I studied Art History in college. It was January of my sophomore year and I had to choose a major. Up to that point, I hadn’t really liked or more accurately, felt genuinely interested in anything. There’d been the sociology and psychology lectures, the African history symposium, French, Classic literature and a number of political science classes. But nothing had really sparked my curiosity until I’d signed up for a class on Cubism the previous semester. It was a small group, maybe ten or twelve students sitting around a large table. We delved into the roots of Cubism, the birth of modern art, looking through a historical lens, a painting lens and discovering how the writers, thinkers and visual artists all influenced one another. I was rapt. I felt alive. This was fascinating.