It was a quiet afternoon at the Academy of Fine Arts. Professor Linda, known for her impeccable taste in culture and her ever-serious approach to teaching, rolled out a golden vase onto the desk.
“Today, class,” she declared proudly, “you will all be drawing this beautiful antique vase. Observe its curves, its texture, its symmetry. Let your pencils capture its true essence.”
The students nodded, grabbing their sketch pads, eager to impress.
From the back row, young Timmy squinted at the vase… then shifted his gaze slightly upward. His eyes widened. Instead of studying the vase, he discovered a completely different kind of “art” under the professor’s desk.
Timmy’s pencil flew across the paper like lightning. Lines curved, shapes formed, lace details emerged… it was a masterpiece. Except—it wasn’t a vase.
Meanwhile, the rest of the class kept sketching the golden urn faithfully. Handles, shading, decorations. But when the professor came to inspect Timmy’s work, she froze mid-step.
“Timmy… WHAT is THIS supposed to be?!” she gasped, her glasses sliding down her nose.
Timmy, with the pure innocence of a young artist, shrugged.
“Um… it’s got curves too, ma’am. Just… not the vase’s curves.”
The class erupted in laughter, and poor Timmy learned two valuable lessons that day:
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Always draw the assignment.
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Never sit in the front row if the professor wears short skirts.
