Airflow was managed by large windows in the facade, and others opening into an inner courtyard. Our classes were adjoined to both. During the winter, they were closed, but when spring came, they opened and the airflow was beautiful. The flow was infused with the smells of paint, thinner and linseed oil, mixed with the thudding and barking from the dance floors. Once in a while, I would just wince from the sounds coming from the voice floors. My father loved opera so I heard some beautiful voices over the years, but the yowls and yodels wafting in made me lose all track of my project and completely derail my streaming inspiration. I felt bad for the singers. But, paradoxically, I looked forward to the lessons and sounds because they were just so awful. It made me feel anchored and secure because we were all trying and learning and suffering through it all. It was my personal struggle set to sound.