The soft swish of paint brushes over canvas filled the room. Each one seemed to whisper softly, and leave in it’s path a trail of color and feeling. Jude stared at his canvas blankly. The small, woven fibers perfectly interwoven together looked beautiful enough to him, and truthfully, he was simply uninspired. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He smelled the paint, the smell of the new canvases, the dust of the room that doubled as a pottery workshop. The room was hot, despite the air conditioner humming, working feverishly at the back of the classroom. He peered around his own canvas to see what the other students were working on. The small girl with the long, shiny black ponytail made huge passionate, almost angry swipes at her work. Her brush fell from her hands to the floor and she swore quietly. She then took her hand to her palette, covered it with paint, and ran it down the canvas, smearing and mixing the colors as she went. She had chosen the largest canvas available, though her head barely reached the shoulder of the large man perched on the small wooden stool next to where she stood. She used her whole body to paint, bending at the waist and jumping to reach the top of the canvas. To Jude, it seemed that the beauty and vehemence of her art laid not in the actual work itself, but in the way she painted. Like a furious dancer. The giant next to her approached painting in an entirely different manner. He had carefully picked the smallest brush in the cup when it was passed his way. His painting contained thousands of small, delicate, deliberate strokes of pastel colors. He leaned forward on his bench towards his work, so close that his nose almost touched the canvas. Jude felt that if his nose did touch the canvas, it would be a disaster of titanic proportions, for the tiny paint strokes would be smeared, when the artist had worked so hard to place them perfectly...