“I Thought It Had Destiny Written All Over It”

It’s 2014, and I’m sitting in my studio when I get a phone call from an art gallery in Kentucky where I had some horse paintings. At the time, I was creating a lot of abstracted, colorful horse paintings that were selling very well in Scottsdale. The gallery director on the other end sounded really excited.

“Elli, I have some incredible news for you. I know a guy on the Kentucky Derby Art Committee, and I submitted your horse paintings for a call to art opportunity. Your art was selected to be the official art for this year’s Kentucky Derby!”

I was amazed and wanted to know more. “Wow! Thank you! What does all of that mean?”

“It means you will create a large-scale painting that will serve as the official painting for this year’s Derby. The original will be for sale during the event, and every year it sells for a huge amount. You’ll also have a licensing contract for limited-edition prints where you’ll receive a percentage. You will need to be present May 3rd for the events during the Derby. It’s an incredible opportunity and honor. I can leverage this here at the gallery and sell more of your work!”

“I’m so grateful! May 3rd will be my forty-first birthday, so this is very special to me, because did you know that on May 3rd, 1973, Secretariat won the Kentucky Derby, and it was the day I was born?”

“Well, this is also a special year for the Kentucky Derby because they will be celebrating 140 years of Derby history!” the gallery director said.

It all felt so meant to be. I couldn’t believe I would spend my birthday at the Kentucky Derby, wearing some flowery dress and a big audacious hat, getting to show my work and be a part of history. I dreamed of the open doors and recognition this would bring and felt like I had been given a tremendously rare opportunity that had somehow just fallen into my lap.

Was it dumb luck? Or was it the years and years of persistence, following my heart and painting a subject I loved, dedicated to improving and pushing the envelope in my work? I was so grateful that the gallery I happened to be represented by in Kentucky knew someone on the committee and got me into the running. It felt like favor from heaven.

I had been studying all about Secretariat, and the movie that came out in 2010 was one of my all-time favorites. I had a special connection to this horse and felt that his extraordinary victory so close to the day of my birth was more than coincidence. It had always felt like a part of my life story. I could relate to this horse’s perseverance, heart and grit that made him a champion. I could even say Secretariat was a role model for me.

I spent the next few weeks envisioning the masterpiece I would create for the Kentucky Derby. The longer I lived with the reality that I had been given this opportunity, the more convinced I became that it was an opportunity forged in heaven just for me. It had destiny written all over it.

I told most of my friends and family about this incredible blessing, and everyone celebrated with me. Some even looked into tickets and what it would take to be a part of it. Particularly my mother. Every year she went to a Kentucky Derby party where she and her horse friends would dress up in frilly dresses and funny hats, drink mint juleps and bet on the race as they watched. She was determined to go, and we started planning our outfits.

But then I got another call from the gallery director in Kentucky.

“Elli, I have devastating news for you. You won’t like this. The committee informed me that you will not be awarded the official position of this year’s Derby artist. They had a change of heart. They said they didn’t think your work was refined enough and were looking for a more realistic artist and something less stylized.”

Her tone was somber, with a slight side of anger.

“No! That’s terrible! I was counting on it. Can anything be done? Can you protest? What about your friend?” I begged desperately.

“That’s the problem. I think it’s an inside job. They claim it’s because your work isn’t refined enough, but I looked up the artist they chose. His work is very dated and not actually refined or realistic. Kind of cartoony and not that special. I’m convinced he’s a big donor’s pet project or relative. In this good ol’ boy system, there is nothing we can do. I’m so sorry.”

I hung up the phone before I burst into tears. I sobbed and sobbed. I was completely wrecked.

I had been utterly convinced this was an opportunity sent by God. But obviously I was wrong. How could a gift from God be sabotaged like this? It couldn’t.

All of the serendipity and specialness, my birthday and the 140th anniversary suddenly felt like random coincidence, and I had lost out to some kind of nepotism. Even worse, I felt embarrassed. Now I had to remember all the people I had told and un-tell my great news. I tried to prepare myself each time because I knew I would cry, and I didn’t want anyone to know how important this had been to me.

I sat with the news for days and grieved. The words “your work isn’t refined enough” stung and haunted me for many years. On one hand, I felt this opportunity had been stolen from me. On the other, I began believing the story in my head that maybe I simply wasn’t good enough. After all these years of painting professionally, I still didn’t have it.

Over the next few weeks and months, my heartbreak turned to some bitterness and self-pity. Eventually, I progressed to a reasonable acceptance of the truth. It just didn’t work out, for whatever reason, and somehow it was probably for the best.

I thought about the horse racing industry and the abuse some horses endure. I thought about how horse racing doesn’t really align with my values and wondered if I had failed some kind of test to see if I would have convictions about how my art would be represented.

I would have had to paint horses racing with blurry numbers and jockeys with crops lashing horses. It really wasn’t my style. I painted horses strong and free, without saddles or humans or bridles or numbers. Did I even want my art to be associated with the Kentucky Derby and everything it represents? It really is an elitist club built on exclusion and who knows who among the who’s who.

I’m much better off.

What was I thinking?

Eventually, I completed my stages of grief, and the disappointment disappeared into the past.

Recently, I was asked a question:

Have you ever lost an opportunity because your skills weren’t good enough, then improved your skills and eventually received an even better opportunity?

What an incredible question.

I had to think really hard before this disappointment about the Kentucky Derby surfaced from the far recesses of my memory. I hadn’t thought about it once in over a decade.

But the more difficult part of the question was this: After I acquired the necessary skills, did I receive an even better opportunity?

I scoured the landscape of my career, including all the hills and valleys of the decade since then, and finally landed on a recent opportunity I received.

In early summer of this year, I was in Greece for vacation and visited my friend and jeweler extraordinaire, Vasilis. He is the lead designer of Dimitrios Exclusive, one of the top jewelers in Greece. He designed the Octopus Collection inspired by one of my paintings, which is an incredible opportunity in itself, but there was another opportunity that excited me even more.

While sitting in Vasilis’s office, looking through his latest designs and collections, I asked him what he was dreaming about. What were his next big goals?

A huge smile spread across his face.

“We work with some incredible store owners all over Greece and most of Europe, but in all of these years, we do not have one place, not one store, that consistently carries our entire collection. I dream of a place that showcases the entirety of our products and designs. A place people can go and see the entire vision. Feel what it means. I want people to walk into the store and feel like a king or queen.”

I caught his vision immediately.

It was true. Every store I had seen carrying his jewelry was shared with many other brands that watered down the experience. His jewelry brand is so consistent and clear that whenever you see it or wear it, you cannot help but feel like ancient royalty. It is utterly magical.

I could imagine a flagship store containing only Dimitrios jewelry, where the entire collection could be displayed exactly as they envisioned it, allowing people to experience the fullness of the brand.

“Vasilis, I LOVE this idea! I can totally imagine it! Where will you have this store?” I asked.

“My first preference would be here in downtown Athens. The cultural epicenter of Greece. The city where people from all over the world come.”

“Yes, that’s perfect! I have to ask, what do you envision on the walls of this incredible place showcasing the experience of your brand?” I asked with a coy smile.

A smile filled his face as well.

“I see your paintings of kings and queens. The feeling of those paintings completely embodies our brand.”

“Vasilis, you have no idea how honored I would feel to create paintings just for your store. They could be wearing your jewelry and completely glowing with it. I already have a vision for it.”

I was beaming.

“Let’s do it then! I would LOVE to have your paintings in my store. It will only add to the elegance and magic of what we have to offer.”

As I pondered the question I had been asked about losing an opportunity because my skills weren’t good enough, and whether a better opportunity eventually replaced it, this was the opportunity that came to mind.

But there was an important difference.

I felt completely aligned with Vasilis, his business and the point of view of his brand. There was zero internal conflict. Nothing felt forced or disingenuous.

I feel deeply connected to the history and legacy his jewelry represents. I feel connected to his lovely family and what they have built together. Greece is part of my own heritage, and I have been enthralled with Byzantine jewelry since I was young. Painting kings and queens dripping in Dimitrios jewelry for a flagship store in the heart of Athens doesn’t require me to bend my artistic voice to fit the opportunity. It asks me to become even more of who I already am.

And suddenly I saw the Kentucky Derby differently.

For years, I had thought that opportunity had been stolen from me. All the coincidences surrounding it seemed so perfect that I had decided they must mean something. My birthday. Secretariat. My love of horses. The 140th anniversary. The Kentucky gallery. The connection to the committee. It all seemed to have destiny written all over it.

So when the door slammed shut, I couldn’t understand how something that felt so ordained could possibly be taken away.

But maybe I misunderstood what all those signs meant.

Maybe they weren’t there to guarantee the outcome I had imagined. Maybe they were there to get my attention.

Because looking back now, the Kentucky Derby wasn’t actually a perfect fit for me. To take advantage of that opportunity, I would have needed to bend my art toward something that wasn’t quite me. I would have painted horses racing under jockeys instead of the powerful, wild and free horses I loved to paint. I would have attached my work to an industry I had reservations about. I would have accepted all of those compromises because the opportunity seemed too big to turn down.

And maybe that’s one of the most dangerous things about a great opportunity.

Sometimes it looks so much like destiny that we are willing to abandon little pieces of ourselves to have it.

Twelve years later, I don’t have to do that.

The opportunity in Athens doesn’t require me to become a different artist. It requires me to become more fully myself.

I can paint the subjects I love, in the way I love to paint them. I can draw from my Greek heritage, my fascination with Byzantine history, my love of beauty, royalty, symbolism and storytelling. I can collaborate with people I admire and create work for a brand I genuinely believe in.

And perhaps most importantly, I am a much better artist now than I was twelve years ago.

That rejection hurt me. The words “not refined enough” followed me around for years. But they also became part of the fire that kept me growing. I kept painting. I kept learning. I kept taking risks. I kept becoming.

Maybe that’s what we misunderstand about rejection.

We think the closed door means we missed our destiny.

Maybe sometimes the closed door is part of it.

Not every opportunity, no matter how good it sounds or how perfectly the circumstances seem to align, is necessarily for you. Sometimes we grieve something because we can only see what we lost. We cannot yet see what we are becoming capable of receiving.

As artists, we will face harsh criticism and critique, unfairness, jealousy, misunderstanding and sometimes even mistreatment. We will experience deep disappointments, failures, rejection and being overlooked. Sometimes it will genuinely be unfair. Sometimes our skills really aren’t there yet. Sometimes we will never know why the door closed.

But we cannot allow rejection to decide who we become.

We have to grieve. We have to heal. We have to learn. And then we have to get back to work.

Not creeping forward wounded and shaken, but returning stronger, fiercer and more resilient. Becoming better at our craft, more secure in who we are, and less willing to abandon ourselves for an opportunity simply because it looks impressive.

Because the goal isn’t to force open every door.

It’s to become the artist who is ready when the right one opens.

I once thought destiny looked like a flowery dress, an audacious hat and my painting hanging at the Kentucky Derby on my forty-first birthday.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe it looks like kings and queens dripping in Byzantine jewelry, hanging on the walls of a beautiful store in the heart of Athens.

And maybe nothing was stolen from me after all.