inoculate yourself to criticism
What if the thing that makes you quit is the very thing that could help you grow the most?
Criticism. Harsh feedback. The disapproval in someone’s tone, the unspoken tension when you show them your work. It can wreck you—if you let it.
So what’s the best thing you can do for yourself as an artist?
Immunize yourself. Not to avoid criticism, but to survive it. To use it.
Because criticism isn’t the enemy. It’s almost the opposite. Artists need it. We need to know how our work lands—whether it moves people or misses, whether it resonates or repels. Slop or revelation.
Criticism gives your work stakes. It’s the reflection that tells you how your art interacts with the world. It can hurt, sure—but it also invites growth.
So we don’t want to avoid it.
We just don’t want it to kill us.
I used to live in India. What happens to most Western travelers there? They get sick from the food. The bacteria is unfamiliar. You have to be careful.
But the locals? They eat freely. They’ve lived in it. Their immune systems are adapted.
It’s not a perfect metaphor, but the point stands: when we expose ourselves to the hard parts of criticism, we can start to taste its gifts. We can open ourselves to everything on the other side—deeper growth, sharper insight, richer connection.
This came up for me just the other day.
I’d been following my creative curiosity with this blog—especially how AI can augment creative work. Each post has an image: a piece of abstract AI-generated art that visually represents the theme of the writing. It’s a process I love—a daily creative ritual where prompts evolve with my ideas.
And I thought: what if I turned these into a gallery exhibition?
What if people could enter the writing through the imagery instead of the words? A collaboration between human and machine, text and texture. I got genuinely excited.
So I made a concept. An artist statement. A draft webpage. Then I met with a friend who's put on several shows, hoping to get her thoughts.
After some catching up, I shared the idea.
She looked at the page. Something shifted. A pause. A subtle holding back.
"Have you shown this to others?"
"What do you find compelling about this?"
"Putting on a show is a lot of work."
The air changed. Disapproval, unspoken but present.
So I invited it in.
"I feel like there’s more you want to say. I’m not attached to this work. I’d really appreciate your honest feedback."
She hesitated. Then offered what I’d asked for.
“When I look at this, I feel like I’m just seeing a random MidJourney page.”
“Why should I care about this?”
“I think: wow, this guy is really into his own writing.”
“Your music is so much better than this. I don’t know why you'd spend time on this.”
“This page makes me think, ‘He doesn’t have a great sense of what’s visually appealing.’ The images are... ugly.”
“I hope I’m not being too mean.”
Was it mean? Maybe a younger me would’ve thought so.
And yeah—it stung. A tightness in my chest. A bristle.
But another part of me? Grateful.
Because I didn’t need to agree. I didn’t need to defend.
I could actually hear it—and that’s the whole point.
I learned a lot.
I learned people might not give a f*** about this project.
I learned the individual images might not matter—it’s the process behind them that holds the value.
I realized I was unintentionally burying the most compelling part: the fact that these were snapshots of a practice. A visual archive of creative momentum over time.
I also realized that showing a collage of these images—how they change over days, moods, and thoughts—might be far more interesting than treating each image like a standalone piece. And way cheaper to print.
All of that? Came from sitting through some discomfort. From having built a thicker skin—not to rejection, but to the fear of it.
It took me years to build that.
Years of performing, failing, living lean.
Years of understanding that external approval isn't the North Star.
Years of seeing that artistry grows only when it's protected early on. When the sapling isn’t crushed too soon.
And look, there’s still a place for criticism when the work is early-stage. It's not about shielding yourself from all opinions—just the ones that paralyze you.
In fact, one of the best lessons from entrepreneurship is this:
Validate before you overbuild.
Entrepreneurs launch landing pages for products they haven’t made yet, just to test interest. Why? Because it’s better to find out no one cares before you’ve spent months building something they’ll ignore.
Artists can learn from this.
I think of a friend in my community. He’s been working on a new art project. He’s all in—excited, passionate.
But the title? It’s... off-putting. Kinda gross, honestly.
Everyone I’ve talked to thinks so, too. But no one wants to hurt his feelings. So he goes on, unaware, unintentionally sabotaging an idea that might actually be good—if the packaging didn’t repel people before they had a chance to engage.
We think we’re being kind by staying silent.
But sometimes honesty is the real kindness.
So here’s the invitation:
Build your emotional immune system.
Not to become numb. Not to be indifferent.
But to stay upright when feedback shakes you.
To use it as compost, not poison.
Because critics won't always be kind.
And they don’t have to be.
You just have to know that you are not your art.
But your art? It can grow from what they say.
Let criticism shape your work—not your worth.
Then go make something beautiful. Or weird. Or stupid.
Whatever calls you.
Just keep creating.
