When I picture the American Southwest I envision wide-open expanses of scrub, interrupted occasionally by the odd canyon and accompanying rock formations, cacti and tumbleweed, bleached cow skulls and desert roses. I envision all of the stereotypical desert tropes, Wile E. Coyote hiding under a flat-topped mesa isn’t far off in the background. There are a number of things that have informed my impression of the Southwest–the old Roadrunner cartoons, photographs of my mother’s, taken long before my sister and I were born, and Georgia O’Keeffe.

I discovered Georgia at the Art Institute of Chicago. It truly felt like a discovery to me, because she was displayed above a somewhat forgotten staircase. To find her, one must first pass through many halls of Impressionism where Claude Monet’s world-famous Water Lily paintings live, and through lots of rooms of dusty and tortured European depictions of “Christ on the Cross”; look for the bathrooms and there you’ll find her. Indeed, finding the piece is a journey, arriving at it akin to reaching a far off destination. Statistics say that it would take over 100 days, spending a mere 30 seconds with each artwork on view, to see every single thing at the Louvre in Paris. The Art Institute is a smaller museum, however, you can apply the same basic premise to its collections of work displayed. I had been to the Art Institute a number of times–starting at age eight–before coming across the piece when I was 12, which honestly feels a little unfair to Georgia, who donated it to the museum in 1983. Surely she could not have intended for it to be all but abandoned over a staircase when she gifted the work. Sky Above Clouds IV (1965) sprawls 24 feet wide and hangs 10 feet above your head over a marble staircase deep in the museum’s recesses. Thankfully, the stair has a skylight which lends the enormous canvas a subtle glow, all the same though the magnificent piece feels misplaced in its corner of the massive Art Institute.

I grew up in a household that emphasized the importance of art in everyday life. Both of my parents were creatives–my mother a commercial interior designer and my father an architect, who turned to artists to inspire their work. I was exposed to every kind of art possible at a young age, and I credit my parents with my love for art today. The feeling of “happening” upon Georgia’s painting in a stairwell is familiar because that is how much of her artwork made me feel; like I’d found something truly mythical, that spoke to my very soul. I understand how ironic that feeling is now, knowing what I do about Georgia’s work, her life, her fame–but as a child, I had no way of understanding that Georgia was not simply painting for me, and for me alone. When I looked at a painting of two calla lilies against a white background I could feel the velvet of their petals and I could smell the green of their stems. This was the first time in my life that I would reconcile a painted picture with my experiences, with my life. When I looked at that painting I was not only seeing the image on the page but also the vase of white calla lilies my mother had kept in her bathroom. For the first time, art was personal.

I’ve lived in New York for a number of years now, as such, I have a number of celebrity sightings under my belt. This is not boastful, it’s honest. Many, many actors call New York home, and many film here constantly. My initial curiosity at a Haddad’s film truck has turned to utter exasperation because they’ve blocked the whole goddamn street and I am stuck behind it in a cab with the meter ticking ever higher, my patience threading ever leaner, and my appointment growing ever more tardy. However, I was recently at a restaurant with a good friend when I noticed that the group sitting at the next table included Jake Gyllenhaal. I am no fan girl, but part of my aching, teenage heart still beats and so when I saw his dreamy blue eyes, I nearly swooned. I was thoroughly starstruck.

Rewind about 20 years to when I first saw Sky Above Clouds IV. Apply the same feeling of breathlessness, of admiration, of disbelief at finding something so extraordinary in a situation as ordinary as attending a museum, and that is exactly how I felt. I’m an art history nerd, I am more commonly starstruck by paintings I have studied extensively and admired from afar than I am by real celebrities. My visit to Leonardo Da Vinci’s Last Supper (1495-1498) in Milan is the same as the next person’s chance encounter with Robert De Niro, or insert-your-favorite-celeb-here.

Take a look at Georgia’s depiction of soaring above the clouds and try to replicate that sensation for yourself. Imagine, next time you are in an airplane, that you are not trapped in a tin can that seems to defy physics and all logic, that your neighbor in the next row over is not attempting to cough up their left lung, and that you have more than six inches of personal space. Imagine, for a moment, the electric jolt that runs from wrist to fingertip when you are well and truly thrilled by something unexpected. Imagine that freedom.