Moments of Transition
Good morning, everyone! My name is Maurie McInnis. And on behalf of Dean Lewis, Provost Strobel, and all of our colleagues, it is an honor to welcome you to Yale.
This is only my second opening assembly as university president, but I’ve quickly learned it may be my favorite moment of the year.
Yes, graduations are fun. Reunions are joyful. But nothing quite compares to the energy of this day, the buzz of possibility, the promise of new beginnings.
Of course, as a parent who’s had to drop two kids off at college, I know the swirl of emotions of this moment: The tug of sadness as you say goodbye, ultimately outweighed by the immense excitement you feel for your child.
So, to the parents in the audience, let me just say thank you: thank you for letting us be part of your child’s journey. Thank you for trusting us to guide their pursuit of knowledge for the next four years. We take that responsibility seriously. And I can promise you this: By coming to Yale, your child will not only receive a world-class education. They will also become a part of a rich community of learners—one that feeds their curiosity, challenges their thinking, and helps them grow as both scholars and people.
That’s the power of a Yale education. And it doesn’t fade. It’s a compass you’ll carry with you for the rest of your life, with curiosity as its true north. And it’s more important than ever, especially in a world that seems to be changing at warp speed.
Which brings me to what I want to talk about today. I am, as some of you may know, an art historian by training. I was lucky enough to receive my graduate degree in art history here at Yale, where I got to study under some of the world’s foremost scholars in the field. And while I have many fond memories of this campus, my most cherished ones were formed at the Yale University Art Gallery.
I encourage all of you to visit also. It’s a remarkable collection spanning centuries and cultures—from Assyrian reliefs dating back to 9th century B.C., to Vincent Van Gogh’s legendary Night Café, to Yale-graduate Wangechi Mutu’s stunning Sentinel sculpture.
As today marks the beginning of a journey for each of you, I want to spend time talking about one particular painting that also depicts a journey: Winslow Homer’s Old Mill, commonly known as The Morning Bell.
If you want to see it in person, it’s on view on the second floor of the gallery. For now, you can find a copy printed in your opening assembly program.
What I love about this piece is its inherent ambiguity, the way it captures liminality. Like life, and like the best classrooms, it resists easy answers. Instead, it invites us to ask questions.
We are immediately drawn to the woman in red; it is the brightest color in the somber painting, and our eye is led there by the pathway in the foreground. She stands alone in the still morning air, bathed in sunlight, a lunchpail dangling from her left hand. Her dress seems to be shaped like the bell we see swinging high above the mill’s roof.[1] She is in motion; her skirt swaying, her back foot lifted.
It is not exactly clear where she has come from, but we have the sense that her destination must be the textile mill looming in the background. Her face is shadowed by the brim of a straw hat, looking downward, rather than at her likely destination.
Behind her stands a group of women in conversation, their whispering posture almost conspiratorial.
Questions abound. The forward motion of the woman in red could imply that she was just speaking with the three women. Or, did she mount the makeshift ramp and just complete her turn without speaking with the others? Is the whispering woman talking about her? And what awaits her when she reaches the mill?
Historical context can help us fill in some of the details of this story. Completed in 1871, Homer’s Old Mill was painted in a dawning age when unfathomable new technologies like electric power and the telephone emerged and would eventually radically change the landscape of work and society. It was an era defined by disruption, with whole industries and ways of life transforming almost overnight.
With that context, we can look at the painting with fresh eyes. What do we see now? Perhaps a woman standing on the precipice of a new world, rife with both uncertainty and opportunity, as unsure of her footing as she is of her future.
As a graduate student, I spent a lot of time in front of this painting with one of my Yale professors, the preeminent art historian Jules Prown. He has written extensively and exquisitely about The Morning Bell.
Prown noted that Homer’s paintings were frequently populated by anonymous figures, their faces often obscured.[1]
That was intentional, an invitation to see ourselves within the frame. And yet, we are entering a scene that does not have clear direction or a predictable outcome.
If we imagine ourselves as the young woman at the center of this painting, did we enter via the rickety pathway in the foreground? And why was this additional makeshift path necessary? What will we find when we get to the destination? Is this our first day?
Maybe Homer is reminding us that there is more than one way to get to your destination and that the well-worn trail isn’t the only one worth taking. Certainly, each of you has a different story, a different path you took to get here today. It might have been a rocky road, a path filled with risks. And I’m sure it wasn’t always easy. Maybe you got a few splinters or tripped over a plank or two along the way. But you made it nonetheless.
So where are you going now? What does the future hold for the woman in motion? And for each of you?
Homer’s rickety bridge can be seen as connecting the nation’s agrarian past to the industrial present[2] or a tightrope-walk from the safe harbor of childhood to the weighty responsibility of adult life.[1]
Today, you may also feel like you’re crossing a bridge, connecting one part of your life to the next. And you, too, will have choices to make. At this moment, as you get ready to say goodbye to your friends and family, like the woman in the painting, you may have feelings of uncertainty and hesitation. And you, too, will have to find your footing in a world being remade in real time.
Like the period depicted in Old Mill, we have entered our own moment of rapid transformation. Artificial intelligence is changing the way we work, learn, think, and interact. Social media and technology, for all its promises of connection, are making us lonelier than ever. Disinformation is rampant, and distrust in institutions has reached historic highs. And according to a Gallup poll from last fall, 80 percent of Americans believe the nation is divided on key values.[3]
So, what does this mean for students like you, on the cusp of your bright college years? What does this mean for institutions like Yale, as the very purpose of higher education is debated across the nation? Well, much like Old Mill and its central figure, we can’t predict the future. And we don’t have all the answers. No one does…not even ChatGPT. Ask it. See what it says.
But we do have the tools to meet this moment. Armed with curiosity, courage, and compassion. Anchored by humility, open-mindedness, and mutual respect for each other’s dignity and humanity.
These enduring qualities form the bedrock of any strong community of learning, one that does not merely weather the storms we face but emerges stronger from them.
That’s why I believe in this moment of transition, you could not be at a better place than Yale. Not just because of the brilliance of our faculty or the breadth of our resources. But because of the people sitting right beside you. The classmates who will become your community.
Over the next four years, many of them will become your dearest friends and closest confidantes, your study buddies and intellectual sparring partners. They will both challenge and strengthen your ideas, whether it’s across a seminar table or over a plate of mozzarella sticks.
Together, you have the opportunity to prepare yourselves for whatever the future brings. And at a time when the purpose of the university is being discussed, you should feel more confident than ever in the value of a liberal arts education, because that will prepare you, not just to be ready for the future, but to help shape it.
Because in a world in flux, the skills and relationships you gain here will help you adapt and thrive. The ability to think critically, engage respectfully, ask questions, and interrogate ideas—that’s what stands the tests of both time and technology.
Sometimes I wonder how Winslow Homer would depict the community I just described. Like many artists, Homer valued his solitude, but he was fascinated by the idea of community, by the shared values and rituals that bind us together, even as the world so often conspires to drive us apart.
As Prown notes, Homer—painting in post-Civil War America—observed that community in its purest form was the realm of children.[1]
Children—who have not yet been taught to judge or fear one another.
Children—who have not yet learned to view difference with distrust, or mask their truest selves.
To Homer, this openness is a key ingredient of community, one that gets contaminated and corrupted as we age. As we separate ourselves into silos and let our differences arouse contempt rather than curiosity.
We see this in the Old Mill as well. I often wonder, how different would that painting feel if they were all talking together, if the women whispering in the corner welcomed the woman in red.
As we embrace Homer’s vision of a connected community, I wonder what he might paint at Yale. Possibly a scene from the coming weeks, right here on Cross Campus. A group of first-year students sitting on a blanket, trading stories from their FOOT trip, comparing schedules and sharing their hopes for the semester ahead. Maybe a frisbee hovers above them. They gesture to someone walking by to join them on the blanket. Someone laughs. A bird sings. Sterling Memorial Library rises in the background, and the campus waits for Harkness Tower to chime its own morning bells.
It’s a different scene from the original Old Mill. Brighter and more connected. Both in the details of the image and the feelings it inspires in the viewer. But that contrast is the point. Because it reminds us of a simple but powerful truth: the world we create depends on how we treat one another. It depends on the community we build.
The women in the painting don’t have to meet the future alone. And neither do we.
In those liminal moments of transition, we must turn toward each other.
The next four years will be filled with opportunities for you to do exactly that.
In your residential college, where you’ll bond with your FroCo group, make friends across classes, and wear your college colors with pride at First-Year Olympics.
In the classroom, where you’ll have the chance to engage with and learn from the world’s brightest minds—both the ones at the front of the room and the ones seated right next to you.
In the dining halls, where your conversations will outlast your meals and run the gamut from physics to philosophy to maybe even the works of artists like Winslow Homer.
In New Haven, where you’ll explore the vibrant city we’re lucky to call home, and debate until the wee hours of the morning which pizza joint reigns supreme.
And at Dwight Hall, where you’ll turn scholarship into service and make community part of your curriculum.
Time after time, you will have the chance to fill the canvas before you with connection.
Take it.
In this moment of transition, in the face of uncertainty and instability in the world, be the hand that reaches out first. Be the friendly ear that listens or the soft voice that comforts. Seek out and learn from other perspectives, not just those you arrived with.
Because that’s how you build a community. One small gesture at a time.
Today, it’s my great privilege to welcome you to our community.
Welcome to Yale. We’re so happy you’re here.