"Perspective," Mrs. Palette said, dabbing blue paint. "It is how we see the world. From here, the wave looks huge. From far away, it is just a ripple. You must change your angle to see the truth."
Alex sat at his easel. He was drawing a football pitch. But not from above. From the perspective of the ball.
"Interesting choice, Alex," Mrs. Palette said, looking over his shoulder. "The world looks very chaotic from down there."
"It is," Alex said. "Lots of feet. Lots of danger."
Mark sat next to him. Mark was not painting. He was covered in clay. He was trying to sculpt a statue of himself.
"I AM MICHELANGELO!" Mark shouted. "THIS IS MY DAVID! BUT FASTER! AND WITH BETTER HAIR!"
"Mark," Mrs. Palette sighed. "That looks like a potato with legs."
"It is abstract!" Mark argued. "It represents my inner speed! The potato is aerodynamic!"
"Please wash your hands before you touch anything else," Mrs. Palette said.
The bell rang.
Alex packed his brushes.
Perspective.
He needed it.
