'I am seventeen years old, and I’m sitting on a three-legged wooden stool with a board and a piece of paper almost half the size of me propped on my lap. I am staring at a soft, naked lady reclining on a sagging mattress, she is smiling vacantly into the near distance, and I’m expected to draw her. I will then paint her from this drawing.

My pencil is poised in mid air ready to detail every inch of her, her lines and flat planes as well as that vacant facial expression. But I don’t know where to begin, how to translate the soft edges that merge with the hard muscle running through her inner calf, or the round dowdy shape of the breasts or even the staring eye of her vagina which I’m directly in front of. Every light, wispy pathetic mark I attempt to make looks nothing like the lady in front of me'