“We come now to a picture of horses,” Augustin said. “And horses are powerful creatures, are they not? But do you feel their power? Do you hear their hooves? Do you smell their earthy dung or their sweet, honeysuckle breath? No. You do not. Because this is a picture with no soul. Yes, there is some technique. But what does this matter if the art fails to captivate me? A picture like this is a hollow vessel. This is not art. This is just drawing. And so, for me, it ultimately disappoints.”

And that was it! In front of everyone, just like that, he had ripped my heart out. And without even looking at me, that was it; his criticism was done. Augustin moved on to the next picture and now he was gushing once again over some blobs and squares, talking about the magnificence of their colours and clever ideas and the students were all chiming in with their thoughts, and meanwhile I was just left standing there, shaking behind my easel, totally broken into bits.

No one else seemed to bat an eyelid at his cruelty. They all just carried on listening to him as he bleated on about heart and passion and who cares what else. And I stood there, and I felt myself consumed by how much I despised this man for ripping apart my work like that. Yes, I was crying a little, but not big tears, and not because I was sad. I was angry. By the time Augustin had been through all the works – mine was not the only one he hated, but it was undoubtedly the one he hated most – and he’d told us we could take a break for lunch, I had decided I needed to talk to him.

I waited until the rest of the class had gone out and then I went over to his desk. The blood was still pulsing at my temples, making a whooshing noise in my ears.

“Augustin?”

He turned around to me. He looked completely blank, as if he had no idea why I would want to talk to him.

“I …” I didn’t know how to begin. “You seem to really hate my work,” I said. “I’m just wondering if there’s even any point in me coming back here tomorrow.”

Augustin looked hard at me, saw that I’d been crying.