The following is the full transcript of American singer-songwriter and record producer Maggie Rogers’s NYU Tisch School of the Arts commencement address at Radio City Music Hall on May 16, 2025.
Listen to the audio version here:
Welcome and Opening Remarks
MAGGIE ROGERS: I want to welcome the parents and the special guests who are here today and take a moment also to say thank you to these professors who are behind me, who are such an important part of my life, and with whom I feel so honored to share this stage. But really, this is about all of you.
Today is one of those days that plays in the movie of your life, that you may have imagined for many years on end. And as you arrive in this moment, whether you’re bright-eyed or a little bit hungover, I hope you feel so proud. And I’m sure you might feel a little scared, too. This day marks a massive transition, and those kinds of days are always overwhelming.
A lot of speakers might stand up here and tell you that they remember how you feel. But I was sitting where you’re sitting just nine years ago. So when I tell you that, I promise I mean it.
Arriving in New York City
Like many of you, I moved to New York when I was 18. I came from cornfields and from the Chesapeake Bay of Maryland and arrived fresh and so hungry to sink my teeth into this big artistic life I knew was waiting for me. I was deeply earnest. Not much has changed. So obviously, New York City punched me directly in the face.
I remember that first night I was standing outside Third North, and I was meeting up with some Clive kids for the first time, and a woman came over and asked me if I had a cigarette. And I told her that cigarettes are evil, and I would never smoke. So I apologized and I told her that I didn’t have one, and she gave me this sort of offended look like she didn’t believe me, and then turned around, dropped her pants, and showed me her asshole. That maybe should have been the first sign that I was in for something unexpected.
First Day at Clive
The next day, my class gathered for the first time and we were each given five minutes and an aux cord to introduce ourselves and play some of our own music. And I remember I was wearing this long floral skirt I had bought at the Goodwill in Maryland and an American Apparel tank top. This was my coolest outfit. I had sort of tucked my knees up into my chair, which of course is the universal sign for misunderstood art girl. I reeked of self-importance.
But when it was time to introduce myself, I went up, barefoot, and instead of playing anything from the self-produced album that got me into Clive in the first place, I decided I wanted to read a spoken word poem, as I told my music classmates, because I wanted to be known for my words. Just like, ugh. In all fairness, here I am, words and all. But I think everyone in this room feels the cringe of how annoying I was. Because maybe it’s how annoying you were too four years ago when you first started out.
And maybe that’s at the core of what it means to be an art school kid at the beginning. Knowing you have something to say and maybe not having all of the tools to say it yet.
Finding Your People
It’s crazy because that was really one of those days that changed my life, meeting my classmates for the first time. I’ve always made my greatest work with my friends, and they’re the relationships I still lean on more than anything. A lot of what happened when I was here at NYU was just me figuring out the truest version of myself. And I was figuring it out with my friends.
I had a friend that took photos, a friend that made films, a friend that sold drugs, a friend that worked the door at Webster Hall. We wanted to document everything, write everything down. We’re going to be famous. We’re going to make art that changes the world. And really, we were learning how to dream.
From there I fell in love, I joined a band, and another band, and another band. We created fake managers with fake email addresses to book us shows we were nowhere near ready for and wanted more than anything. I called a classmate actually two days ago to ask if they remembered the name of our fake manager. It was Jack DeMarco. Jack.
That day we first met was 13 years ago, but I was in the studio with two of them last week. And when we work together, it feels like going home, making for the joy of making, going back to a time when we were free and experimenting and creating as a way to taste the world. Look around you. These are the most important people of your career. Someone told me that when I graduated, and I didn’t believe them because I was so excited about all the life and new faces that was ahead of me, but they were right.
Dreams Bigger Than Fear
A lifetime making art is in some ways about your tolerance for risk, whether it’s money or lifestyle or your own heart, but it’s equally about your ability to dream. In the years between learning how to dream and actually getting there, the whole time I felt like I was being tested. Like the universe kept asking, are you sure this is what you want? Is it what you want if you’re going to be heartbroken or exhausted or vulnerable or unsure?
When you love something so much, it can be terrifying to give it everything you have. God forbid I failed at a music career at 20, then my life would really be over.
What I learned from my friends is that you have to keep the dreams bigger than the fear.
The Birth of “Alaska”
I remember coming home one night from the studio my senior year with a new song I was calling “Alaska.” I hadn’t really made music I loved in a few years, and my advisor Errol had just informed me that I really needed to show up if I was going to pass. I sat on the roof of my East Village apartment that night with my roommate wondering if the song was good enough. We both agreed it was way too poppy, but its existence still meant I had something to turn in on Monday.
When it came down to it, those dreams kept me going and kept me focused, but it didn’t actually matter what I had planned or pictured for myself. On a foggy day in March, that also happened to be Dean Green’s birthday, my career arrived overnight.
The Cinderella Story
It’s the Cinderella story of a video. Maybe you’ve seen it, maybe it was force-fed to you. If you haven’t seen it, I play a song for Pharrell Williams, he really likes it, his reaction goes on YouTube, ta-da, I’m famous. What people saw in that video was this moment of alignment, they saw a past life or the universe or whatever you want to call it come along and hold my hand to the flame.
But no one saw all the hard work, or all the times I almost quit, they never heard the songs that didn’t work or the shows that were just bad. I’m remembering particularly this Halloween DJ set, the opening night of Baby’s Alright where I was dressed as The Death of Capitalism, still relevant.
There were all these almost exits, things that people will never see, moments when it almost didn’t happen or I missed the window, and you know that’s the thing that I always remember about what’s so special about standing on stage at Radio City, it’s that when the spotlight hits you and the house goes dark, the only thing you can see are the exit signs. Turn around, there’s 47 of them last time I counted, and that’s part of what it’s going to look like these next nine years.
Art as Practice
I don’t know any artist that hasn’t considered quitting, but you didn’t get here because you wanted to do something easy, you got here because you wanted to do something great. Art is not an industry or a game, it is a practice, and over and over again it is your artistic faith that will save you, the unflinching belief and constant recommitment to your singular gifts and to your own unique timing, it’s the most important quality that you possess, and I can tell you from here that every time I stare into that spotlight, I see something bigger than myself.
There is a history and a reverence to this practice, and to this building, Sly and the Family Stone played their last show and broke up on this stage, Britney held a python and made out with Christina and Madonna, I played “Alaska” live here for the first time at my graduation, Ella Fitzgerald and David Bowie and Beyoncé looked up into that spotlight, and today you’ll join that history. Every time that spotlight hits me, no matter where I am, I make the choice to show up, to make an offering, to give something of myself.
You prepare and you work and you prepare, and then very much like graduation, you have to just let it happen. Your greatest collaborator is not a person, it’s a moment, and the thing about being an artist is that it’s not a profession, it’s a vocation, it’s not something you do or sign up for, it’s who you are, it’s something that calls to you from the deepest depth of your being, although if you’re here now, you probably already know that.
The world needs you, bright and brave feelers, now more than it ever has. The year after you graduate college is strange and hard, and I’ve been thinking about what I wish I could tell that girl nine years ago when I sat where you sit now. I remember being terrified of changing, that fame would come for me and that I wouldn’t stay grounded or stay the same Maggie, but of course it changed me. The creation of a piece of work will always fundamentally and cellularly transform you, and that’s kind of the whole point.
Advice to My Younger Self
But I tell her it’s kind of punk to take the long road, that it’s her job to tell the truth, and I hope NYU would agree and value the importance of doing so for all past, present, and future students who express themselves in these halls. I would tell that version of myself that it’s her job to feel everything, see everything, that she will never know everything, but she’ll try. I tell her to take care of her audience as if they were her friends, but when she’s frustrated and thinking of saying something out loud, to put it in the group chat. The group chat will always save you.
I tell her that rest is a part of the job, stay hydrated, wear sunscreen. I’d remind her of the artistic golden rule, show, don’t tell. I tell her that when she’s in LA for the first time and she goes to a birthday party at Charli XCX’s house, remember that the peach rings are candy, they’re not candy, they’re weed, so just have one, maybe don’t have five.
What Truly Matters
I’d remind her that two artistic careers will never be the same, and that numbers do not matter. What matters is how you make people feel. I’d tell her that the people you do this with and how you define what it means to live a beautiful life matter more than anything.
Exits as Entrances
It’s not lost on me that when you walk out of here today that you’re going to be using one of those exit doors, but maybe, just maybe, all exits can be entrances too. Maybe it’s about embracing the time in between, the minutes we have left, and all that will always be left unsaid.
Congratulations to the class of 2025. The world is waiting for you, and all of the beautiful things you will create.
