I told my students: A complex character is conflicted, often trapped in themselves.

What I have in me surfaces in a sudden splash of ink, plopped onto the canvas, making the observer jump. I sit very still, in my warm-toned, buttoned cardigan—upright, slender, my expression stilled. I am aware, and stiff, and constrained. Thus when red gushes onto the canvas, the observer blinks, is startled. Red splashes clumsily, in a burst of intense motion. When I laugh and when I exclaim, I rush forward. And I roll my eyes, and twist my mouth in humorous sarcasm, a wry smile of thorough fun. And my eyes light up, I extend my arms, wrap them around my beloved ones, I smile my brightest smile. And I swing with a sword of flame, I am sure, and aim. I am very forward, and take up space. Yet I don't know how to sit except stiff, how to spread open my arms—they remain still, hard, at my side. So when red splashes choppily, surprisingly, the observer blinks, steps back startled and unsure.