You're fighting François Verte, Art Teacher
Most high school art teachers are amiable aging hippies who will look the other way if your pottery project looks suspiciously like a bong, or your papier-mache project looks like a bong, or if your mixed-media collage looks like a bong. Heck, they're probably using the kiln after hours to fire up their own "tobacco accessories."
But François is a different sort. He's got a degree in Art History with a minor in Art Critique and Theory of Art, and he's ready to ream you out if the juxtaposition of your oppositional elements is jejune. And god help you if your milieu is uninspired or you attempt some kind of ironic neo-classicism.
Critical Hit Message:
He calls your art project a "stunning refutation of patriarchal hegemony," then smacks you when you insist it's just a bunny rabbit. Ooh! Ow! Ouch!
He calls your art project "bravely nihilistic, with a single ray of optimism snuffed by clouds of apathy." You point out that he's critiquing the fire extinguisher, and he smacks you. Ugh! Ouch! Ow!
He delivers a withering takedown of the "aesthetic holocaust" that is your FACE. Aw, snap. Ow! Oof! Ugh!
He makes his own original composition of your blood on a white canvas, then rips it up because he feels it's too derivative of Jackson Pollock. Eek! Ouch! Ooh!
He smacks you across the knees with a mackerel, as some sort of Dada performance art piece. Ooh! Argh! Argh!
He explores the dichotomy of your face and his fist, and how the two can dynamically interact in three-dimensional space. Argh! Argh! Eek!
He excoriates your art as the quotidian product of an unremarkable mind, suitable only for mass-market consumption. He breaks several canvases and a sculpture over your head before you can tell him they're not yours. Ooh! Ooh! Eek!
He calls your art project a "stunning refutation of patriarchal hegemony." You shrug and go along with it.
He calls your art project a bold examination of nihilistic apathy in an indifferent age. You shrug and say, "whatever," which sets him off praising you again.
He grudgingly admits that your face has an avant-garde appeal.
He sets out to splatter your blood on a canvas, but you point out that'd be derivative of Jackson Pollock.
He tries to kneecap you with a halibut, but you point out that the Dada movement lacked the ethos to survive even a quarter century.
He wants to hit you, but fears the juxtaposition of fist and face would be overly representational.
He realizes that he will never be as monumentally rich or successful as the mundane, low-brow artists he despises, and slumps into a chair in full-blown existential crisis. Maybe he'll make a horrible painting about it later.
Occurs at Art Class, semi-rarely.