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The work below was written, edited, and selected by high school students under the direction of their teachers Terri Carnell and Elizabeth Jorgensen. Terri teaches English to juniors and seniors in a traditional high school setting, while Elizabeth works with freshmen through seniors at a charter school that emphasizes leadership, career exploration, and global citizenship. Despite their contrasting teaching environments—both within the same Southeastern Wisconsin county—Terri and Elizabeth collaborated to engage their students in authentic writing thanks to Lorette and The Ekphrastic Review. Lorette provided four thought-provoking artworks for students to explore and respond to:
Each teacher’s students focused on specific works:
Following the student ekphrases are student remarks on the process.  Untitled, by Ali Rashid (Netherlands, b. Iraq) 2010 Fading Colours When a connection ends, memories stop being created between you two. Like the transition from fall to winter, you almost lose colour, becoming the sullen white above the grass that is cold to touch. At the start, the memories are fresh as the thoughts consume your brain. They feel fierce and full of life, almost like they are painted perfectly while constantly repeating. But as time passes, the memories that were once so strong, blur together and are no longer taken to heart. They fade more and more every day as the winter chill takes over. Eventually, the memories don't mean the same to you as they did once before. They fall gently into the background of your mind and go dormant as spring comes around. As the seasons change, memories soften and become lighter. They become a part of you yet are no longer held against you. New colours will bring warmth, and the world will open up again, ready for what is ahead of you. Gia Bamrah ** Wall Art “Don’t draw on the wall.” A phrase my dad constantly repeated. Over and over again. He tried to solve this dilemma multiple different times. He gave me paper to draw on. He gave me a fancy drawing notepad. He even got me a canvas. Yet, it seems as if I could never grasp the idea. For me, the wall was my canvas. The bland walls were as white as snow. There was little dimension and a soft texture to them. They were like the ski slopes and the mountains from when I went to Sierra, Nevada. This obviously influenced the scene that was about to unfold. My number one pick when drawing on walls was adding a zigzag line to reveal the hidden mountains. Since the mountain ranges were a bit bland, I would usually add a stick figure. The stick figure could be doing one of three options: skiing, building a snowman, or fishing. I could stop drawing after adding a stick figure, however, I had to keep them warm within this snowing scene. So, I would add a bond fire or a jacket or sometimes both in order to keep the stick figure warm. But my dad did not enjoy the drawings covering his walls. In an attempt to stop me, he started to take my art supplies away. First it started with the markers, but I would use crayons. In response, he took the crayons. Yet, I kept on doodling my heart away on the walls until I had no supplies left. Until, I decided to stop—at least stop, drawing on visible walls. I continued to draw on the walls in secret—behind my clothes in my closet, behind my bed frame, behind my dresser. I finally stopped over time. Yet, remnants of my art still remain on the walls. Ashley Yi ** Understanding Children The crayons that I take tell a story. They feel smooth, like oil. Yet they can crumble, like ash. My hands are still as I leave a mark. But my mind, my mind, races. With each swirl and scribble lies an idea, ideas only I can understand. But when I show these ideas to my mother, father… They don’t notice me. So I copy the intense feeling at the top of the page. A carried-out scream like the argument between my mother, my father… Still, they don’t notice me. Why don’t they notice me? The paper feels heavier now. Like a lead weight. The sound of my cries echo like a siren. My ideas crumble on the page. They are smudged, messy, and torn. And now, this is all they have left of me. Lily Dable ** Diary 12/25/1987 My fond memory of that cold scary night The experience that I never wanted Eyes sting, heart pounds, whiteness wraps, sky falls. Alone attempting to find strength in the calm of the storm. The cold cold night, whispering kept me on edge The light of the campfire danced on the tent walls providing a sense of hope The wolves I could hear, like giggling hyenas Packs moving silently through the mountains Eyes glowing with hunger. As I burrowed into my sleeping bag the same way a child would to hide from the monsters under the bed. I came to realize this night was meant for the brave or the foolish; it was hard to tell where I stood. Sullivan Vogds ** In the Thick of It My dogs drag my sled across the white snow, the only thing I can see is my colorful sled that I am holding onto, every once in a while I get a glimpse of my dogs through a patch of snow, their once black, thick coats of fur, now covered in white snow. In the distance I see where the snow hasn’t reached, I am cold but feel the rays of the sun trying to come in contact with me, the second I step into the sunlight, I see the mountains in the distance. Finally being able to rest as the heat in my jacket comes back to me, I give my dogs the cold water I keep in my water bottle. We rest and watch the sunset as the mountains get brighter. Evan Watson ** The Story Behind Untitled A young caveman named Kona discovered a passion for creation in a cave nestled deep within the rugged mountains, long before written history. The flickering light of fire illuminated the rough stone walls, revealing a blank canvas ready to be transformed. For Kona, this cave was more than just a place to rest; it was a haven for his dreams and ideas. As the tribe gathered around the fire one evening, Kona noticed the shadows dancing on the walls. The flickering flames depicted fleeting images of their daily struggles—hunting, gathering, and the constant threat of predators. A spark of inspiration ignited inside him, one that grew into a bold sense of purpose, almost a hubris. He decided he would not merely record the events of his people but elevate them into something immortal and aesthetic, a celebration of their existence and resilience. Using a handful of natural paints derived from crushed berries and charcoal, he pressed the colours onto the cave wall. Each stroke was rich with meaning, capturing not only the intensity of the chase but also the camaraderie of his fellow hunters. Kona mixed vibrant reds and earthy browns to represent his tribe's blood and spirit, imbuing each figure with an aesthetic appeal that would stir pride and reverence. Yet Kona felt a deeper calling to honor the spirits of the land and their ancestors. He painted towering silhouettes of trees, their branches stretching towards the sky, adorned with symbols of protection and wisdom. In his mind's eye, he envisioned his ancestors' faces, their quiet strength guiding his hand. As the days turned into nights, Kona became consumed by his creation. His hubris only grew as he poured his heart into each brushstroke, believing that his art could capture not only his tribe's past but also guide their future. He painted scenes of joyful gatherings, children's laughter ringing through the cave, and the warmth of shared stories by the fire. These moments were the heartbeat of his people, and he wanted to preserve their essence for eternity. One night, while Kona was deep in his work, a sudden commotion erupted outside. Rushing to the cave entrance, he saw a rival tribe encroaching on their territory. Fear coursed through him, but as he returned to his painting, he realized that this was the very story he was trying to tell—life as a dance of struggle and hope, joy and fear. Fueled by this realization, he painted a fierce warrior standing tall, his markings a testament to bravery and resilience. The cave walls came alive with the fierce aesthetic of his people, transforming the space into a hallowed place that embodied their strength. When the tribe gathered to see Kona's creation, they felt an overwhelming sense of pride. They saw not only their lives represented but a testament to their unity, resilience, and beauty. Kona's artwork had become a sacred narrative, bridging the gap between struggle and triumph. It would remain etched in the cave for generations, a timeless reminder of their journey and a profound symbol of their identity. Addy Whelan ** The Birch Tree Stuck in Winter Swoosh! Swoosh! The sound of windy nights has arrived. Cold air takes the leaves from up on the birch tree off its delicate branches. The paper-like texture on the birch tree is becoming brittle. So fragile like a glass vase. White flakes start to fall, soon leaving the sight of a blanket of snow. Old leaves from fall, now laying on the ground, start to become covered by the snow. The snow starts to freeze to the sides of the birch tree. Oh, so cold, like the icicles that freeze on the rooftop of a house; dangling down, ever so delicately. One touch, and the icicle would fall. The bonfire is lit; a smoky orange colour lights up my face. A little bit of snow won't stop me from enjoying the winter night. Family and friends have gathered around the bonfire, bundled up from head to toe. Winds trigger the movement of our scarves. They start blowing up and down from our necks, side to side. Crunchy leaves, left over from fall, are thrown into the bonfire, igniting the flame even more. Smoke starts to go the opposite direction of the falling snow. Gray whispers of smoke lift up into the atmosphere from the bonfire. The smoke distributes into the sky above, going every which way possible as a result from the strong winds. I look up at the starry night sky; snowflakes landing down on my face, so lightly, but so teeth chattering cold. Winter winds start to pick up drastically, making our bodies feel a chilly shiver. My family, friends, and I slowly put out the bonfire and make our way back inside. At least I got to enjoy the winter night for just a little bit. A little bit was all I needed. I enter the indoors, taking all of my winter gear from head to toe off. My cheeks are rosy red and I start to regain warmness in my body again. We light the fireplace inside to try to replicate that cozy outdoor bonfire feeling. It gives an aesthetic cozy feeling in the room we sit in as well. Cozy is the feeling of hot chocolate filling up Christmas decorated mugs, and the sight of a decorated Christmas tree while the fireplace is lit. A shadow of colour from the fireplace reflects on the frosted window, like a tiny lit candle in a dark room. I look out the window on this chilly winter night, revealing a shivery sight. I see the birch tree sitting in the backyard. Sitting so peacefully, doing nothing wrong, doing no harm to anyone. It doesn't deserve this winter blast that it's receiving. Its delicate paper-like sides are starting to peel off, one by one. Ice and snow cover the tree like a hug. But is it really a nice hug? Oh, how cold that poor tree must be. Or perhaps does the tree adore this feeling of the winter weather. Could I be wrong? Does the birch tree love the season changes just as much as I do? I guess I'll never know. Some wonders can never be solved, and maybe it's better not knowing some things after all. Ava Hermann ** Art Class The cranking of the pencil sharpener echoes through the room as the burning smell of lead and wood is lofted into the air. And the sharp tip vibrates as it’s scraped across the white vast landscape of space, filled with imagination, wonder, and freedom. Figures appear out of the outlines, making the story in their head come true. The young boy slicks back his hair covering his eyes as he reaches for the next instrument. A small cardboard box, filled with eight different colours, is lifted and placed in his hands as he shuffles to select his favorite colors. The crayon runs through the piece like a rainbow in the sky, adding unparalleled beauty. The young boy then raises his hand to ask for the teacher's thoughts. “One minute please.” But that one minute turns into two. And into three. So imagination takes his mind. Reaching for his empty container, he walks to the faucet. The cold and rusty wheel is spun to the left, and water begins to leak from its opening. The container only takes a few seconds before it’s filled, almost overflowing. Carefully walking back, avoiding the students with their heads deep in their own worlds, he returns to his piece in the making. Looking onto the stand to his left, a clear cylindrical mop is selected. Looking at his tray, each individually closed and housing one colour, he selects a color that he wouldn't usually pick. Using his small fingers with their freshly trimmed nails, he peels back the cover. Dipping his brush into the water, he wipes it into the small oval containing the dry colours. After carefully wiping off the extra water so as to not rip his page, he arrives at the paper. The individual fibers of the brush follow his hands as he travels around the paper, bringing life to all of the figures outlined by his engravings. Again looking for the teacher to view his piece, he raises his hand once more. But it’s left with the untrained eyes in the back of the teacher's head. It’s no use. His hand once again falls, but this time back to the beginning. The now rough, bumpy edge of the pencil slices the page as it walks around the paper, leaving destruction in its path. In an attempt to fix it, he then grabs crayons. Now trying even harder to be cautious of the wet paper, he still leaves the paper with tears. Yet, there still remains the water brush to save the piece. Picking up the brush, dropping it into the wet bowl, and then into the ovals filled with colors. He directs the drooping brush around the paper, trying to salvage what he can. But it’s no use. The water slowly fills the page, drowning it even deeper. Beeeeeep! “Ok class, we’re finished for today.” The young student picks himself off of his round seat, grabs his paper, and tosses it into the trash. “What are you doing young man?” the teacher asks. “It’s ruined! All ruined!” the student exclaims as he runs out of the class. Grabbing it out of the trash, the teacher examines the paper. Scanning the lead, wax, and watercolours filling the vast landscape. Imagining the story that was running through the young boy's mind. Smiling at the piece of paper that reminds her of art class, she steps back to her desk. Shuffling through the drawer, a pin is selected and placed on the paper. Walking to the front of the class, the razor-edged metal pin is thrust into the wall. Blake Larson ** Here’s what students said about the experience:
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