The first time I visited a contemporary art museum, I was five years old. I don’t remember the name of the museum, but I do recall that museums were dull places. I was dreading a day with paintings of trees and mountains; I already knew their color and texture and how all would seamlessly blend into the other. I then realized how dazzlingly unpredictable art could be. That day, I saw robots crafted from kitchen utensils. Teapot spouts became elephant noses. Whisks became hands. The cold metal became character and life. The ordinary was given an intense personality. I learned that “things” aren’t what they seem, and that art was a road, maybe my road, to a richer understanding of life.
College essays make me sound so pretentious.