I've already commented, possibly not here, that it's a good thing I have my Spanish class before Art. Spanish swells me up, and Art deflates me, and I come out of college with a head that's the right size.
However, halfway through the semester, I have finally identified my personal style of Art. (Maybe I should call it an approach to Art- as in, 'before I was robbed blind, a smiling stranger approached me'.) I didn't know I had one, but I know now.
First I observe Art. I listen eagerly to details of its daily life, and in which settings it is most likely found. I hear about shading, gradations, highlights, and 'specificity'.
Then I stalk Art. I slap down an outline (not literally- my teacher hates lines) of what I'm supposed to be drawing. Having cornered Art in the dark alley of my drawing pad, I proceed to approach slowly and speak soothingly.
Art never buys it. It's smart that way.
So I tackle Art around the knees, and bring it down to the ground. I pin its arms- receiving several blows to the gut in the process- and begin to go through its pockets. And I talk to it, because everyone needs a friendly voice and I like to talk.
"Look, Art," (I say), "There's an easy way and a hard way to do this. The easy way is for me to slit your throat, take you to a taxidermist, and keep you in a formaldehyde acquarium as a conversation piece." (Insert Art making whimpering noises here.) "The hard way is for you to get out there, front and center, strut your stuff for the class critique, and promise it'll go well. 'Cause Art, I don't know what'll happen if it doesn't go well... but I'm sure I'll rise to the occasion."
At this point, Art tries to make a break for it. I'm ready for it though, and slam its head against a handy outline (literally this time) until it's too weak to resist my evil will and I work my desire for a decent grade upon it.
The other students in my class have a gentler approach, but like I said, it's all a matter of personal style.