intern trying to get a foot in the door. You’re a working artist. Act like it.
And here’s the challenge: try building your own residency. No, really. Pick 30 days. Clear your calendar. Tell the people in your life you’re unavailable. Wake up every day and treat your art like your job. Make a schedule. Set deadlines. Create something new or finish something old. At the end, write about it, document it, share it. That’s a residency. You just gave it to yourself, no gatekeepers, no bills, no bullshit.
The door isn’t locked. It never was. You just have to stop begging for someone else to open it. Then you can finally get to work.
But what do I know?
I’m just one of the fucking Beach Boys.
