Grantless Ambition.

Elizabeth Catlett

Applying for grants as a freelance musician is the ultimate test of patience and self-loathing, like trying to dig your way out of a grave with a plastic spoon while someone keeps throwing dirt back in. You think it's about getting funding for your art, but really, it’s about burying your soul in forms and hoping some random panel—who's trying to classify you—decides you’re worthy of a shovel. It’s not just about talent or work ethic; it’s about who you know and how you look on the institution's mantel. Rejection is a ritual for my fleeting self-worth or cyclic self-loathing. “We loved your sound, but we don’t get it” or “You were a finalist again; please apply next year. 5th time's the charm!” Translation: “We funded someone who knows how to play the game better than you.”

The whole process is a sick joke, where the punchline is you getting kicked in the teeth. It’s not about the music; it’s about how well you can twist your project to fit whatever trendy cause they're pretending to care about this week. Your art? Hah! Does it hit the right buzz words? Will it scare the donors? They don’t want your music—they want a “vision” that looks good on paper. Imagine if these institutions actually believed in the transformative power of music. Instead of funding genocides and political circuses, maybe they’d fund something that could heal. But they don’t hear it. The music’s screaming, but they’re too busy counting the blood money.

But I’ll keep doing it. I’ll keep applying, because on the off chance I actually win, I’ll probably forget everything I just said, throw a party, and act like I didn’t spend the last five years screaming into the void. Until then, I’ll keep getting rejected and broken—like my Tamagotchi that’s been ignored so long it’s just a digital skeleton and poop emojis.

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