In the studio, seventh graders immersed themselves in Yayoi Kusama's universe, their hands busy translating her obsessive, dot-filled vision across dimensions. On flat canvases, they mapped out infinity net patterns in acrylic, learning to make paint pulsate with repetitive mark-making—circles within circles in acid yellows and hot pinks that seemed to vibrate off the paper.

The rhythmic dotting became almost meditative, a shared act of artistic compulsion that Kusama herself would have recognized. Besides these 2D explorations, miniature pumpkins began transforming into sculptural homages to her signature gourds. Students carefully applied modeling paste for texture before attacking the surfaces with uncounted dots of varying sizes, some no larger than pinpricks, others bold as marbles.

They experimented with dimensional contrast—raising certain patterns while sinking others—to catch light and shadow like Kusama's own mirrored installations. The room filled with focused chatter about pattern density and color relationships, discussions of how a simple sphere could become a universe when covered in meticulous, endless points.

By week's end, the combined display showed a clear dialogue between the flat painted fields and their three-dimensional counterparts, each medium illuminating the other, and all bearing witness to how one artist's singular obsession could bloom in young, eager hands.

In the sunlit art studio, eighth graders bent over their watercolour landscapes, brushes poised like conductors' batons. The room smelled of damp paper and pigment as students worked wet-into-wet, allowing cerulean skies to bleed into distant mountains and creating soft, atmospheric perspectives.

They learned patience through layering—waiting for ultramarine washes to dry before adding foreground details, discovering how a single drop of Payne's Gray could transform a cheerful meadow into moody twilight. Some wrestled with uncooperative water pools that refused to stay within penciled boundaries, while others mastered the delicate dance of tilting their boards to guide pigment exactly where desired.

The teacher demonstrated lifting techniques with thirsty brushes, showing how mistakes could become mist or distant trees. Conversations revolved around colour temperature and the magic of leaving white paper untouched to suggest snow or sunlight. Students experimented with salt textures and plastic wrap resist methods, creating unexpected patterns in their skies and waters.

By project's end, drying racks held twenty-five unique interpretations of place—some abstract and emotional, others carefully representational—all bearing the luminous, translucent quality that only watercolor provides. Each painting captured not just a landscape, but a moment of understanding when adolescent hands learned to collaborate with water, gravity, and light.