Stephen Wiltshire Questions
Video Number One (60 minutes Australia 07)
This video was entitled 60 minutes Australia 07. In this video Wiltshire was interviewed. He was asked how old he was when he first started drawing and he exclaimed it was between six and eight. They also then documented how at a very early age that he was able to pick up the slightest details and draw pictures of sceneries with no trouble even though he was autistic. During the video they also asked him if he was a genius and he said he was, and was very proud of himself when he was told to memorize a picture of a building from the internet and draw it, and he did it so perfectly it was amazing.
Video Number Two (Rome is easy)
In this video Wiltshire is asked how difficult it is to draw Rome compared to Japan. Wiltshire responded with that Rome was easier to draw compared to Japan, because Japan was very long and lengthy compared to Rome. This is quite ironic in that Rome is not an easy thing to draw.
Video Number Three (NBC News London)
In this video NBC News London documents Stephen as a younger man. They tell the viewer has he has an obsession with American cars, and coincidently he loves the movie Rain Man, which is about a person with autism. Also, they describe how when he drew London’s House of Commons, his barley looked at the building and barely let the pen move off the paper. He also likes to draw the World Trade Centers and the Empire State building. Then they start to show us some of his work. Also, it is probable that his autism lets him to be able to harvest thousands of patterns of scenery at a time. He also has playfulness to his drawings. He also hated Venice because there were no American cars.
Video Number Four (Last Sketches on Tokyo Panorama)
This video pretty much just pans Stephen’s whole drawing of the city of Tokyo. It pans the whole picture and shows Stephen just putting the finishing touches on drawing. They show how detailed the picture is and how precise it is and shows that this is why he is famous for his work.
Most Impressive Drawing
Wiltshire’s most impressive drawing to me is the Chrysler Building. Even though it does not have as much going on as some of the other pictures he has done, the way he has put the picture together in phenomenal. The exact detail of the Chrysler Building is magnificent as well as other elements such as the reflection of the glass of one of the buildings, and the tree branches spread across the side of the building. To me, the way he was able to show the reflection in a way and the detail he put into all his buildings including the Chrysler Building, was simply amazing.
Most Impressive Painting
The most impressive painting to me was Big Ben on a Rainy Evening. This was the most impressive to me because the detail he put into Big Ben and the other buildings is phenomenal. Also, the way he made the ground shimmer like a rain fall has just ended is genius. Also, the orange colored sky gives the idea of an evening sun down. Also, the reflection of Big Ben on the wet ground shows how much detail was put into this painting. Plus, the detail of the traffic light to the telephone booths, all add the amazement of this painting.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Dialouge Poem
A Person’s Two Sides
Her hands cradle the cigarette,
Which keeps her living each day.
The toxic addiction she grasps,
Kills her slowly every puff she takes.
She sips the martini,
The only thing that makes her happy
The toxic liquor slips through her lips,
And pulsates through her veins.
She watches others at her usual marble table,
Viewing the daily movements at their lives.
She isolates herself from everyone,
Dreading and fearing interaction of her peers.
She says the drinking and smoking,
Makes her gorgeous and desirable.
Her massive ears, narrow nose, and grotesque features,
Makes her undesirable too many.
She sits and waits in the antique coffee house chair,
He will come this time and everything will be fine.
In her head she knows he is never coming back,
And nothing will ever soothe the pain he left instilled in her.
Her hands cradle the cigarette,
Which keeps her living each day.
The toxic addiction she grasps,
Kills her slowly every puff she takes.
She sips the martini,
The only thing that makes her happy
The toxic liquor slips through her lips,
And pulsates through her veins.
She watches others at her usual marble table,
Viewing the daily movements at their lives.
She isolates herself from everyone,
Dreading and fearing interaction of her peers.
She says the drinking and smoking,
Makes her gorgeous and desirable.
Her massive ears, narrow nose, and grotesque features,
Makes her undesirable too many.
She sits and waits in the antique coffee house chair,
He will come this time and everything will be fine.
In her head she knows he is never coming back,
And nothing will ever soothe the pain he left instilled in her.
Short Story Number Three
It’s cold and raining. The floor hurts my back. I sit up. My family is still asleep. The train tracks are bumpy, the engine is loud. Everyone else around me is seemingly asleep, but I can not sleep. How can I sleep? I was taken from my home yesterday by these strange men. They came in these big things my Daddy told me were tanks. They were loud and noisy and they hurt my ears. As I saw them from my window, I yelled “Mommy, what are those.”
“What are what Jacob? I’m making dinner for when your Father gets home,” my
Mom says.
“Come here Mom. Look they are so big and loud. What are they? Come here Mommy, what are they?”
“Jacob, what are you talking about?” She starts to walk over to me. The door swings open and hits the wall. My Dad rushes in.
“Jane, grab the kids, the Germans are here!” my Dad screams. My Mom’s aqua blue eyes open wide. The rolling pin falling from her hand.
“Jacob, Rachel, Anne lets go now we need to leave” my Father yells at us. I grab my wooden horse. It’s my favorite toy. My parents got it for me on my birthday a couple of days ago. It is so cool. My Daddy picks me up by my arm. My Mom gets both my sisters and pushes them out the back door. We start to run.
“Mom, where are we going” I say.
“We are going on a trip Jacob. I’ll tell you when we get there,” she says. We keep running. My feet are hurting. I can’t run fast. I have tiny legs. I can’t keep up.
“Jacob, you have to keep up,” my Dad yells to me. I start to try to move faster. Boom! I hear something. I see the smoke in the distance. My Dad says something about shots from the tank being fired. I see other people. They are dressed in gray uniforms. There are some symbols on the sleeves. They see us. They start running at us. We start to run away from them. A shot is fired. My dad falls to the ground. He is yelling in pain and grabbing his leg. My mom stops running and falls to her feat next to my dad. She starts to sob. Someone grabs my shoulder and shoves my face into the ground. It is one of the men in grey suites.
“Stay on the ground and don’t move you piece of crap,” the soldier says to me. He kicks me in the side really hard. It hurts. He does it again and again and again. Other soldiers are doing the same thing to my mother, father, and sisters. My head is throbbing now. The soldier kicks my nose and it starts to bleed. He kicks the side of my head. My vision is blurry now. Head pounding and dizziness setting in, I start to fall asleep.
Now I am here on the train awake while others are asleep. The train stops quickly. It is so quiet. Why did we stop? Where are we? When am I going back home? Mommy never did tell me where we were going. I hear footsteps outside the train. The train cart door slides open.
“Get up you pieces of shit. Stop sleeping and get out of the god damn train,” a man in one of the grey uniforms yells at us. Everyone on the train slowly wakes up and then quickly get off the train. My mommy grabs my hand real tight and drags me off the train with him. Lots and lots of people are all around me. A soldier gets up in front of the group on a stage like the one they have at my sister’s dance studio.
“All of you are here because you do not deserve to live freely. You will work here until we are told that you are now worthy of living in the real world,” says a soldier with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He is tall like the tree in my backyard. I like that tree. I climb up it all the time even though my Mommy tells me not to because I could fall out. I haven’t fallen yet though so I don’t listen to mommy. The man starts to yell real loud again. “Now you will be divided into groups and will be assigned to different areas to get your identification numbers and new uniforms.”
They start to divide us into groups. I am put with Mom, while the rest of my family is in another group. I’m scared. Why are we not with Daddy? Daddy told me he would always be with me and would never leave me.
“Mommy why aren’t we with Daddy? He told me he wouldn’t leave me. What is he doing over there?” I say.
“They are just separating us for now sweetie. We will see them again soon.” I believe her. Mommy is always right and she has never lied to me before. I will see Daddy again soon. My group is then pushed over to a small building where we grab our told to strip of all of our clothes except our under wear. It is so cold outside. Why do I have to take my clothes off? A soldier stops yelling at all of us again.
“Now all of you go stand up against that wall for us to evaluate your physical appearance,” he yells at us. I hold my Mommy’s hand and we line up against the wall.
“Turn around and face the wall!” a soldier screams at us. We all turn around and face the wall. Everything is quiet. Bang! I hear something like a gun shot. Then another and another. My mom then lets go of my hand. I look to my side. My mom falls to her knees. Blood is dripping from the back of her head.
“MOMMY!” I scream in terror. Tears start streaming down my face. “MOMMY wake up please !” I sob between breathes. Another shot is fired. I feel a sharp pain in my back. It hurts real bad. I fall to my hands and knees. I’m coughing up blood now. My head hurts now and so does my heart. I can’t even breathe now. I’m trying to get air, but I can’t get suck it in. Now I can’t even see. I fall to my stomach. Slowly breathing, I lay on the ground gasping for air, trying to yell my Daddy’s name, but no words are coming out. I’m too tired now. Laying here, I’m just going to sleep until I feel better. My Daddy will come get me, because that is what he does. I am just going to sleep for a little bit now.
“What are what Jacob? I’m making dinner for when your Father gets home,” my
Mom says.
“Come here Mom. Look they are so big and loud. What are they? Come here Mommy, what are they?”
“Jacob, what are you talking about?” She starts to walk over to me. The door swings open and hits the wall. My Dad rushes in.
“Jane, grab the kids, the Germans are here!” my Dad screams. My Mom’s aqua blue eyes open wide. The rolling pin falling from her hand.
“Jacob, Rachel, Anne lets go now we need to leave” my Father yells at us. I grab my wooden horse. It’s my favorite toy. My parents got it for me on my birthday a couple of days ago. It is so cool. My Daddy picks me up by my arm. My Mom gets both my sisters and pushes them out the back door. We start to run.
“Mom, where are we going” I say.
“We are going on a trip Jacob. I’ll tell you when we get there,” she says. We keep running. My feet are hurting. I can’t run fast. I have tiny legs. I can’t keep up.
“Jacob, you have to keep up,” my Dad yells to me. I start to try to move faster. Boom! I hear something. I see the smoke in the distance. My Dad says something about shots from the tank being fired. I see other people. They are dressed in gray uniforms. There are some symbols on the sleeves. They see us. They start running at us. We start to run away from them. A shot is fired. My dad falls to the ground. He is yelling in pain and grabbing his leg. My mom stops running and falls to her feat next to my dad. She starts to sob. Someone grabs my shoulder and shoves my face into the ground. It is one of the men in grey suites.
“Stay on the ground and don’t move you piece of crap,” the soldier says to me. He kicks me in the side really hard. It hurts. He does it again and again and again. Other soldiers are doing the same thing to my mother, father, and sisters. My head is throbbing now. The soldier kicks my nose and it starts to bleed. He kicks the side of my head. My vision is blurry now. Head pounding and dizziness setting in, I start to fall asleep.
Now I am here on the train awake while others are asleep. The train stops quickly. It is so quiet. Why did we stop? Where are we? When am I going back home? Mommy never did tell me where we were going. I hear footsteps outside the train. The train cart door slides open.
“Get up you pieces of shit. Stop sleeping and get out of the god damn train,” a man in one of the grey uniforms yells at us. Everyone on the train slowly wakes up and then quickly get off the train. My mommy grabs my hand real tight and drags me off the train with him. Lots and lots of people are all around me. A soldier gets up in front of the group on a stage like the one they have at my sister’s dance studio.
“All of you are here because you do not deserve to live freely. You will work here until we are told that you are now worthy of living in the real world,” says a soldier with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He is tall like the tree in my backyard. I like that tree. I climb up it all the time even though my Mommy tells me not to because I could fall out. I haven’t fallen yet though so I don’t listen to mommy. The man starts to yell real loud again. “Now you will be divided into groups and will be assigned to different areas to get your identification numbers and new uniforms.”
They start to divide us into groups. I am put with Mom, while the rest of my family is in another group. I’m scared. Why are we not with Daddy? Daddy told me he would always be with me and would never leave me.
“Mommy why aren’t we with Daddy? He told me he wouldn’t leave me. What is he doing over there?” I say.
“They are just separating us for now sweetie. We will see them again soon.” I believe her. Mommy is always right and she has never lied to me before. I will see Daddy again soon. My group is then pushed over to a small building where we grab our told to strip of all of our clothes except our under wear. It is so cold outside. Why do I have to take my clothes off? A soldier stops yelling at all of us again.
“Now all of you go stand up against that wall for us to evaluate your physical appearance,” he yells at us. I hold my Mommy’s hand and we line up against the wall.
“Turn around and face the wall!” a soldier screams at us. We all turn around and face the wall. Everything is quiet. Bang! I hear something like a gun shot. Then another and another. My mom then lets go of my hand. I look to my side. My mom falls to her knees. Blood is dripping from the back of her head.
“MOMMY!” I scream in terror. Tears start streaming down my face. “MOMMY wake up please !” I sob between breathes. Another shot is fired. I feel a sharp pain in my back. It hurts real bad. I fall to my hands and knees. I’m coughing up blood now. My head hurts now and so does my heart. I can’t even breathe now. I’m trying to get air, but I can’t get suck it in. Now I can’t even see. I fall to my stomach. Slowly breathing, I lay on the ground gasping for air, trying to yell my Daddy’s name, but no words are coming out. I’m too tired now. Laying here, I’m just going to sleep until I feel better. My Daddy will come get me, because that is what he does. I am just going to sleep for a little bit now.
Short Story Number Two
Pete
“Mr. Atkins, your wife is out of surgery, and she is in recovery. Her procedure came out nicely. You can come in to see her in half an hour, after she is fully coherent again. I’ll come and get you then, if you would like”.
“That would be great Dr. Goldstein. Thank you,” I said. Dr. Goldstein quickly shuffles back behind the surgery wing doors. He walks very hurriedly I’ve noticed. Always seeming to be in a rush to go somewhere, to see someone, to something more important than talking to surgery patient’s visitors. I don’t blame him though. Who wants to talk to people in the waiting room, while they would rather be doing more surgeries, getting more money, from suckers like me? He already has my money, and knows nothing he does will change that. Plus, as we both know very well, he will see me many more times, in this same visitor’s room, over and over again.
It seems like the hospital is another place of work for me. I work here as much as I do at my Los Angeles law firm. It doesn’t matter really where I work though, as long as my associates bring in client after client for the firm, then I really don’t have to do anything. I barely practice law anymore, I merely run a business. A business of blood sucking lawyers who will get every last drop of cash out of each divorce, accident victim, and etc. It sounds terrible, because this isn’t what I stood for before. I stood for what was best for my clientele, to make their lives better. Now, all I seem to stand for in the eyes of others is for the money. To more than an extent now, this is true. The money I bring in feeds the habit that has been slowly growing for five years, consuming my wife’s heart, mind, soul, and literally body. My wife’s addiction to perfection.
What is perfection? It is what each person thinks is perfect to them, in my opinion. Achieving perfection to me is virtually impossible. Why though should anybody try to achieve perfection? If everyone was perfect, there would be no mistakes, no learning from those same mistakes. There would be millions of “perfect” zombie Barbie and Ken dolls walking the street. It would be bland and repetitive seeing absolute perfection over and over again with no diversity. There are people though, who do strive for perfection and will do anything to achieve that. My wife is one of those people. She is obsessed with achieving the perfect body.
When I first met Alison, she was as close to perfection to me, as anyone could possibly get. She was tall, slender, auburn hair down to her shoulders, piercing green eyes that would mesmerize you from miles away. A flight attendant on my business trip, I met Alison while I was flying to Las Vegas. She had me at first glance. Besides her looks, my future wife was smart too. She was trying to earn enough money to go back to school to get her master’s in business. She was care free and full of life. I eventually talked to her on the flight. Eventually we went on a date, which led to me asking her out, my proposal, then our marriage.
Right after our marriage, we moved to Orange County, the home of the rich, young, and the beautiful. This is where my wife, Alison, created her desire for perfection. Constantly surrounded by beauty, she strived to be better than she thought she was. So she started off with one breast lift, which led to a tummy tuck, which led to a nose job. Twenty procedures later, we are here with me lingering in the waiting room once again, to help support my wife on her road to perfection. I have been spending pay check after pay check for years and years, to help my wife pursue the evil she calls perfection. Nothing is ever good enough for her it seems. Now every time Alison comes out, I don’t even notice it’s her, because of all the changes that have made here a blow up doll. She looks like a fool now, a clown even; but I cannot tell her that. The evil that has possessed her has become too big for me to try to fix. If I did tell her what I thought, I would be afraid of what would happen. It could be too much for her to handle, who knows what she would do to herself to achieve perfection even more that she already has. What I still don’t understand is, why go through such pain to achieve perfection that’s fake.
Colleen
He is lying there. Innocent and calm, he sleeps peacefully. This is the first time he has slept for more than an hour at a time in two months. I hear a knock on the door. I whip my head around.
“Mrs. Cook, how are you?” says Dr. Goldstein.
“I’m fine thank you,” I say.
“I just wanted to check on you and Michael. He seems to have responded well to the surgery. He is looking better and better everyday it seems. I am thinking he only has a few more to go until he is virtually looking like himself again”.
“Yeah, he is looking better every procedure” I say.
“Well I let you two have some time by yourselves. I’ll come check on you guys later”. He walks hurriedly out of the room. I turn back around and look at my son again. I lied. He doesn’t look better every time he has surgery. To me he will never look like the same eight year old I remember seeing everyday up until a couple of months ago. His bright blue eyes, wavy brown hair, his little dimples, and slightly oversized ears are only some of the things that I remember. Smiling brightly every morning he would say “Hi Mom! I love you”. Always so happy and full of energy, he would get everything possible out of every day.
Then the accident happened. He was on his way home from school, his first day in the second grade. He was so excited at the bus stop that day. He made me go out with him to the bus stop an hour early that day because he didn’t want the bus driver to think he wasn’t going to the first day of school.
“Mom, if he doesn’t see me get on the bus the first day, he will think that I am a bad kid who never goes to school and then he will never pick me up. Then how will I get to school?” he said to me.
“Michael, I don’t think the bus driver will ever think you’re a bad student or that if you miss the bus one day that you never go to school” I said.
“Mommmmm, how do you know that?” he asked me.
“I know because I am your mom, and I know everything. How do you think I knew you wanted a Power Rangers back pack for school this year without even asking you?” I said.
“Ohhh. Well I still want to go out to the bus stop early because I want to make sure Mom because you never know, and plus what is more fun than waiting for the bus with all my friends on it”.
“I don’t know Michael,” I chuckled, “that does sound pretty cool”.
“Oh Mom it is! It’s the best thing ever. Don’t tell dad though, because I told him his meatloaf was the best thing ever. He might get sad, and I don’t want daddy sad, so please don’t tell him,” he said with his big blue eyes staring up at me.
“I promise,” I told him.
I got the call later that day. I was waiting outside our house at the bus stop wondering where the bus was. My cell phone rang.
“Hello”, I said.
“Hi, is Colleen Cook there”, a voice said.
“This is she, what can I do for you,” I said.
“Mrs. Cook, I’m sorry I have some terrible news for you”.
I soon found out that Michael was on his way home on the bus, when the engine exploded. The bus bursted into bright red and orange flames. Everyone died, except Michael. Although he survived, my son was burned from head to toe, until he was not even recognizable. Tears streamed down my face for days and days. The face I saw everyday that was bright and happy was burned and distorted. He had no hair, no dimples, nothing resembling my son. His bubbly personality has faded along with his confidence and happiness. Now in the morning all he says is “Mommy, my body hurts. Please make it stop; I don’t want to feel how I look anymore. I just want to see my friends at school again”. Whenever he says that, I cry. I cry for hour and hours. Every night I lie in bed, not sleeping, just staring at the ceiling. I wonder: Why has this happened to him? to me?, to his dad? Why has such a young, perfect child been put through so much? Why does he have to suffer?
Now two months and fifteen plastic surgeries later, Michael is still in pain. He goes through the pain of the burns, of the surgeries, and everything else. Michael was the perfect son on the outside and inside. I’ve been told that many people get plastic surgery to obtain perfection, but how is that true, if it can’t even help my son feel and look normal again?
“Mr. Atkins, your wife is out of surgery, and she is in recovery. Her procedure came out nicely. You can come in to see her in half an hour, after she is fully coherent again. I’ll come and get you then, if you would like”.
“That would be great Dr. Goldstein. Thank you,” I said. Dr. Goldstein quickly shuffles back behind the surgery wing doors. He walks very hurriedly I’ve noticed. Always seeming to be in a rush to go somewhere, to see someone, to something more important than talking to surgery patient’s visitors. I don’t blame him though. Who wants to talk to people in the waiting room, while they would rather be doing more surgeries, getting more money, from suckers like me? He already has my money, and knows nothing he does will change that. Plus, as we both know very well, he will see me many more times, in this same visitor’s room, over and over again.
It seems like the hospital is another place of work for me. I work here as much as I do at my Los Angeles law firm. It doesn’t matter really where I work though, as long as my associates bring in client after client for the firm, then I really don’t have to do anything. I barely practice law anymore, I merely run a business. A business of blood sucking lawyers who will get every last drop of cash out of each divorce, accident victim, and etc. It sounds terrible, because this isn’t what I stood for before. I stood for what was best for my clientele, to make their lives better. Now, all I seem to stand for in the eyes of others is for the money. To more than an extent now, this is true. The money I bring in feeds the habit that has been slowly growing for five years, consuming my wife’s heart, mind, soul, and literally body. My wife’s addiction to perfection.
What is perfection? It is what each person thinks is perfect to them, in my opinion. Achieving perfection to me is virtually impossible. Why though should anybody try to achieve perfection? If everyone was perfect, there would be no mistakes, no learning from those same mistakes. There would be millions of “perfect” zombie Barbie and Ken dolls walking the street. It would be bland and repetitive seeing absolute perfection over and over again with no diversity. There are people though, who do strive for perfection and will do anything to achieve that. My wife is one of those people. She is obsessed with achieving the perfect body.
When I first met Alison, she was as close to perfection to me, as anyone could possibly get. She was tall, slender, auburn hair down to her shoulders, piercing green eyes that would mesmerize you from miles away. A flight attendant on my business trip, I met Alison while I was flying to Las Vegas. She had me at first glance. Besides her looks, my future wife was smart too. She was trying to earn enough money to go back to school to get her master’s in business. She was care free and full of life. I eventually talked to her on the flight. Eventually we went on a date, which led to me asking her out, my proposal, then our marriage.
Right after our marriage, we moved to Orange County, the home of the rich, young, and the beautiful. This is where my wife, Alison, created her desire for perfection. Constantly surrounded by beauty, she strived to be better than she thought she was. So she started off with one breast lift, which led to a tummy tuck, which led to a nose job. Twenty procedures later, we are here with me lingering in the waiting room once again, to help support my wife on her road to perfection. I have been spending pay check after pay check for years and years, to help my wife pursue the evil she calls perfection. Nothing is ever good enough for her it seems. Now every time Alison comes out, I don’t even notice it’s her, because of all the changes that have made here a blow up doll. She looks like a fool now, a clown even; but I cannot tell her that. The evil that has possessed her has become too big for me to try to fix. If I did tell her what I thought, I would be afraid of what would happen. It could be too much for her to handle, who knows what she would do to herself to achieve perfection even more that she already has. What I still don’t understand is, why go through such pain to achieve perfection that’s fake.
Colleen
He is lying there. Innocent and calm, he sleeps peacefully. This is the first time he has slept for more than an hour at a time in two months. I hear a knock on the door. I whip my head around.
“Mrs. Cook, how are you?” says Dr. Goldstein.
“I’m fine thank you,” I say.
“I just wanted to check on you and Michael. He seems to have responded well to the surgery. He is looking better and better everyday it seems. I am thinking he only has a few more to go until he is virtually looking like himself again”.
“Yeah, he is looking better every procedure” I say.
“Well I let you two have some time by yourselves. I’ll come check on you guys later”. He walks hurriedly out of the room. I turn back around and look at my son again. I lied. He doesn’t look better every time he has surgery. To me he will never look like the same eight year old I remember seeing everyday up until a couple of months ago. His bright blue eyes, wavy brown hair, his little dimples, and slightly oversized ears are only some of the things that I remember. Smiling brightly every morning he would say “Hi Mom! I love you”. Always so happy and full of energy, he would get everything possible out of every day.
Then the accident happened. He was on his way home from school, his first day in the second grade. He was so excited at the bus stop that day. He made me go out with him to the bus stop an hour early that day because he didn’t want the bus driver to think he wasn’t going to the first day of school.
“Mom, if he doesn’t see me get on the bus the first day, he will think that I am a bad kid who never goes to school and then he will never pick me up. Then how will I get to school?” he said to me.
“Michael, I don’t think the bus driver will ever think you’re a bad student or that if you miss the bus one day that you never go to school” I said.
“Mommmmm, how do you know that?” he asked me.
“I know because I am your mom, and I know everything. How do you think I knew you wanted a Power Rangers back pack for school this year without even asking you?” I said.
“Ohhh. Well I still want to go out to the bus stop early because I want to make sure Mom because you never know, and plus what is more fun than waiting for the bus with all my friends on it”.
“I don’t know Michael,” I chuckled, “that does sound pretty cool”.
“Oh Mom it is! It’s the best thing ever. Don’t tell dad though, because I told him his meatloaf was the best thing ever. He might get sad, and I don’t want daddy sad, so please don’t tell him,” he said with his big blue eyes staring up at me.
“I promise,” I told him.
I got the call later that day. I was waiting outside our house at the bus stop wondering where the bus was. My cell phone rang.
“Hello”, I said.
“Hi, is Colleen Cook there”, a voice said.
“This is she, what can I do for you,” I said.
“Mrs. Cook, I’m sorry I have some terrible news for you”.
I soon found out that Michael was on his way home on the bus, when the engine exploded. The bus bursted into bright red and orange flames. Everyone died, except Michael. Although he survived, my son was burned from head to toe, until he was not even recognizable. Tears streamed down my face for days and days. The face I saw everyday that was bright and happy was burned and distorted. He had no hair, no dimples, nothing resembling my son. His bubbly personality has faded along with his confidence and happiness. Now in the morning all he says is “Mommy, my body hurts. Please make it stop; I don’t want to feel how I look anymore. I just want to see my friends at school again”. Whenever he says that, I cry. I cry for hour and hours. Every night I lie in bed, not sleeping, just staring at the ceiling. I wonder: Why has this happened to him? to me?, to his dad? Why has such a young, perfect child been put through so much? Why does he have to suffer?
Now two months and fifteen plastic surgeries later, Michael is still in pain. He goes through the pain of the burns, of the surgeries, and everything else. Michael was the perfect son on the outside and inside. I’ve been told that many people get plastic surgery to obtain perfection, but how is that true, if it can’t even help my son feel and look normal again?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Community Idea for Concept Folio
Since my concept is pain, I have decided that I would like to help people heal the pain they have. I plan on making a bulletin board or something like this with a construction paper tree with bare limbs. Then I will have construction paper leaves on the side with writing utensils on the side. Then throughout the day people can go up to the bulletin board (hopefully in the library) and write down the experience or pain they have on the leaf and post it anonymously on the tree. By doing this, hopefully each person will be able to vent their pain and by writing it down it will relieve them of some sort of pain they encompass and make them feel better overall.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Critique # 2
When observing Frida Kahlo’s “The Two Frida's, the viewer is instantly taken to a very dark warm setting where the sky is as dark as ash with clouds the color of a light colored smoke. The sky is made up of a various amount of grays, blacks, and blues. The scene seems to be of heartache and pain with two ladies, almost completely identical, sitting on a green, wicker bench. One of the women is in a white dress with red flower embroidery at the bottom. She has scissors in one hand along with a cut vein bleeding out, leading partially to the heart, while the other is hand in hand with the woman sitting next to her. On her right breast her shirt is torn, and her heart is out and cut open. Then a vein from the heart flows up behind the woman’s neck and links to the heart of the other woman. The woman on the right has a royal blue and yellow striped blouse and an olive covered dress, which contrast to the lack of color with the women on the right’s dress. Her heart also of a dark shade of red is on the right side of her chest, but is still fully in tact, with a vein slewing down her right arm. The woman on the right also has a picture of Frida’s husband in her right palm. The picture is balanced with the mirroring images of the two women in comparison of each other both who appear similar looking, hearts in the same place linked by a single vein, and their hands held together in the center. The background unconsciously puts the viewer in a peaceful mood, but the foreground brings out the heartache to the observer.The immediate vocal point is the two women in the center. Their linked hands suggest that were or are close. The heart that is cut open along with the vein that was cut, suggests that the connection that once linked the two is now being destroyed and is bleeding out. The contrast in colors of dresses suggests the two are now very different from each other and have other ideas and aspirations. The picture of Frida’s husband in the woman on the right’s hand suggests that the picture is depicting the relationship that was failing between Frida and her husband, especially since the painting was painted during the time of Frida’s divorce. The darkness of the background suggests that the situation is unpleasant and painful.
This piece could incite many narratives. The background makes the scene seem painful and dark. The observer imagines the story of the painting, they see two identical ladies who are in the warm summers night whose hearts are braking slowly as they are trying to hold on through the holding of hands as long as possible, even though their hearts are long beyond repair. The scene is depressing and heartbreaking. Overall, Frida is able to tell a heartbreaking and painful story through the artwork she has created.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Short Story # 1
Officer Johnson
“301 on 95th street need a response car on it.”
“Car 617 on its way,” I say. 301 is a pedestrian car crash. I have seen way too many of those with my time on the force. In a city like New York City, no one stops when you cross the street, I would know, I’ve been hit in a hit and run. That is why I joined the force, to put criminals behind bars. I know it sounds corny, but that is the real reason I joined the force. I flip the switch. Sirens sound and I push the gas peddle. Cars move to the side as I approach. Soon the dashed lines seem to become one solid off white line that seems to go on forever.
I arrive to the scene. I’m the first officer on the scene. My eyes move rapidly across the crash. Looks like one victim, female, 20 to 25 years of age, blonde with blue eyes, petite, only about 115 pounds at most. Car is a 2006 Porsche, a driver and passengers are out of the car. Car has front bumper damage from impact. My feet carry me over to the victim. She is sitting up now, but looks clearly flustered. I go up to her, she seems coherent, but seems in obvious pain.
“Hi, what’s your name,” I say.
“Ryan Young,” she says with a grimace on her face.
“Do you remember what happened to you,” I say.
“Not really,” she said. “All I remember is that I was walking across the street, and I saw bright lights, and then all I remember is waking up and my head was throbbing.”
“Alright, the ambulance just got here, just head over there and they will bring you too the hospital.” I say. I help her up and walk her to the ambulance. Next, I look at the drivers. They look nervous, eyes bouncing from thing to thing. The man has sweat coming down from his brow, possibly showing stress. The woman pops in a piece of gum quickly as she sees me glaring at her. I figure she was drinking; most people only chew a new piece of gum after an accident because there is the reeking smell of liquor on their breath. I walk over to them quickly, hoping to get the truth out of them into really what happened.
Janice
“George, give me the damn keys, you’re too drunk to drive,” I say to my husband. He is a big guy, 6’2”, 250 pounds, brown eyes. He was a former football player at USC, which is where I met him, because we were both students at the time. He decided to go pro but his career ended quickly with an injury to his ACL, which ended his career forever. Since then football playing has been turned into beer drinking for him. Every night and day he seems to drink to no end. He says since he makes guest appearances as a public speaker at the college, he doesn’t need a job. So as long as he is sober at the appearances that is all he needs. He hands me the keys.
“Fine, if you thank yo cun drive, then you cun dribe,” he says. As usual, he has obviously had more than just one too many.
“Get in the damn car George,” I say. We both get in the car, I adjust the seat. I’m only 5’4”. I start driving out of our friend’s driveway, away from the party scene. I turn my wheel to the right and press the gas. The roads are kind of busy, not traffic, but there are cars passing by. They keep flashing their bright lights at me. Why the hell are they flashing their lights? Damn it, I forgot to turn on the car lights. I pick up my speed, as I get closer to our New York City apartment. As I get closer to our New York City apartment, I increase my speed. I turn left onto 95th street, pretty fast. Whoa! I get a little light headed. Its okay I’m almost home, I’ll be fine. The lines now seem to double. Why are there four lanes instead of two? I blink for a second, trying to clear my head. I hit something, the noise is loud, it even wakes up my half passed out husband. I slam my foot on the break. My body jerks forward; I slam my head on the steering wheel. I get out of the car.
“Oh my god, that lady is dead,” I hear from a distance. I hurriedly look around. It is a passer by witness.
“Shit!” I yell. I stumbly run over to the girl. I feel for her pulse. I can’t find it. My heart is pounding; I’m getting even lighter headed. I find a pulse! “Someone call 911,” I yell. Another watcher pulls out his cell phone and calls. She is breathing now, her hand is twitching, and she starts to sit up. A person comes running up. “I’m and EMT, let me help,” this man says. I back up and go stand next to my husband. He seems nervous and in such shock. A police officer comes on the scene. The EMT gets up and stands back as the police officer walks over to the young girl. He goes over to her and talks to her for what seems like an eternity. He walks the girl over to the ambulance that had arrived. I check my breath. It smells horrible. The officer will smell it 100 feet away. I take out a piece of gum; he is looking at me, crap. He is walking over to me and my husband.
“Were you two in the car,” he asks.
“Yes we were officer,” I said.
“Who was the driver,” he asks with a death glare.
“It was me officer, my husband was the passenger, he was too drunk to drive,” I admit, figuring he can just tell my husband is drunk.
“Did you have anything to drink mam,” he asks me.
“Yes, but just two glasses of wine, but I was fine to drive,” I tell him. I thought I was okay to drive wasn’t I?
“I’m going to need to give you too breathalyzer tests, you too,” he says. We agree. He gives us both the test. My husband is over the limit by a lot. I myself am just legally drunk.
“You two are going to have to come with me,” he says. He handcuffs both of us and puts us in the back of the squad car. He gets into the car and we slowly drive “downtown”.
Ryan
There is a light shining right into my eyes. I’m so tired. I look around, the walls are white, needles are hooked into both my arms, and monitors are everywhere. I’m in a bed, a hospital bed. The door swings open with a loud screech, and a young lady in blue scrubs with piercing green eyes looks at me.
“How are you feeling,” she asks.
“Where am I,” I asked. “What happened?”
“You got hit by a car and passed out in the ambulance, and you had surgery,” she explains.
“For what?” I say with a confused expression on my face. Just then my mom rushes in the room hysterical.
“Oh my god Ryan, my baby, what happened”, she asks, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. The nurse explains what she had said to me so far, my mom cries even more, which starts to make sure me tear up. Then, the nurse continues.
“We had to give you a brain scan to check for concussion damage. You did have a mild concussion, but we found something else.” She pauses, biting down on her lower lip. My mom is squeezing my hand with the force of an ape right now.
“Sadly, you had a brain tumor on your brain.” She stops talking. Tears, stream down my face now, my mom even more hysterical than before is in full sobbing mode. “Fortunately Ryan we removed the tumor from your brain and you will be fine at least for now. It may come back, but for now you will be fine. If you didn’t get hit by the car ironically, you might have never realized you had the tumor though, and honestly Ryan… you could have died.”
My mom and I are both sobbing now, but are also in shock. I almost died from a brain tumor, but getting hit by a car saved my life. This was so ironic; I couldn’t help but cry more. The nurse then tells us she is going to give us some time alone. My mom then stares into my eyes, wiping her emotion from her face.
“I don’t know what I would do without you,” my mom says to me.
“I hope you never have to mom,” I tell her between sobs. I then look around and realize I’m still alive. For some reason I am still alive, but I don’t know why. There seems like there was no reason for me of all people to live. Me, a little person from NYU who wants to become a writer and has been a swimmer since I was young, lived. I am one of the few who live through this of all people. This is all too much for me, I turn on the television, and the news is on. My mom and I watch the television to keep our minds at ease. Breaking News flashes across the screen.
“Breaking News. Hi, I’m, Mikayla Jackson for CNBC Nightly News. Two people were killed today in a car crash on their way home from jail shockingly. George and Janice Norman spun out of control and hit a building in their Porsche. They died on impact.”
I look at my mom and wonder, what if that was me?
“301 on 95th street need a response car on it.”
“Car 617 on its way,” I say. 301 is a pedestrian car crash. I have seen way too many of those with my time on the force. In a city like New York City, no one stops when you cross the street, I would know, I’ve been hit in a hit and run. That is why I joined the force, to put criminals behind bars. I know it sounds corny, but that is the real reason I joined the force. I flip the switch. Sirens sound and I push the gas peddle. Cars move to the side as I approach. Soon the dashed lines seem to become one solid off white line that seems to go on forever.
I arrive to the scene. I’m the first officer on the scene. My eyes move rapidly across the crash. Looks like one victim, female, 20 to 25 years of age, blonde with blue eyes, petite, only about 115 pounds at most. Car is a 2006 Porsche, a driver and passengers are out of the car. Car has front bumper damage from impact. My feet carry me over to the victim. She is sitting up now, but looks clearly flustered. I go up to her, she seems coherent, but seems in obvious pain.
“Hi, what’s your name,” I say.
“Ryan Young,” she says with a grimace on her face.
“Do you remember what happened to you,” I say.
“Not really,” she said. “All I remember is that I was walking across the street, and I saw bright lights, and then all I remember is waking up and my head was throbbing.”
“Alright, the ambulance just got here, just head over there and they will bring you too the hospital.” I say. I help her up and walk her to the ambulance. Next, I look at the drivers. They look nervous, eyes bouncing from thing to thing. The man has sweat coming down from his brow, possibly showing stress. The woman pops in a piece of gum quickly as she sees me glaring at her. I figure she was drinking; most people only chew a new piece of gum after an accident because there is the reeking smell of liquor on their breath. I walk over to them quickly, hoping to get the truth out of them into really what happened.
Janice
“George, give me the damn keys, you’re too drunk to drive,” I say to my husband. He is a big guy, 6’2”, 250 pounds, brown eyes. He was a former football player at USC, which is where I met him, because we were both students at the time. He decided to go pro but his career ended quickly with an injury to his ACL, which ended his career forever. Since then football playing has been turned into beer drinking for him. Every night and day he seems to drink to no end. He says since he makes guest appearances as a public speaker at the college, he doesn’t need a job. So as long as he is sober at the appearances that is all he needs. He hands me the keys.
“Fine, if you thank yo cun drive, then you cun dribe,” he says. As usual, he has obviously had more than just one too many.
“Get in the damn car George,” I say. We both get in the car, I adjust the seat. I’m only 5’4”. I start driving out of our friend’s driveway, away from the party scene. I turn my wheel to the right and press the gas. The roads are kind of busy, not traffic, but there are cars passing by. They keep flashing their bright lights at me. Why the hell are they flashing their lights? Damn it, I forgot to turn on the car lights. I pick up my speed, as I get closer to our New York City apartment. As I get closer to our New York City apartment, I increase my speed. I turn left onto 95th street, pretty fast. Whoa! I get a little light headed. Its okay I’m almost home, I’ll be fine. The lines now seem to double. Why are there four lanes instead of two? I blink for a second, trying to clear my head. I hit something, the noise is loud, it even wakes up my half passed out husband. I slam my foot on the break. My body jerks forward; I slam my head on the steering wheel. I get out of the car.
“Oh my god, that lady is dead,” I hear from a distance. I hurriedly look around. It is a passer by witness.
“Shit!” I yell. I stumbly run over to the girl. I feel for her pulse. I can’t find it. My heart is pounding; I’m getting even lighter headed. I find a pulse! “Someone call 911,” I yell. Another watcher pulls out his cell phone and calls. She is breathing now, her hand is twitching, and she starts to sit up. A person comes running up. “I’m and EMT, let me help,” this man says. I back up and go stand next to my husband. He seems nervous and in such shock. A police officer comes on the scene. The EMT gets up and stands back as the police officer walks over to the young girl. He goes over to her and talks to her for what seems like an eternity. He walks the girl over to the ambulance that had arrived. I check my breath. It smells horrible. The officer will smell it 100 feet away. I take out a piece of gum; he is looking at me, crap. He is walking over to me and my husband.
“Were you two in the car,” he asks.
“Yes we were officer,” I said.
“Who was the driver,” he asks with a death glare.
“It was me officer, my husband was the passenger, he was too drunk to drive,” I admit, figuring he can just tell my husband is drunk.
“Did you have anything to drink mam,” he asks me.
“Yes, but just two glasses of wine, but I was fine to drive,” I tell him. I thought I was okay to drive wasn’t I?
“I’m going to need to give you too breathalyzer tests, you too,” he says. We agree. He gives us both the test. My husband is over the limit by a lot. I myself am just legally drunk.
“You two are going to have to come with me,” he says. He handcuffs both of us and puts us in the back of the squad car. He gets into the car and we slowly drive “downtown”.
Ryan
There is a light shining right into my eyes. I’m so tired. I look around, the walls are white, needles are hooked into both my arms, and monitors are everywhere. I’m in a bed, a hospital bed. The door swings open with a loud screech, and a young lady in blue scrubs with piercing green eyes looks at me.
“How are you feeling,” she asks.
“Where am I,” I asked. “What happened?”
“You got hit by a car and passed out in the ambulance, and you had surgery,” she explains.
“For what?” I say with a confused expression on my face. Just then my mom rushes in the room hysterical.
“Oh my god Ryan, my baby, what happened”, she asks, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. The nurse explains what she had said to me so far, my mom cries even more, which starts to make sure me tear up. Then, the nurse continues.
“We had to give you a brain scan to check for concussion damage. You did have a mild concussion, but we found something else.” She pauses, biting down on her lower lip. My mom is squeezing my hand with the force of an ape right now.
“Sadly, you had a brain tumor on your brain.” She stops talking. Tears, stream down my face now, my mom even more hysterical than before is in full sobbing mode. “Fortunately Ryan we removed the tumor from your brain and you will be fine at least for now. It may come back, but for now you will be fine. If you didn’t get hit by the car ironically, you might have never realized you had the tumor though, and honestly Ryan… you could have died.”
My mom and I are both sobbing now, but are also in shock. I almost died from a brain tumor, but getting hit by a car saved my life. This was so ironic; I couldn’t help but cry more. The nurse then tells us she is going to give us some time alone. My mom then stares into my eyes, wiping her emotion from her face.
“I don’t know what I would do without you,” my mom says to me.
“I hope you never have to mom,” I tell her between sobs. I then look around and realize I’m still alive. For some reason I am still alive, but I don’t know why. There seems like there was no reason for me of all people to live. Me, a little person from NYU who wants to become a writer and has been a swimmer since I was young, lived. I am one of the few who live through this of all people. This is all too much for me, I turn on the television, and the news is on. My mom and I watch the television to keep our minds at ease. Breaking News flashes across the screen.
“Breaking News. Hi, I’m, Mikayla Jackson for CNBC Nightly News. Two people were killed today in a car crash on their way home from jail shockingly. George and Janice Norman spun out of control and hit a building in their Porsche. They died on impact.”
I look at my mom and wonder, what if that was me?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Pain Declaration
Everyone shows emotion. Whether the emotion that you harvest be happy or sad, angry or gloomy, and etc., the emotion is still there. Thus, the concept I came up with was pain. I came up with this because pain is a type of emotion in a way, and there are so many other things can be classified with pain such as anguish, heartache, etc. Since I love to observe emotions and how they are effecting people and how it is predominant in art work, I thought pain would be the best, because it has many areas to branch off from, and pain is a very raw feeling that no one wants to experience, but at some point always does. Thus, this is why I thought that this would be the perfect topic to do my concept folio on.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Concept - Folio Critique # 1
Looking at Edward Munch’s “The Dead Mother,” the person viewing the painting is brought too a depressing room. There is a burnt orange colored floor and a bed which is colored with white, blue, and a small bit of reddish orange which is applied in a smoky shaded effect and the back wall is a mixture of shades of blues and grays. The room is somewhat dark and the mood is very dark, sad, and depressing. In the foreground, there is a young child. The young girl has short blonde hair with blue eyes. She has a light blue dress on over a white shirt and has black tights on. Her hands cover her ears, like she is trying to block out some kinds of noise. In the background there is a woman, who is her mother, who is still and motionless in the bed behind the young girl. The mother’s hair is black and her eyes open like she was looking at something before she died.
The young girl in the foreground is the focal point of Munch’s painting. The viewer’s eyes see that she is very young and innocent. As stated above she has short blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, which when stared into, the viewer can see the subtle worry that is in her eyes. The artist creates an outline, so to speak, around her which is actually the shadow cast by the girl, which draws in the viewer to the girl, because it helps to emphasize the small girl’s large presence in the picture. The background with the deceased mother in her bed helps to balance out the picture. Since the mother is located on the right in contrast to the young girl slightly positioned to the left, the image balances out just enough, so that there is equality, but the strong presence of the young girl in the front is still predominant over the rest of the images painted into the masterpiece by Munch. The young child putting her hands over her ears could mean something different to every observer in that the young girl could be blocking out noise, blocking out her own thoughts, or somehow just trying to stop her pain anyway she can.
This artwork is open to as many interpretations of narratives as the viewer can think up. One of them a viewer could imagine would be as they enter the room they smell, something strange. The room is dark and dreary, and could depress even the happiest of people. He/she sees the young girl standing there with her hands over her ears. The worry in her eyes says that she is scared and doesn’t know what to do, she just wants it all to stop, and she wants her mother back. She tries to stop all her thoughts and all the noise by blocking her ears hoping all that has happened will go away and everything will be back to how it was before. The pain inside her that is eating away at her, the viewer can’t help but feel hurt inside. The viewer then knows the unusual smell has come from the lifeless women behind the girl. The viewer sees that women was staring out at the world before she died, and now is most likely looking down at the world feeling the pain of her daughter who she left behind. Overall, Munch creates a story that many people never hope to experience as a young child, or anytime during their lifetime.
Mind's Eye Critique
Viewing “Two Halves” by Brett Gamache, the viewer is brought to the mountainess wooded area which produces the feeling of a hot summer. The only shade that is visible to the viewer is the shade brought on by some of the trees, and the inside of the shack which is roughly made out of wood, possibly gives an area of cool air and space. On the right there is a chiaroscuro in that there is dark shaded path that leads to a bright light, which helps the viewer wonder where this path might lead too. On the left there is two tan dirt and sandy paths that merge together almost at the end, and lead up to the mountainess hill with a variety and multitude of trees. The scene gives off an aesthetic aspect that it is serene and calming and being in the country mountains and the hut is like a little getaway from the hustle and bustle in the rest of world. With the shack located in the middle of the oil painting and then picture being divided evenly on both sides of the shack, the painting produces a feeling of equality and balance. Also, the tone of the oil paint colors and the many different hues of green associated with the trees and the mountains help to make the scene more realistic to the viewer.
There is a focal point that is obvious to the viewer as soon as their eyes set on the painting. The focal point is the wood shack in the middle of the painting. The shack is a safe haven from the rest of the world and the viewer can see that it might protect someone from something whether it is physical or mental.
The art work could produce many possible narratives to the viewers. The one that seems prevalent is that of a person living in the shack away from the world. He/ she have been there because they do not know what to do. There is a path on the right and a path on the left and they can’t decide which one to take. He/ she can take the one on the left in which the person sees what is in front of them, a hilly area full of trees and light, and no surprises. Or he/ she can take the path on the right. The gray path is dark and mysterious. There is a light at the end of the path, but he/she doesn’t know what the light is from. This person doesn’t know what surprises will arise from this path, and whether it is better to take a risk and find something better, or find something a lot worse than the path on the left. All the person knows is that the shack allows them to stay as long as he/she wants until this person finally makes a decision. Overall, Brett Gamache’s manages to produce a story for the viewer through his work.
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