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The Scream by Edward MvnchArtwork: The Scream by Edvard Munch

I penetrated the famous artwork with my gaze as I imagined myself inside the painting–glorious, I thought. The colors swirled around the painting–some wobbly, some wavy. I studied the face of the person who screamed. It was as though the world around you would shake for a moment–to share the horror with you. The Scream was something quite extraordinary, I stated in my mind. It was a little scary, but it somehow expressed sadness, anger, and shock all the same. I continued to scan the painting on my computer screen, searching for a story of the person who screamed.

For a moment, I capture the time as the artist, Edvard Munch, channeling all his focus onto and into the canvas. Then I am one of the people in the artwork standing by the side of the painting, watching curiously at the person who screamed. It is a high, but low sound that dragged across the artwork. The person who screamed clutching the sides of its skull-like face, begging so hard for everything to be alright once again. I turned off the computer and settled onto the living room couch, picking up a book to read. Still, I could hear, screaming, low, high, long, dragging, devastating...

One stroke of the paintbrush, a moaning begins to develop, another stroke, a low wailing, another, and another slowly builds up the scream.

The colors around the person who screamed were vivid, bright, intimidating, and dizzy.

I close my eyes–I am the person who screamed–A piercing screech fills the air, I take a second before I realize that my mouth was open. My pupils grew smaller and I wobbled on the bridge, ignoring the onlookers that stared at me. I felt overcoming tragedy sweep over me like a rough old broom over a dusty floor. I felt like giving up, really–it was too much for me, it made me want to turn into a pile of ashes, at least, then I would have peace.

Maybe I would turn into a pile of ashes, I thought, unfocused. I was back on the couch of the living room, firmly clutching the poor book in my hand, shaken but awed by the imaginary experience in my head. I felt a pang of pity for the person who screamed–The Scream was a painting that perfectly captured horror. Think of it as a person who would scream soundlessly forever because something, or someone had caused trouble; but then, life is full of stumbling blocks and answers to them.

Ella Yamamura, 12, Cary, NC

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