Plotting her humiliation

The scent of charcoal and linseed oil clung to the air, thick and lingering, weaving with the soft murmurs of the senior year students in the circular classroom. Tall, arched windows bathed the room in streams of golden light. Each student sat before their easels.

"What are we drawing today, Mr. Swan? The air?" A snicker broke through the quiet, the voice dripping with mockery. There was no model, no object at the centre of the room to focus on. 

Mr. Swan, the art teacher, wore a wide, excited smile, seemingly unaffected by the comment. His hands flailed dramatically, as if caught in the rhythm of his thoughts. 

"Drawing a blizzard does sound tempting with winter on the horizon, but I have something better in mind," he declared, his voice almost manic with enthusiasm. "Today's class is not about technique—it's about emotion! Draw what you feel. What's on your mind. Convey it through your art!"