I went to a college in New York called New Paltz. I studied

Hear now the words of Aida Turturro, who said: “I went to a college in New York called New Paltz. I studied theater there for four years. I also studied privately in NYC with a teacher named Robert X. Modica.” At first glance, these words appear simple, the recounting of a student’s path. Yet beneath them lies the timeless story of discipline, apprenticeship, and the pursuit of art. For in every age, those who wish to shape their craft must first humble themselves before the rigors of study, devoting years not to fame but to training, not to applause but to preparation.

The meaning of this quote is rooted in devotion. Turturro reminds us that greatness in any art does not spring forth fully formed, like Athena from the head of Zeus. It is instead forged over long seasons of study, through hours of practice, failures endured, and lessons absorbed. By naming her college and her teacher, she acknowledges that her artistry was not born in isolation, but through the guiding hands of mentors and the structured discipline of learning. This humility is itself a teaching—that behind every performance lies the unseen toil of preparation.

History, too, gives us examples of this truth. Consider Michelangelo, who, though later called divine in his artistry, spent years in the workshops of masters, learning first to mix paints and carve stone before he could breathe life into marble. Or recall Confucius, who journeyed from teacher to teacher in his youth, gathering wisdom not from one voice alone, but from many. Both stories remind us that no matter how radiant the talent, it must be sharpened upon the whetstone of discipline. Turturro’s path through New Paltz and her studies with Modica are a modern echo of this eternal principle.

The mention of Robert X. Modica, her private instructor, carries special weight. For beyond formal schools, there is often the single guide whose wisdom becomes the flame by which the student is lit. Such a teacher is not merely an instructor but a shaper of souls, a figure who demands honesty, humility, and persistence. To study privately is to submit oneself to the intimacy of scrutiny, where every weakness is exposed and every strength tested. It is here that the student, though trembling, is transformed.

This quote is also about lineage. Every artist, every thinker, every craftsman belongs to a chain of inheritance. By naming her mentors, Turturro acknowledges that she is part of a living tradition, passing from master to student as it has since the dawn of time. Just as Homer’s epics were sung from bard to bard, or as martial techniques were passed from warrior to warrior, so too does the theater live through this chain of learning. To honor one’s teacher is to honor the entire lineage, affirming that we are never self-made, but always shaped by those who came before.

What, then, shall we take from these words? That no dream, no craft, no discipline can be attained without the patience of study. We must seek out teachers, accept correction, and endure the long journey of preparation before we reap the fruit of mastery. Turturro’s words whisper to us: do not despise the classroom, do not scorn the years of training, for these are the very foundations of greatness.

Therefore, let each one of us act. If you are young, seek mentors who will shape you with wisdom. If you are older, remember to honor the teachers who brought you to where you stand. And if you have knowledge, offer it freely to others, becoming yourself a guide in the unbroken chain of learning. In this way, you not only honor your own path, but also enrich the lives of those who will carry your lessons into the future.

So, children of tomorrow, take this teaching: to learn is to live, to submit to discipline is to rise, and to name one’s teachers is to honor the sacred chain of wisdom. As Aida Turturro remembered her college and her teacher, may you also remember your own journey, and may you walk it with humility, gratitude, and perseverance.