Today, it’s a very special episode of ArtCurious— and a big ol’ thank you, to you.

If you’d like to donate to ArtCurious, please feel free to do so here.

Episode Credits:

Production and Editing by Kaboonki. Theme music by Alex Davis.  Additional music by Storyblocks. Logo by Vaulted.co.

ArtCurious is sponsored by Anchorlight, an interdisciplinary creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle.

Episode Transcript

A long, long time ago now, I was but a lowly college freshman at a large school on the California coast north of Los Angeles. I entered college with a clear idea of what I was, who I was, what I wanted to be. I had claimed 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. I’d had it all figured out.

I clearly remember one afternoon where I had a block of free time between classes one day. Hoisting my backpack up across my shoulders, I hoofed it across campus to the student bookstore. What better place to kill time, right? I admired the rows of assigned texts, books neatly arranged by department and course, and then I moved over to the general section showcasing books and magazines for sale. I checked out the latest novels released that week, I browsed the 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 going to go check out what’s over there.

I had, you see, recently begun my very first art history class. If you’ve read my book, or perhaps heard me speak about my introduction to 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 I think it took me a minute to become aware of it. 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. I had just written my very first art history paper, on the Italian painter, Giotto, and the frescoes he had painted for the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, not far from Venice. This, I had learned, was a major project, one of the most important works of the era, and one that 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. I was putting my newly-minted and rather rusty skills to use to identify iconography, symbols, to even describe something visual through the lens of the written word. I hadn’t done that before, at least not to this degree. How did I do? Well, in my personal, Type-A opinion, not great. I have a very clear visual of 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 and finally accepted my limitations. I 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 shelves 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 art skills. I didn’t have to do anything at all. I just wanted to enjoy the art there.

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 session of my art history class. And what’s more, she was making a beeline for me. Straight for me. Uh oh, I thought. Oh no, she read my paper and she’s coming to tell me that it totally and utterly sucked. I stood there rooted to the spot, aware of my upcoming dressing-down. And even worse, there I was standing among all the art books, one 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 to accept the disappointment that awaited me.

The grad student stopped and said, “Jennifer, hi.” I have no recollection if I responded. I’m sure I said something like, “ahhhhh?” But it was probably “Heeeey?” For a second that lasted a decade, she looked at me quizzically. And then she said, “Have you already declared a major?”

This is not what I was expecting. Why didn’t she just jump in and tell 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! What a bore! Confused, I said, “Um, yeah. I’m majoring in geology.” Yeah. I was a rock nerd.

The grad student paused for just 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 T.A. was praising my work—even that potentially disastrous Giotto essay—I probably mumbled a surprised “thank you.” Mostly, though, I felt really stunned, and happy. Someone—and someone in an authority position, comparatively—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 passed a piano, plonked out a barely passable rendition of “Chopsticks,” and a nearby conductor stopped in their tracks to say, “Hey, have you ever considered joining an orchestra?” It’s a ridiculous comparison, but to me, being an art history major felt ridiculous too.  By that night, though, the idea had wormed its way through my mind. I called my mother on the phone, relayed my surprising experience to her and said, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll end up double-majoring! Geology and art history!”

It's probably no surprise to you that I didn’t end up double-majoring in geology and art history. It’s probably even less of a surprise to you, especially if you’re, oh, older than about 17 years old, that none of the things I so confidently knew, in my bones, about myself also did not come to pass. That close friend and I grew apart. That relationship did not last forever. I didn’t get that job when I grew up, and I now live just shy of 3,000 miles away from where I expected I’d end up. And I also didn’t end up continuing in geology at all. That major I had so proudly declared on Day 1 of my university career? I dropped it a month before my junior year.  In nearly every major way, my life turned out very different than I had expected. And in each situation, I learned later, it was So. Much. Better.

 Choosing art history and following that ridiculous path is one of the reasons why my life, to date, has been happier, more fun, nuttier, and just bigger than I thought it could be. I wasn’t hit with a blinding epiphany that day in the student bookstore that I had stumbled onto that path, though. It found me, and its pull was subtle—it took some time for me to give in and acknowledge that little voice that would eventually lead me to change my major, after all. What I did, though, was that I listened that day to what the grad student had said, and I kept that information somewhere in me. I held onto it. Eventually it got pushed deeper into the recesses of my mind. Eventually I stopped taking art history classes and I got swamped in a myriad other college pastimes and problems. But that nugget of information was still there, waiting for the time when I could use it to decide my next move and my next decision. I knew when the time was right. I listened to that intuition, grabbed hold of that memory that I’d make a good art historian, and then I jumped in wholeheartedly.

That’s how it was when I started ArtCurious, too. I’d never made a podcast before, but after studying art history for many years and then working professionally as an art curator in a midsize museum, I knew that I had the ability to talk about art, to share a good story about it, and that it was the right time to jump into a fun new project. I had few expectations. Truly, I didn’t even know that anyone was going to listen, outside of a few dozen friends and family.  I just had a little voice inside me that said, “Hey, let’s try this!” And so I listened.

And now here I am with you. And it’s been seven-and-a-half years of another spate of goodness that I could never have foreseen, a new road I followed with confidence and exasperation and joy and annoyance and far more social media than I have ever been comfortable with. But wow. There’s no way I could have ever predicted that you’d be here right now, listening. Nor that we’d produce 220 stand-alone episodes, from full-length stories—we’ve produced 118 of those babies—to mini-sodes, to interviews with authors and to interviews of me, weekly news roundups, and lots more. And let’s not forget the book, when ArtCurious came out in 2020 from Penguin Press. And then there’s the events! The group tours! Virtual chats and in-person lectures, the book club appearances. I’m not saying this to brag, though of course I’m flummoxed and honored and gob smacked by it all—but to note that, again—wow. Who knew. I certainly didn’t.

But now I do. A few years back I left a full-time job at an art museum to do just this because I knew that it was the right choice for me—to get to do this for you, for me, full-time. And so I listened again to the unexpected little voice that told me to make that change and that life had something else in store for me.

And it’s time for me to do that again. It’s time for me to say goodbye to you as the host and creator of the ArtCurious podcast. I have a profound sense of peace and gratitude because I’m so thankful for all that this has brought to me and to us—thankful for you—and holy cow, what a blast it’s been. And now I’m absolutely jazzed to do something totally different with my tired brain—podcasting at this level for 7 and a half years had been a lot and I’m craving a new adventure. And I’ve more than accomplished everything that I’ve ever wanted to do with this show, and far, far more. As with life in general, it’s all been so much better than I had ever hoped, so much bigger than I could have known. I didn’t do it all alone—ArtCurious, though mostly a solo endeavor, was helped along the way by thousands. From sponsors at Anchorlight Raleigh and VAE Raleigh, to patrons on Patreon, to the many who donated funds large and small. To those who shared their love for certain episodes, who recommended it to friends. To a dozen research assistants over these years, to the encouragement of friends and the impressed comment from curatorial colleague, and especially to a certain producer and podcaster at Kaboonki who made it all sound so darn good and toiled for actual years to make it so. And to you. To you above all. Thank you. I did this for you, with hopes that you’d enjoy it. And thank you for letting me know that you did.

What’s next, I’m sure you are wondering. Well, I’m not leaving you 100% high and dry—I have mentioned it elsewhere, but I’m working on my second book right now, and it’s due to be published in 2025. I’ve also got trips running with Like Minds Travel, and speaking events coming up in various places for various organizations next year. So you’ll still have outlets to enjoy more of my work and even me in the next few years. I am going to be taking a break on social media because—man, life’s better without it—but you’ll be seeing me post again here and there as we get closer to the publication date of my book in 2025. Other than that, what does my future hold? I actually don’t know. Will it be in the art world? I don’t know that, either. And that’s kind of great. All I do know is that I’m ready to follow that new road, to listen again to that little voice telling me to trod this path. I don’t exactly know where it will lead, but if the past is any indication, then I know this, at least: whatever happens next, it will be unexpected, slightly odd, and strangely wonderful.