In secondary school, I ha an art teacher whose moniker was Mad Mole. He looked like Dumbledore and behaved like a mad professor. The plus side is, you could pain what you liked and pass it off as abstract and I kinda looked at the lessons like it was art therapy (I was bullied - boo hoo - painting and drawing gave sharp relief to the nerds who had largely escaped the feral ones). He made me quite cross one day. He brough in a sprig of cow parsley which has a stunning show of tiny white flowers, but a less-than-piquant aroma. He asked me to draw the essence of the plant and I drew the floret head in entirety. Then he said, "No, I want the essence - look smaller and make it bigger. Fill the sheet." Tried again, with a smaller part of the floret. Still not happy. Look smaller still, then scale up. Frustrated,but kinda understanding WHY he was asking me, I did ask he asked. I even painted it while. He then (no word of a lie) Took.My. Painting. And. Ran. It. Under. A. Tap. No shit. I was dazed, dismayed and angry all at once. I still don't understand that bit today.
In my later years, I have been taught by some batty, but fascinating lecturers, whose eccentricities and enthusiasm fuelled the interest in my degree. I graduated with a good grade, so I am eminently grateful to them. Challenging, but interesting I can live with, wringing my hard work under a tap, not so much.