Special Showcase: Arrowhead Union High School Students- Christina's World, by Andrew Wyeth5/27/2024 NB: Information about the TER-Arrowhead collaboration follows the student works below.  Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1948 A World Reborn The blackened ash begins to dissipate… The darkest time is over. Safety appears in the distance. A peaceful house in a desolate land. Through the gloom, a girl climbs out of hiding. The darkest time is over. Heaving herself home with harmed hands, she abandons the chaotic destruction behind her. Her frame frail and forgotten, she delicately opens the door. The darkest time is over. Safe and sound, she explores security with memories of asylum flooding in like a river. The trembling girl smiles, tears in her eyes– as the golden sun liberates the smoky sky– and the somber world is radiantly reborn. The darkest time is over. Jr Araque ** All Alone No Way To Move At night, I wish for legs that worked. Long cold nights, I wish I had a blanket. I used to laugh but now I cry. Laughing is something I missed doing before I got stuck out here. A few years ago, I became paralyzed in the legs. Legs are very important if you want to get around. One night, I was riding in the back of a friend's pickup truck in the middle of nowhere. Next thing I know, I have fallen out of the truck and the only thing I can see is a house far away. Even though I could see the house, I didn't have legs that worked, so I had no way to get there. Nights have always been the hardest part, it's so hazardous to sleep out here in the cold field. One day I hope the people in the house find me and take me in. Wishing for a nice meal, I eat whatever is around me, grass, straw, dust, whatever I can reach. ALL ALONE NO WAY TO MOVE. Years have gone by, and the only way I can tell what day it is is when the sun goes down. Tomorrow I hope the family in the house finds me. I used to laugh but now I cry. October is my favorite season because I get to see the leaves change colors out here. Making it this long out here with no working legs is impressive to me, all alone, no way to move. On a good note, since my legs are paralyzed, I can't feel them, so only half my body gets cold. Vibrant orange and yellow leaves in October are what I always look forward to. Even though I am all alone with no way to move, I still manage to find positives in my situation. Mei Astle ** Motherhood A baby saying “Mama” for the first time. A little girl playing with her Barbies. A teenage girl sitting in a room surrounded by friends doing each other's hair and makeup. Experiencing her first heartbreak. Starting a career. Starting to settle down. Getting married. Having children. I sometimes forget that it is everyone's first time living too. No one has done this before and everyone is still learning and will inevitably make mistakes along the way. When I see the painting Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth I think of my mom. To me, the girl shows a sense of longing combined with a sense of fear, but there is also strength. The girl in the painting seems to be longing to get to the buildings further back in the picture, but can’t quite get there or knows she shouldn’t. This reminds me of my mom, and all mothers, as their children grow up and start to leave home. Moms have to watch their children leave after their kids become their everything for years of their lives. They watch their child go off to college or leave home knowing that they have to start letting them go. They have to start giving their children space because they aren't so much children anymore. In the background of the painting, there are buildings or towns, symbolizing a mom's child, resembling how a mom’s child leaving can almost feel like a step back in life. A mom puts a big portion of her life into her kids and a lot of times her life becomes her kids. Then after they leave, life partially goes back to the way it was before kids, but now there is an emptiness of them being gone that wasn’t known before. I put myself into my own mom's shoes to imagine this feeling. Sad that I have to go, but proud I am going. Trying to restrain from being there every moment, to let me flourish on my own. Fearful of me being alone in the world, but knowing I have to learn to do things for myself. These feelings remind me of the girl in the painting, while it may not be her story, her feelings seem to encompass that of a mother watching her child grow up from a distance. As I think of these feelings of motherhood, I am reminded that everyone is living for the first time. I think of myself going to college, then I remember this will be the first time my mother will be in an empty home. I remember that at one point my mom was once the girl leaving her parents, but she was younger and with a lot less opportunity than I have, or she has given me. I remember that years down the line I will become the mom watching her child grow up and create their own life. I am getting older, but so is my mom. It is a scary thought to think about but a reminder to keep her close and be grateful for everything she has done and continues to do. Because I remember that I was once the baby saying “Mama” for the first time, but so was she. And I was once the little girl playing Barbies, but so was she. And I will once be the mother watching her child go off to college, just like she is now. It’s a placating thought to know that we can grow together, we were both once girls, and one day I will be a mother. Julia Buzzell ** little woman in the lands Sunlight licked the curtains of clouds and his saliva of blazing light slid unto the Earth’s blanket of lush olives and across his bed of cornflower blue. Sky, naked and gratifying, clothed herself with the many stitches of all shapes and sizes of cotton across her body. The daughters of Sunlight and Sky–the heavenly Rays–with their dresses of blistering cloth draped down from their father like a chorus of angels descending down from Christ’s home. The daughters’ dresses flowed onto a home of lingering, with its stone frame, walls of plaited clay and secrets hidden inside. Sunlight eyed an abandoned barn near the house, wilting with cobwebs hanging from its spine and critters littering on its forgotten corpse. Surrounding the lingering house and solemn barn, the land was hushed; no one had dared to trespass the lands during the scorching Sunlight’s presence. The wind glided with passion but it seemed as if it were, too, avoiding the land. All but one avoided the lands of fever. Sunlight, his wife Sky, and their daughters all noticed a little woman in the lands. She wore a lovely pink dress with her charcoal hair pulled back. She crawled through the open grass in this heat and they feared for her safety in this revolting warmth. The Rays questioned their parents as to why she simply did not get up and walk. Sunlight scolded his rude daughters but Sky soothed his anger. Sky, with her gentle words, untangled their inquiries of the woman; “She is not like many others; her legs carry a grief that many do not know. Many will never know. But I know this: she cannot fly like us. She cannot stand. Not even for a moment.” “But she can get around other ways?” The daughters observed an empty wheelchair accompanying a standing husband with paints on the porchway of the lingering home. “She refuses to,” Sunlight explained. “Why?” Sky had no answer, for she was not the woman. They were of the same kind; not of the same mind. But still, she responds: “Not even her other flesh knows why. But even he does not question it.” To aid the woman’s journey back to her lingering home, Sunlight avoided the woman to protect her pale complexion, Sky moved her stitches above the woman to shield her sensitive eyes from Her husband, and the daughters, with their dresses, flowed onto the little woman’s beloved husband, who awaits for her return on the porchway beyond the fields. Ella Cutts ** The World of CMT Disease Charcot-Marie-Tooth-Disease: Inherited disease that causes nerve damage. I was diagnosed when I was three. It will never go away, and it only gets worse with age. Symptoms: Decreased muscle bulk, an inability to use feet or hands. I was going to have to use a wheelchair, they told me. It felt like a death sentence. Treatment: Medications to help with comfort, and using a wheelchair when I can no longer walk. I would not walk the same way as everyone else, they told me. It felt like an outcast. At first I could walk, but I stumbled and tripped wherever I went. My feet arching more and more every day. I felt pain, and it hurt to walk on my feet. I felt weak, and I was barely able to walk. I felt sadness, knowing I was different from everyone else–an outcast. Then I couldn’t walk, so I crawled everywhere. My feet now arched like a C unable to balance. I can’t let my disease take me out. After all this is my life, my world… –Christina’s world. Kaci Dassow ** Christina, Keep Running. Keeping away from home appeared to be the hardest thing she had to do. Every day she lay on that field and stared at what she used to call home. Every hour that passed by as she lay in the grass haunted her with every memory. People don't understand her; she doesn't even understand herself. She's all alone now. Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Remembering memories was no good, for they were all nothing but harsh. Ultimately, deep down she just wanted to go back home to have somewhere to go. Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Nothing but hatred and evil lived in that house. Nothing but her father lived in that house. Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Ignoring all the bad is what she did; she had to in order not to hate her very own father. Every hard noise that was made, every quick movement someone made… She had to suffer with thinking everyone was out to get her. Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Nothing could be done for she had run away two years ago now. Going nowhere far, she still knew the only way she would be happy was if she stayed away. Everywhere she went she was just telling herself to Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Christina hated her name: the name that was given to her by her father. Her mother was not in the painting she had molded into her mind. She was scared to ever go back to a place where she knew no love existed, her only choice was to… Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running Sidney Doble ** My Home “Take care of your body–it's the only place you have to live in.” Jim Rohn. Looking ahead as the grass is a dull green The wind slightly flows this way and flows thataway. The building’s too far to reach, she wishes to pull them aside. Unable to run down the hill and roll in the grass Unable to stroll around the open field. As her legs are weak, staring across at the place she calls home. Sitting alone in the dull straw-like grass, dreading the strenuous walk back, to the place she calls home. Sitting alone, hoping that one day those dirt tracks will turn into something more. Tripping and stumbling, but still walking up the hill to the place she calls home. Each day rising a new, a new view of the sunrise to gaze upon. Each day the same dull grass to walk upon, the same hill to walk up and down. As her legs are weak, she's still trying to stay in good health. Each night she spends some time making a bowl of soup. Each night she wishes she could bake her famous Cinnamon scones. Wishing someone else was here to help her more often, Her body is too weak to keep up with her Jada Fournier ** The Chronicle October 29, 1998. This week has been tough. It’s been four months since Martha passed, and each day shows a new challenge. In the mornings I fight my toughest battles; waking up without her next to me creates a hole in my heart bigger than the Grand Canyon. The afternoon brings no better feeling, sitting on the couch watching our favorite show reminds me of her as I try to forget. I understand that healing takes time, but I can’t help but be reminded of her in every aspect of life. We are tempted by the past, seduced by memories and what-ifs. We try to change it, but it never does. We are urged to rewrite history, and mend broken relationships. We are powerless to reach it no matter how close it seems. The truth is that the opportunities that we had have disappeared like dust in the wind. I have learned this lesson through my numerous days on this floating rock. As I reflect and crave my younger self, I reluctantly remind myself of this simple but hard-to-grasp concept. I am only starting to accept my reality: an old, weathered man who is so focused on yesterday that he can never live today. The future lies ahead of me, clouded by uncertainty and fear. I am haunted by my anticipation, and anxious about my next step. The truth is I'm scared of what is to come—afraid of my inevitable end. I live day in and day out waiting with nothing to look forward to except the end. Unable to embrace elegance and the beauty and potential of today. Even as I confront my frightening truths I strive to find meaning and purpose in the present. As daunting as it can be I must make the most of the time I have left. As I have navigated through the puff clouds and rough skies of life, I have learned that the key to calming my inner self is acceptance. I may not be able to control the future (or alter the past), but I can choose how to respond to the challenges and uncertainties that lie ahead. And still, I continue to search for closure in my daily life as I try to grasp the unstoppable passage of time. Tomorrow is a new day, and I will continue to take it one step at a time. I know that Emily will always be with me, guiding me through my day's challenges, as she always did, and always will continue to do. Luke Heberlein ** The Wooden Frame My eyes flutter as a harsh breeze brushes by. I feel the ground beneath me, sharp and coarse. As I force my eyes to fully open, my heart drops. Where am I? The unfamiliar surroundings startled me as I shuffled to my knees. There I lay, in a field of dry and golden grass. As my mind tries to make sense of it all, I feel around across the ground for a clue to how on earth I may have gotten here. Close to tears, my fingers brush past something. Something rough. I quickly grab the unknown object and examine it. The mysterious rough object was a piece of wood. It was cedar brown, with small yet intricate details. I slide the wood into my dress pocket and stand up. In the distance, I could see two buildings, one a little smaller than the other. Against my discretion, I wander towards the bigger of the two. The walk seemed to drag on longer than expected, the houses seemingly not getting any closer. I start to slow, as I become more and more unmotivated. Depressing thoughts started to loom over me. Where is my family? Did they notice I’m gone? Will someone come look for me? Then, came anger. Why was I brought out here out of all people? The rage took over as I threw myself to the ground and let out a crying scream. Feeling utterly defeated, I quickly stand up and sprint towards the wooden house. Finally, I could see the house getting closer and closer the more I ran. The wind, blowing in my face, does not stop me. I march up the rickety stairs and reach for the door handle. I slowly turn the squeaky door handle and push. When I peer around the door, I’m met with another shocking sight. The room was almost completely…empty. The only furnishing was a single picture frame placed on the back wall. Yet, it was lacking a picture. Searching each nook and cranny of the house, I gravitate towards the wooden frame. Then, I noticed that the frame had been broken. It was missing a piece along the top. I brush my fingers along the immaculately broken wood. Suddenly, I recall the object with a similar design. The piece of wood. I excitedly reach into my pocket and grab the rough object. Slowly, I slide the wood into the perfectly crafted spot on the frame. Then, I wait. I wait for something to happen. To be greeted by a helpful stranger. To be given a clue. To be taken back home. Yet, nothing happened. Everything was as it was a few minutes prior. At that moment, I lost all hope. Getting back home seemed like an unimaginable dream. Completely defeated, I walk towards the door of the house, out onto the rickety porch, and down the small set of stairs. My feet landed on the dry, dirt-covered ground. All of a sudden, that same harsh breeze that awoke me in this world, pushed past once again. It threw me to the ground. I felt my vision blur and slowly turn black. As my vision slowly came back, I felt a pressure on my shoulder. “Honey, honey are you okay?” said a familiar voice. Mom? As my vision slowly came back again, I stood face to face with a painting. Confused, I pan around the room. An art museum. Once again, I look at the painting. Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth. In the painting lay a girl, lost in a field. My name is Christina. Elizabeth Henkel ** Stuck Frozen in fear, I can’t move, I can’t get up My sickly body won't allow me to anyway My eyes blur, the house is miles away. Inside awaits my loving family My two sisters, one brother, and mom and dad. Mom is making dinner, and the paved field from dad driving to work My sisters playing with toys, and my brother trying to get in the way. Frozen in fear, I can’t move, I can’t get up My family doesn’t notice me The sound of explosions pierce my ears Ringing more and more each time Growing closer by the minute. I'm stuck in the grass, Waiting for my time to return to my family. But that will never happen, As I watch the dust erupt from our Broken down house in front of me. Tears stream from my eyes Frozen in fear, I can’t move, I can’t get up. Halie Humbrecht ** The Maid He put me in there car, he drove for hours My frail body, only skin and bones shook with fear As I pleaded for a second chance. I didn't mean to drop the vase I was only dusting the shelves. He drove to an open field My body shook rapidly as he made his way up the path I cried for hours and begged to have another chance He left me there with nothing Nothing to eat -- Nothing to drink -- Nowhere to stay but the abandoned house Where the red fox lives. I lay there looking at the house for hours hoping he will change his mind and turn around The fox peered out from inside the doghouse and stared at me I walk to the house and try to fix up some things and watch as the fox digs a hole inside the dog house to lay in. I tidy up the house and make a spot to sleep. The fox stares at me with his green-yellow eyes. It makes me feel calm, he snuggles into his tail and starts to sleep so I curl up and sleep as well. I slept for hours. I don't know what happened, it all went dark. I didn't wake up from that sleep. Paige Klingele ** war he wouldn’t stop yelling i couldn’t get away they shouldn’t understand the deeper meaning he’s been home for three years now nothing seemed to change empty glass bottles scattered everywhere a menacing feeling he told me i could eat if i came back so i did a supper of flexible leather gripped in his hands he never stopped intervening the wish of welfare, was war the proposal to be loved, was war the thought of war, was coming home Charlie Perri ** Ataraxia A soft, almost invisible light pours out the windows of the house on the hill. A familiar vitality exudes from it as family gathers after a long day. But not Christina. She remains in the field, resting on delicate arms. Her hair is tossed from her shoulders by the breeze, just as the tall grass dances against pretty pink fabric. She gazes towards the old, gray house curiously -- the quiet mystery of the field is hers and hers alone. The sweetness of summertime will never be reflected in another’s memory. She runs her fingers through the clovers and the ferns, allowing herself a moment longer to bask in the beauty before her. Chloe Pingle ** Where the Prairie Dims The world has gone dull. What once was a blazing green has now turned into a murky stew of distasteful browns and coppers. Even the never resting sky appears to have lost its sense of humor, fading with age. Either my vision is fleeing or all that surrounds me is; I don’t remember my house looking so gravely ill. I don’t feel well myself, maybe it’s contagious. All I wanted to do was fraternize with the other kids in the area, but even the walk to town was troublesome, with its tough terrain and my hoary shoes. After gossiping about the new folk down on Cedar, I had begun the trek back to my house, suddenly realizing my limbs didn’t feel quite right. Still, I had dragged myself on, for what felt like several days, until my house panned into view. Then suddenly a little winged creature flew into my hair, leading me into a panic. My legs started to kick beneath me, carrying me until one of my feet caught on the other, tumbling at the bottom of the hill to my haven. Now here I lay, pressing my pale coarse hands into the Earth, the tough dirt creeping underneath my fingernails. I heave with all my might, but my legs refuse to obey. I collapse for the second time. The right side of my face greets the bitter ground, splat. I lay there for several moments, waiting for the wind in my head to quit whirling. But it denies my silent plea, trickling its way into my throat and stealing the precious air which I so desperately need. My lungs feel as if they were kissed by the sun, blazing and cumbersome. Gasping, I struggle to sit up, looking at my elderly dwelling, hoping that my little sister or mom or dad or grandmother are out doing yard work and will bring me back to reality; I abhor how helpless I feel. I look at the pale sky, feeling the breeze ripple through my dress and around my neck and through my hair. I realize how calm everything is. I realize how vast the horizon is and how honed and weary the grass appears to be. I realize that when you stop and listen the silence is eerily loud. As the world begins to deafen, my momentios meritable mother emerges from the house with her hands placed on her hips, scanning the fields. I can see her lips moving as she shakes her head but she is too far for me to hear the words tumbling out. I take in deep breaths, the now cool air siphoning through me. I begin to try calling to her, it mostly coming out as mangled cries; I use my arms to crawl slowly toward her, my legs dragging behind. She eventually sees me and starts trekking her way down the hill, her pace quickening as she sees my distress. She sits down besides me and cradles me in her arms, making everything seem okay as only mothers can do. “My legs,” I sob, “they don’t work.” Liliana Puetzer ** My Childhood Farm As I lay down on the field where I grew up, all that I can think is what am I going to do now? This house and this farm has been a part of my family for generations and this can’t be the end. This field has been the place where I can just calm down and appreciate the beauty of this farm. I can’t let this place go, it’s the only place I have left since my husband passed from a mysterious disease. Before he passed, I said to him: “I promise that I will never lose our house.” Earlier this morning, I went out to feed the cows, chickens, and sheep before breakfast. Right before I made my pancakes, I heard a thud on the door and I jumped a little. I started to worry, so I looked out the window, and it was the cops. I froze like a statue because it reminded me of when the cops told me that my husband was dead. I hesitantly walked to the front door and opened the door. There were two cops and the taller one walked in my house slowly and sat down on my wooden table, while the shorter one waited outside. The tall cop made a loud sigh and said in a deep tone: “Hi, Ma’am. How are you doing? I know this is going to be hard to hear, but you can no longer live in this house because the bills aren't being paid and the house is no longer useful in this area.” He didn't sound serious at first and I thought he was joking, but when I saw his face, I knew. I knew it was true. “A construction team is coming tomorrow to tear it all down. You have 24 hours. Again, I’m sorry and have a good night dear.” As they walked away, I closed the door and I started bawling my eyes out and dropping like how the titanic went down. I got up and ran to the field and I swear I saw the tree make a sad face. I can’t believe this is happening, I thought. I could feel everything and everyone laughing and mocking at me as I said goodbye to my house. I turned my body toward my house and remembered everything that happened. I remember the first time I rolled down this hill. I remember riding my bike. I remember the first time my friends came over to this house. I remember all the smiles and laughter that was in this home. Even though people think this house is useless and a dump, it’s not to me or my husband. I just want my kid to grow old here. I want my kids to assimilate with my life. As I lay down on the field where I grew up, all I can think is what am I going to do now? Paige Schleicher ** Christina’s Fight The woman in the dress crawled and crawled, severely weakened through the unadorned field, she didn’t want any help, didn’t need any help. She is stronger than us all. She creeps and crawls through an uninspiring, yellow farm field wanting to get home. She was watched as she crawled, yet she glowed an irresistible glow. She is stronger than us all. The woman has fallen angel wings. She is a fighter, a warrior, fighting every single day, day and night. She thinks to herself often, I can’t do this anymore. But yet, she pushes and fights and doesn’t let anything stop her. She is stronger than us all. Yet the woman knows nothing lasts forever. All the pain, eventually one day, everything will stop and only one thing can be certain: She was stronger than us all. Connor Torres ** Horseshoe A few cans of soda, a trip to the gas station for a quick whizz, and some upbeat tunes about your pick up truck and beer will get you there. The cityscape begins to thin, and the sidewalks turn to open fields decorated with flowers instead of trash. Nevertheless the breeze is warm. The brakes to the rustic, red truck squealed like a piglet. “Whew!” An old woman exclaimed, wiping away a fictitious bead of sweat. “What a ride that was, aye, Bucky? Only three n’ a half hours later and here we are! I’m starving!” Bucky’s eyes reflectively closed as she ruffled his hair. “Like duck fluff,” she would tell him, which he supposed was better than the alternative ‘Albert Einstein’ the kids would sneer at school. “Sure was, Grandma,” he responded quietly. “What are we doing here again?” “Getting us some of the finest, freshest food out there, boy!” she bellowed. Bucky followed the burly woman out the truck, waddling behind her like a chick as they neared a small farm house located in the middle of nowhere. The occasional fluffy cloud decorated a baby blue sky on an otherwise cool summer afternoon. The cicada's high-pitched rattle rang in a crescendo over his hunger cramps and the intermittent cars, racing like police officers to an active crime scene across the old country road. “Finest, freshest food, aye?” Bucky repeated, watching as a horse and buggy trotted across the road they previously arrived from. Grandma’s voice came jovially. “You betcha! The finest–” As she threw open the door to the farm house, Bucky was knocked upside the head by a waft of homemade baked goods. The delectable smell could have carried him by the nose; tongue dripping slobber and all. “Freshest–” Bucky peered over the counter at the bountiful feast of carbs. Some bread was spotted with seeds and oats, others were dark and firm with patterned insides like marble. No matter their difference, Bucky was captivated. “–Food out there!” Grandma turned to the little girl watching her attentively from behind the front counter. Beyond her, a group of women in traditional dresses worked: cooking in stone ovens, kneading bread on a dusty counter, or churning butter. Grandma’s booming voice startled Bucky out of his observations. “We’ll take five loaves of bread: one rye, two white, a pumpernickel and– oh, what’s that muck your dad likes again Bucky?” He inquired, “Whole wheat?” and Grandma snapped her finger, grinning like she had discovered E=mc2 herself. “That’s the stuff. Muck. Oh well. If he likes it.” The girl nodded. After the deliverance of a wad of cash and a thank you, she bagged their desired loaves in a wax paper bundle and they were on their way. Before their departure, the girls smiled at Bucky. He double-takes to see if there was somebody behind him. Then he returned the genuine gesture. Bucky’s feet bounced across the dirt outside. “That girl had a fancy dress on,” He said through mouthfuls of delectable bread. The crunch of the bakery’s golden crust before his teeth melted into the warm, fluffy insides was heavenly. Over the truck engine roar, Grandma said, “She’s Amish.” “S’at what she was?” Grandma nodded. “They got a simpler way of doing things–different, but simpler. If the horse shoe fits, ya know? I don’t judge your dad for eating muck,” she winked, nudging his elbow playfully and Bucky smiled, “nor their different ways.” He looked from the bread back to the farm, slowly shrinking in the distance behind them. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “If the horseshoe fits.” Brittain Wittig ** Editorial Note For more than a year we have been working with teachers at Arrowhead Union High School who are using ekphrasis in their writing classes, and publishing selected works by the student writers. This has been an exciting collaboration in so many ways, being part of the invitation to students to contemplate art and discover the different ways that it can show us the human experience, near and far, past, present, or personal. Choosing from the student submissions a few to publish here for our readers is a painful process. Every single entry is a success story in our book, showing a facet of the communication that happens between someone far away or in another time, and a student today, and the creativity that connection can inspire. We are profoundly impressed by that creativity, and by your curiosity and by your courage. A big congratulations to the writers whose works are shown here this time. We hope all of you will continue to explore art, writing, and ekphrasis. Our readers and writers know from experience the extraordinary blessings they will bring to your life stories. Love, The Ekphrastic Review * A Note from Liz Jorgensen and Terri Carnell We teach creative writing and advanced composition at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin. For the past year and a half, we’ve had the pleasure of collaborating with Lorette and The Ekphrastic Review (1/12/2023, 5/26/2023, 7/10/2023, 1/5/2024). We want to express our sincerest gratitude to Lorette. Providing this authentic opportunity, she has selflessly dedicated many hours, and we are honoured and humbled to again have our students’ work showcased in TER. This year, our 236 students responded to one of the following: · The Chess Game, by Sofonisba Anguissola (Italy) 1555 · Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1948 · Gold Octopus Frontlet, by the Moche people (Peru) 300-600 AD (photo by Thad Zaidowicz) · Blue Soap Bubble, by Joseph Cornell (USA) 1950 · Three Coke Bottles, by Andy Warhol (USA) Our classrooms buzzed as our students engaged with the pieces of art, creatively expressing their own identity, values and beliefs. We were impressed with our students’ interpretations, their interdisciplinary connections, and their emotional intelligence! Through descriptive language, vivid imagery and sensory details, our students explored joy and nostalgia, contemplation or introspection. The students said they felt inspired and creative:
The study of ekphrasis encouraged each of our students to develop an appreciation for art and to see what is possible when art inspires writing. We hope you enjoy their ekphrastic pieces as much as we do.
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