The First of October

I am still an artist.

It was the First of October, 2019. I was walking along the west side of Low Library on the campus of my Alma Mater, Columbia University. It had been a little more than a year since I graduated with my B.A. in Biology and Psychology here, but I felt as though it had been ages ago. I felt strange and unsure of myself as I strolled down the paths of the campus that I had called home for four years. It was a nostalgic feeling, and deep inside I almost wished I could go back and re-do those years. Almost.

I stopped at the edge of the concrete barrier on the right side of the bottom of the steps in front of Low Library. I leaned against the barrier and took out my little Canon camera. I took a picture of what I saw as I stood there. Butler Library looked beautiful with its lights on, flooded with students in the beauty of the twilight. I was almost envious of all the students rushing into the library to study or meet up with their friends. Almost.

There was also a function going on at the bottom of the Low Library steps. It looked like an awards ceremony, with trophies sitting on the tables that had been laid out. Meanwhile, there were students and professors rushing to and fro, appearing busy and carrying themselves with confidence. They were full of hope and certainty, looking forward to the next opportunity to shine, to do something amazing with their education. There were also people heading toward the train station, or heading to the dining hall, ready for dinner with family or friends after a long day of working toward their goals. I was almost envious of each and every person I saw. Almost.

In my hand, I had my Canon. I looked at the three photos I had just taken: one horizontal photo of Butler Library at twilight, then one horizontal photo of the purple sky with its little crescent moon above the journalism school building, and then one vertical photo of Butler Library again with a view of people rushing to and fro in the large space between Low and Butler. (I took the photos in that order.)

It was difficult for me to not have regrets. I had applied to Columbia back in 2013 as a 17-yr-old high school girl with dreams of becoming an artist. I had expressed my aspirations passionately in my application essay. That was precisely what characterized the potential that the committee saw in me and prompted them to give me a chance. (Read this essay about my love of art. This is the essay I sent to Columbia in 2013.)

When I began attending Columbia in Fall 2014 as a wide-eyed undergrad, I became gradually less confident in how much I deserved to realize my artistic aspirations. I felt very intimated by everyone and everything, so I gave up on my original plan to become an artist, for the most part. I chose to major in Biology and Psychology as a pre-med student because it was a practical thing to do. I was not sure exactly what I should do with my life.

Being a doctor seemed like a straightforward path to take—not easy, but straightforward in its planning. So I went through everything that I needed to go through in order to be ready to apply to medical school. I took all the science courses that were required of me, and I took the MCAT. I took summer courses two out of the three summers during college. I did not have many close friends in college because I had this unreasonable feeling of guilt for what felt like “wasting time.” This is something I almost regret. Almost.

I tried to keep my love of art alive by doing it part-time. I did not have time to draw or paint anymore, so I began teaching art classes at an art/dance center in Brooklyn on the weekends. I lived vicariously through the children I taught art to. I also started modeling/photography and frequently volunteering in art-related functions because that was how I found people I truly connected with, who had the same interests as me. At one point I put the art aside temporarily (during my junior and senior years at Columbia) so that I could focus my energies on things like studying for the MCAT and doing well in organic chemistry.

Sometimes, I think about what would have happened if I had chosen a different field of study, namely Visual Art. Would I be happier now? Would I be more successful in my art? Would I have made more friends in college who I could easily relate to? I try to suppress these thoughts because I do not want to have regrets. I remind myself that the knowledge and experiences I gained by studying Psychology and Biology were not a waste of time. They are a part of my story, which is not yet complete.

I strongly believe that one can apply any field of study to any other field of life—everything is connected. Art and Biology, Biology and Psychology, Psychology and Art, and almost everything else there is. I have seen successful individuals combine the most dissimilar subjects in the process of making history. This is what keeps me going and reassures me that I can still follow my heart now. I can still be an artist, because the Universe and everyone who knows me best knows that art is what I love more than anything else. I am not sure what my career will be, but my art is the one thing that will always be a part of me.

Looking out at the students rushing to and fro on the Columbia campus at twilight on the First of October, I smiled because I knew. I knew the feeling of uncertainty that was universally hidden in each person. I knew what it was like to be a Columbia student because I had been there not too long ago, and I knew the feeling of being intimidated, which could easily lead to the feeling of not being good enough, of not being deserving of one’s deepest aspirations. I knew the feeling of almost giving up.

But I am here to say that everyone deserves to be happy and do what makes him/her/them happy. Never give up on the things that make you happy. I have no regrets because I see everything I have ever done through the lens of what I love, and that is my Art. The biology I studied was the Art of life at its most fundamental level, and the psychology I studied was the Art of human behavior.

There I was at Columbia, thinking these thoughts with the Canon still in my hand. The light was gone; it was 7pm. I am still an artist.