Episode #119: Unexpected, Slightly Odd, and Strangely Wonderful

Oh, these many years ago now. I was but a lowly college freshman at a large school on the California coast north of Los Angeles. I started college with this clear idea of what I was, who I was, what I wanted to be.

I had this major. This person was my best friend. This relationship would last forever. I would have this job when I grew up.

I'd live in this state. And I had it all figured out. I clearly remember one afternoon where I had this chunk of time that was free between classes. Hoisting my backpack up over my shoulders, I hoofed it across campus to the student bookstore.

Because what better place would there be to kill some time? I admired the rows of assigned texts, books neatly arranged by department and course, and then I moved over to the general section that showcased all the other books and magazines for sale. I checked out the latest novels released that week.

I browsed gossip magazines, and after a moment, I looked over to see the words art and design emblazoned across the top of a nearby shelf. Hmm, I thought. That looks cool. I'm gonna go see what's going on over there. I had, you see, recently begun my very first art history class.

If you read my book or perhaps heard me speak about my introduction to the world of art in the past, then you'll remember that I wasn't always drawn to art. I ended up studying it, at least in that first semester, through no choice of my own. But I grew to love it very quickly, though it took a minute for me to become aware of that love.

And was I aware of it that day in the student bookstore? I don't think so. Believe it or not, I was feeling a bit down about my art history class that day. I had just written my very first art history paper on the Italian painter Giotto

and the frescoes that he painted for the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, not far from Venice. This, I had discovered through my readings, was a major project, one of the most important works of art of the era, and one that eventually had huge ramifications as the European art world

pivoted toward what we now call the Renaissance. But I had never written an art history paper before, you see, and I wasn't quite sure how to do it. So I was putting my newly minted, super rusty skills to use to identify things like symbols,

iconography, to even describe something visual through the lens of the written word. I hadn't done that before, or at least not to this degree. So how did I do? Well, in my personal Type A opinion, not great.

I have this very clear visual of me sitting at my dorm room desk, flailing about in front of my desktop computer, scowling for what felt like hours, because I was certain that this paper was awful. I did my best, but I finally accepted my limitations and called it done. Printed my paper out and submitted it to class the following week. So, back to the student bookstore. I scanned

the titles splayed across the spines of the dozens of books on the shelf before me, feeling compelled to crack them open and just look. Just to browse them for nothing but my own pleasure. I didn't have to write a paper on what I saw there. I didn't have to drag out those new art skills. I didn't have to do anything at all. I just wanted to enjoy what was in those books. And that's when, from

the corner of my eye, I caught some movement. Turning my head, I saw the graduate student who taught my particular discussion section of my art history class. And what more? She was making a beeline for me. Straight for me. Oh God, I thought. She read my paper on Giotto, and she's coming to tell me that it totally and utterly sucked. I stood there, rooted on the spot, totally aware

of my upcoming dressing down. And even worse, there I was, standing amongst all of those art books. One was open right there, in my own hands. My heart began thudding. My cheeks grew hot. I felt humiliated to be standing there, but had no alternative but to accept the disappointment that surely awaited me. The grad student stopped and said, Jennifer, hi. I have no recollection if

I responded. I'm sure I said something like, ah, but it was probably, hey? For a second that lasted a decade. She looked at me quizzically, and then she said, have you already decided on your major? This was not what I was expecting. Why wasn't she just jumping in and telling me that my giotto paper was a total piece of trash, and that most freshmen produced a higher caliber essay than

I had? What drivel did I produce? What a bore I was! Confused, I simply responded and said, um, yeah, I'm majoring in geology, because I was a rock nerd before becoming an art nerd. The grad student paused for a moment before she said, Ah, okay, cool.

Because if you ever decide that you want to change your major, you'd be a great art historian. I don't remember much about what happened after that moment. Nor about the rest of the day, really, until later that evening. I'm sure that when my brain finally clued into the fact that the TA was praising my work,

even that potentially disastrous Jotto essay, I probably just mumbled a surprised thank you. Mostly, though, I felt really stunned and happy. Someone, and someone who to me was in an authority position, just complimented me on something that I had no idea that I could remotely be good at.

That I could consider redirecting my life toward a goal I had never even considered. Not once. It felt like I had just passed a piano, plunked out a barely passable rendition of Chopsticks, and that a nearby conductor just stopped in their tracks to say,

hey, have you ever considered joining an orchestra? That is a ridiculous comparison. But to me, being an art history major felt ridiculous too. By that night, though, the idea had wormed its way into my mind.

I called my mom on the phone. I relayed my weird, surprising experience to her. And I said, who knows? Maybe I'll end up double majoring.

Geology and art history. Ha ha ha. It's probably no surprise to you that I didn't end up double majoring in geology and art history.