I am writing to apply for...
On reframing how we approach applications & 7 tried-and-true methods for making your applications stand out...
If you’ve met me, you probably already know my philosophy about applying for things (because I am the funnest at parties).
I believe, wholeheartedly, that we apply for opportunities in order to better understand and describe our work. That’s it. That’s the entire reason we should be making applications.
Applications have helpful side effects: an application is a chance to write about our work in a compelling way, with a deadline. It can help us move the work forward in new directions, help us find new ways of describing the significance of what we do, and help us revise that artist statement that we’ve been meaning to get to for a really long time. It can nudge us to organize our image files, to update our resumés, and to connect with old friends who write our letters of recommendation for us. And those are all really nice things, and we should do them more often, probably.
The catch is that, in order to convince ourselves to spend time on applications and reap all these lovely rewards, we have to also convince ourselves that there’s a slight possibility we might win the thing. Believing this means disregarding the stunning scarcity of resources in the arts, or believing in our own miraculous brilliance, or hoping that no one else will remember the application deadline. Believing we might actually win an award in the arts is an exercise in hope or, perhaps, in denial, or in opportunity hunger. Or maybe it’s just an exercise in humility. What I’m saying is that the number of applications I have had rejected is tremendous and, if you’ve been in the arts for a few years, yours probably is, too. Try taking a stack of rejections to a holiday party with folks from other professional fields and watch their stunned faces as they shake their heads and say, oh honey, and pour you something soothing to drink. (I told you I was fun at parties). And yet, to get each application done, we have to imagine—for a second—that we each have a real chance at winning the lottery, even though the odds are spectacularly stacked against that possibility.
And a little magical thinking is more than okay—indeed, it’s perfectly normal in this wildly under-resourced field. Our pragmatism probably isn’t what got us here in the first place, so dream away! Imagining alternate worlds is a strength.
But before that magical thinking turns to overwhelm or disappointment or feelings of self-doubt, it might help to remind ourselves of that mantra, above: we apply for opportunities in order to better understand and describe our work. And that’s it. That’s the entire reason.
Did I win that Creative Capital grant the first, second, third, fourth, or fifth time I applied for it? Nope. (And this isn’t a happy story where the sixth time was the charm). But each time, I learned something important about my work and what it means, and I then conveyed that knowledge into other projects that were published or exhibited (or are in the works). And that’s why I keep doing it. (The next round of Creative Capital applications opens March 1, by the way, if you want to mark your calendar and join me in this joyous exercise of self-exploration… or if you’re also someone who likes to buy lottery tickets at the gas station). After the necessary moment of brief sadness when I find out I didn’t get it again, I usually look back at my application project and say… wow, I should really do that! Or, so that’s what my new work is about!
Anyway, now that you have my application mantra printed and super glued to your studio wall, I have some specific advice for how to write your best application, because this seems to be application season, and I’ve heard from so many of you that you’re working on MFA or grant applications, and I hope that this process is a generative one for your work and your ideas and imaginings. And, also, I hope you win the thing! These suggestions come from many, many years of working with friends, colleagues, and clients on applications, and from serving as a juror for many different kinds of opportunities. As always, take what’s useful to you, and leave the rest.
1. Write a tight opening sentence that clearly describes your goals. Don’t waste time telling your reader that you are really interested in this opportunity, or you are excellent at making ceramic toads, or you began your ceramic toadery when you were just nigh an infant… Get to the goals, right away. Your opening sentence might look like: I am writing in application for this MFA program because I want to expand my practice of ceramic toad-making into large-scale public sculpture, building the requisite material and conceptual tools to do so, and finding a community of giant toad enthusiasts to challenge and support my creative process.
2. Don’t waste your word count on enthusiasm. Too often, I find words like eager, excited, hopeful, love, delighted sprinkled throughout application statements. These are so lovely. And also: an absolutely a waste of space. Worse, they don’t tell your reader anything about your work. In particular, people who identify as women are often discriminated against for being too emotional in their applications. Keep it strictly and confidently about what you make, how you make it, why it matters in the world today, and what you want to do next. Do a search for these words in your application draft and delete, delete, delete!
3. Demonstrate your familiarity with the opportunity you are applying for, aka do your research. If it’s an MFA program, know what the faculty there make, what their work is about, what they teach, what they care about professionally. Mention who you might want to work with. Talk about specific resources that the opportunity offers. For example, a big part of Creative Capital is its annual summit for award winners, offering them networking and workshops to support their practice: talk about how you would make use of this kind of resource, at this particular moment in your career. Be as specific as possible.
4. Avoid the “time and resources” trap. The most predictable sentence in any application is near the end of the statement or letter, when the applicant is trying to wrap up the application and explain why this award would be so beneficial for them right now. I wish I had a dollar for every time I read: Above all, this opportunity would give me the time and resources to make my magical toad sculptures. Well, obviously. The actual definition of the thing you are applying for is most likely: time and resources. We all want those things. But saying that you want them is redundant: the mere fact that you are applying for this opportunity means that you want those things. Save your words to get back to what you would do with time and resources, and how exactly you would make the best use of what specific time and resources this opportunity is offering. Wrap up your statement by returning to your goal sentence at the beginning and revisiting the specifics of those goals.
5. Update your online presence & your internal files. It sounds wild, but most of the time when I am confronted with a pile of hundreds of applications, the second thing I do after reading a cover letter is a quick Google search and a skim of the applicant’s website or social presence. Application season is a perfect season for reviewing these things and making sure they represent you now, currently. And your internal files—things like your resumé, image files, previous year statements—these can get out of hand quickly if you aren’t periodically reviewing your organizational systems. Applications often provoke anxiety and stress: I truly believe some of this stress can be alleviated by well-organized files. (To be honest, no one really invites me to parties, but I still stand by this statement. Clean up your files! Back everything up! Use easy-to-find file names! You can thank me later!)
6. Don’t ask your friends to review your applications. If you have the resources to do so, hire a professional editor (Hello, hi! I do this work! And also there are many professional wonderful folks who you can hire to support your application-writing process). Asking a friend is complicated because a) you’re asking them for labor on your behalf, and I encourage you to try and avoid doing this unless you can substantially reciprocate their effort, or offer them a significant gift or market-rate pay for their time, and b) unless your friend is a professional editor or grant-writer, I don’t trust their expertise. Like most things, writing application letters is an art form, with specific tactics and strategies, wordings, and structures, that people are trained to do. You don’t have to learn all the ins-and-outs of application-writing, but don’t invite untrained friends to offer their advice… it generally just leaves things muddied.
7. Don’t be humble. I truly love and admire folks who are down-to-earth, realistic about what they do and what it does in the world, and not egocentric maniacal narcissistic jerks. I respect that you want some of your grounded, pragmatic acknowledgements that you are still a human in process, you are still learning, you haven’t quite figured everything out yet. Save all of those admissions for the next time you have coffee with an artist-friend, or for therapy, or for a journal, or for your daily interactions in general. It’s important to have a certain chill down-to-earthness in our day-to-day lives. However, your application statement is not the place for it. Instead, focus on what you actually do, have done, and want to do, centering your most confident I know who I am voice, and authentically describing why this thing matters in the world (even if it only matters in a tiny corner of the world). You’ve done a lot and learned a lot and experimented a lot, and it matters. This aspect of application writing is among my favorites, because it reminds me—despite the paucity of financial, emotional, and structural support for the arts—that I’ve built a life from this thing I care passionately about. And that is not nothing.
Sending you so many warm wishes in support of all of your applications. And I hope that you find space in every application season to notice again the remarkable things you have done, the challenges you have overcome, the things you have made, and the reasons you keep making them.
Warmly,
Laura
Did you insert a chip into my brain and you know what I am thinking? Before I read this, I thought about how much I have learned about my work over these application years. And most importantly, I have learned how it is perceived. I think I am making a clear message about new ways of thinking. Then I discovered they only saw (actually didn’t see) what they were looking for. So the big question is how do I tell my story through their lens and stay true to my work. All in 200 words. I can’t feel the chip - how else would you know what I was thinking?