would become some of the most valuable objects—culturally and monetarily—that have ever existed in the world.
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It is a myth that Vincent van Gogh died in anonymity. An ecstatic review cast him as a revolutionary months before he died, and made him the talk of Paris. Claude Monet, the dean of impressionism—the movement Van Gogh ignored, lamented, and then innovated upon—declared Van Gogh’s work the cream of an annual exhibition.
Adjusted for inflation, four of Van Gogh’s paintings have sold for more than $100 million, and they weren’t even the most famous ones. His work now graces everything from socks to cell phone covers and an eponymous vodka brand. But he reached far beyond commerce.
“What artists do changed because of Vincent Van Gogh,” artist and writer Steven Naifeh told me. (Naifeh, with Gregory White Smith, wrote “the definitive biography,” according to a curator of the Van Gogh Museum.) Van Gogh’s paintings served as a bridge to modern art and inspired a widespread devotion that no artist, perhaps no person, has equaled. Teenagers who have never visited a museum tape his art to their walls; Japanese travelers leave the ashes of their ancestors at his grave. In 2016, the Art Institute of Chicago displayed together all three iconic “Bedrooms”—pictures meant “to rest the brain, or rather the imagination,” according to Van Gogh; the record number of visitors forced them to create impromptu crowd control strategies, with a TSA-precheck-style express lane.
And yet had Van Gogh died at thirty-four rather than thirty-seven (life expectancy in the Netherlands when he was born was forty), he might not even merit a historical footnote. The same goes for Paul Gauguin, a painter who briefly lived with Van Gogh and innovated a style known as synthetism, in which bold lines separated sections of brilliant color, without the subtle gradations of classical painting. He, too, became one of the few artists to crack the $100 million barrier. He spent the first six years of his professional life with the merchant marine before he found his calling: bourgeois stockbroker. Only after the market crash of 1882 did Gauguin become a full-time artist, at the age of thirty-five. His switch is reminiscent of J. K. Rowling’s. She “failed on an epic scale” in her twenties, she once said, personally and professionally. A short marriage “imploded,” and she was a single mother and unemployed former teacher on welfare. Like Van Gogh in the coal country and Gauguin after the crash, she was “set free” by failure to try work that better matched her talents and interests.
They all appear to have excelled in spite of their late starts. It would be easy enough to cherry-pick stories of exceptional late developers overcoming the odds. But they aren’t exceptions by virtue of their late starts, and those late starts did not stack the odds against them. Their late starts were integral to their eventual success.
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“Match quality” is a term economists use to describe the degree of fit between the work someone does and who they are—their abilities and proclivities.
Northwestern University economist Ofer Malamud’s inspiration for studying match quality was personal experience. He was born in Israel, but his father worked for a shipping company, and when Malamud was nine the family moved to Hong Kong, where he attended an English school. The English system required that a student home in on an academic specialization in the last two years of high school. “When you applied to a college in England, you had to apply to a specific major,” Malamud told me. His father was an engineer, so he figured he should do engineering. At the last moment, he chose not to pick a specialty. “I decided to apply to the U.S. because I didn’t know what I wanted to do,” he said.
He started with computer science, but quickly learned that wasn’t his thing. So he sampled subjects before settling on economics and then philosophy. The experience left him with an abiding curiosity about how the timing of specialization impacts career choice. In the late 1960s, future Nobel laureate economist Theodore Schultz argued that his field had done well to show that higher education increased worker productivity, but that economists had neglected the role of education in allowing individuals to delay specialization while sampling and finding out who they are and where they fit.
Malamud could not randomly assign people to life in order to study specialization timing, but he found a natural experiment in the British school system. For