I dreamed of ice cream last night. Actually I dreamed of being a student teacher again, and teaching an art lesson about painting ice cream.

And where did that come from?

There sat my supervisor at the back of the room, taking notes on my every move. I had to discuss the rubric with the students – a description of the quality standards for this assignment that would produce an A, B, C or less.

I was sad in my dream, sad about the focus on evaluation, on someone else’s standards of quality.

As I described the assignment, the students’ eyes were glazed. I could feel their attitude – just do the thing, figure out what the teacher wants and give him that. Nobody wanted to discuss what possibilities there were for depicting ice cream on paper. Even before I’d finished my instructions, kids were getting up from their seats and getting a piece of art paper from the supply room.

And the guy at the back of the room was still writing furiously.

I wanted conversation, an exploring of “What if … ?” I wanted to see the glow of light in the eyes. I wanted the art to exude the sweetness of Vanilla, the crunch of Rocky Road, the wonder of Crème Brulée. I wanted the tip of the tongue to find its way to the paper.

I didn’t get what I wanted