During the week, I have three Art classes, of which one is a theory class where we are teached about the history of art. My Art class contains of a total of eight people, all girls to be specific. No wonder the conversations are different than in any other class.
Today was another one of those theory classes, but my friend quickly changed the subject by calling it an ‘therapy lesson’. In other words, instead of talking about modernism, we would be talking about our feelings. In the beginning, our teacher desperately tried to change the subject back to art, but gave up when the deep down problem was on the table.
And then shit hit the van. To give a description of the situation: by the end of the hour my teacher was running around handing out tissues, because five out of eight were crying (for different reasons).
And then there was me, with dry eyes and an apple in my hand, which could have easily been replaced by a bucket of popcorn.