The task seemed weird at first. Gestures. One minute sketches. Not of the shapes, the lines, nor the gradient, but of movement. One scribble, one giant mess of pencil marks done so swiftly that it could not possibly make a fine line. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t look right. But, I think it’s that good old low confidence talking. That feeling that when you look around the room you just don’t measure up. How quickly I moved from the confinements of my previous classroom innocence to a court room of charcoals, conte, and graphite, where the air is tainted with unpure thoughts.