An update from the eighth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday June 5, plus some of the output published below Memory—fragmentary, incomplete, unreliable, contradictory, a key to explaining the present or future. “For me, there has been no difference in remembering something and creating something. When I wrote my fictional novels they always had a starting point of something real. Those images that are not real are exactly the same strength and power of the real ones and the line between them is completely blurred. When I write something, I can’t remember in the end if this is a memory or if it’s not – I’m talking about fiction. So for me it’s the same thing.” -Karl Ove Knausgaard This week, we began workshop with a light analysis of a few tenth century Chinese landscape paintings, thinking about the techniques at play, how they made us feel, and the words we may use to describe them. After a few minutes of thought, we connected how these paintings, specifically their relatively barren space, the emphasis on blank space over detail, and an inability to tell what’s what, enacted the function of memory. Most important to our discussion of memory in this week’s workshop was the fact that memory, often times, is in fact creation, as brought up in the quote by contemporary writer Karl Ove Knausgaard above. Jumping off from this concept, we moved towards a discussion of memory in the films The Tree of Life by Terrence Malick (a conflation of memory of the past and memory of the future) and Citizen Kane. We watched two clips from Citizen Kane, from the beginning and the ending, in order to show how Kane’s memory before death, that of him sledding, represented a key to understanding his character and the tragic function of memory. The next segment of the workshop was devoted to a discussion of artwork, beginning with a few landscape paintings by Pieter Bruegel the Elder in which the details were not cast in great focus, another function of memory in art. We then took a prolonged look at two surrealist paintings: Magritte’s Memory, and Dali’s The Persistence of Memory, both of which seemed to portray the obfuscation of memory. The final segment of the workshop focused on literature, more specifically the tradition of the “I remember” text, beginning with an excerpt from Joe Brainard’s memoir I Remember, and ending with Mary Ruefle’s essay “I Remember.” The Challenge: Write your own “I Remember” piece. You may write it as fiction or nonfiction, as poem, short story, or essay. The Participants: Josh, Georgia, Emma, Harine, Svitra, Simran, Sinan, Sophie, Sena, Liam, Anya, Madeline, Zhilin, Isolde, Noa, Joy, Olivia, Alice, Samantha Isolde Knowles, 9New York, NY I Remember Isolde Knowles, 9 I remember the days when dragons and phoenixes swarmed the sky. I remember the days when giants shook the ground. I remember the days when mermaids splashed in their ponds. I remember the days when ghouls and ghosts haunted the night. I remember the days when I fell asleep listening to goblins and imps crackling. I remember waking up to find it was all a dream. Svitra Rajkumar, 13,(Fremont, CA) Memories Svitra Rajkumar, 13 Puffs of Jenna’s breath clouded her vision as she rushed down the road. It was a frosty winter day in Mridaria, and the bustling streets were crowded with multicolored gowns. The cozy smell of nutmeg fit the winter mood perfectly. It was her best friend’s birthday, and Jenna needed to get there quickly, although the crowd wasn’t letting her through so easily. Winter in Mridaria was usually not that cold, considering that it was near the coast, but today delicate snowflakes were drifting down from the sky. The dark, paved roads were covered in a blanket of snow. Citizens had tried to clear them in vain; the snow was overpowering. Jenna weaved through the barrier of people, careful not to be noticed. Jenna worked at a part-time job that required a lot of stealth, so she was a master at being furtive. She stopped to check the time, but the impatient Mridarians kept moving. A lady in a silky red gown knocked Jenna over, in an attempt to get to Charlotte’s Jewels, a very popular jewelry shop. Unfortunately, they were having a Black Friday sale today. “Ouch!” Jenna cried out in pain, picking herself off the snow. Her calf had hit a sharp stone on the ground and was now sporting a large gash. Ugh! Now I’ll be late! She looked up to see people staring at her. The Mridarians were awful gossipers. Sure enough, she could see many of them whispering to each other. Ignoring all this she turned around to yell at the woman who had bumped into her, but her silky red gown was no longer in sight. “This is the worst day ever!” Jenna grumbled while looking around for her watch, which had fallen off when she was shoved onto the ground. Ah! There it is! She picked up the watch that was now cold and wet, and stuck it into her coat pocket. Jenna looked up and began to move forward, but tall horse legs blocked her path. “Hello Miss, you look like you need a ride,” an amused voice chuckled. What now?! Jenna looked up, and to her surprise, a boy sat high on top of a white horse waved to her. She recognized that voice, and the crest on the horse’s saddle gave it away. Jenna was standing in front of the heir of Mridaria, the king’s son, and Mariel’s older brother. * * * Before she could figure out what she was doing, Jenna found herself inside the warm palace, sitting on an oversized chair that smelled like her grandmother. What am I doing here?! How did I get exactly where I needed to be? She racked her brain and thought back to the last thirty minutes with the heir. Being with the heir added many risks to Jenna’s situation, but
writing workshop
How Stories Work-Writing Workshop #7: Excess
An update from our seventh Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday May 29, plus some of the output published below Excess: more than necessary—exaggeration, extravagance, exuberance, abundance, unnecessary, overload, overkill, surplus, luxuriance, improvisation, unrestraint, ridiculous To kick off this week’s workshop, we began with four artworks—Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s Dulle Griet, Peter Paul Rubens’ The Garden of Love, Jackson Pollock’s Convergence, and the Sistene Chapel—all of which illustrated, in one way or another, the theme of excess. While we technically defined “excess” as “more than necessary,” the purpose of this workshop was to show how sometimes excess is necessary in order to create the feeling of being overwhelmed or overpowered or repulsed, an idea perhaps best encapsulated in the work of contemporary Australian sculptor Ron Mueck. We looked at a few of his hyperrealistic, larger than life works in order to demonstrate how something almost “too real” becomes grotesque. Following our discussion of Mueck, we looked at examples of Baroque architecture, a style associated with ornamental excess as is the case with St Peter’s Basilica and La Sagrada Familia. We also discussed a piece of Postmodern architecture, the Lou Ruvo Center for Brain Health in Las Vegas, a “non-functional” building more characteristic of a dream or a work of science fiction than reality. We then discussed excess in music, something popularized in the Rock n’ Roll music of the 70’s and 80’s (think Kiss, David Bowie, and Queen), and best exemplified by Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which we listened to. The last section of the Writing Workshop were devoted to examples of excess in writing as we looked at an excerpt from Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox (exaggeration), Lewis Carroll’s The Jabberwocky (pleasure in its own silly sound making), and, finally, an excerpt from Cormac McCarthy (functional resistance to grammar, repetition of the word “and”). The Challenge: Write as much as you can, as fast you can, without worrying about making sense; write excessively. The Participants: Emma, Simran, Svitra, Liam, Sena, Zhilin, Noa, Georgia, Helen, Aditi, Sinan, Olivia, Harine, Alice, Julia, Audrey, Josh, Isolde, Samantha Emma Hoff, 9Bronx, NY CRACKED Emma Hoff, 9 The ceiling hates me because it is cracked and imperfect and unloved and unfixed and nobody pays attention to it anyways, because they don’t care. Well, I care, but that doesn’t really matter because it hates me the most because I am loved and my life is good and I am not cracked or broken or crumbling and as far as I know, I will not fall and squash somebody and I can move around and I play sports and I write and I read and I draw and I play, but the ceiling isn’t able to do any of that because it is inanimate and cannot move. And I like looking at things, but I think I understand how boring it would be to see the same thing over and over again, my family walking down the hallway, maybe carrying something, maybe stomping, frowning, happy, sad. If the ceiling is inanimate, do you think it can see things? If it can’t it still somehow hates me, which seems impossible, but for now, I’ll say it’s possible and stop the fight and also the confusion, because you probably can’t understand a thing I’m saying, but that might be okay. Georgia Marshall, 12 How Olive Hendrix Broke Her Leg Georgia Marshall, 12 It is a hot day, but I’m not that hot. In fact, I am able to pull a sweatshirt over my head and I am fine. Anna’s complaining about the sun making her hair get all frazzled, so I explain to her that the only one frazzling anyone’s hair is Anna herself. She rolls her eyes at me and pulls out her sketchbook as we wait for the chipped yellow bus to roll up with its paint sizzling off like the skin of a sausage. Anna likes anime, which I hate, so I ignore her asking me if Ponyo or Lu over the Wall is better. Instead, I focus on the bees that are buzzing beside Anna’s ear, which I think are having a fight but are also very polite and don’t want to sting her. I wish they would. That would shut her up. I hate Anna. But she is my best friend, so I guess I shouldn’t hate her. But Olive at soccer practice is a lot better than her, which is unfortunate because Olive is in the hospital and probably dying. Well, no, Olive broke her leg and can’t do soccer and I don’t know where she lives and I am now stuck with Anna on the sidelines talking to Trini Deboever and ignoring me in midfield. I jam my earbuds into my ear and play a blasting rock and roll song that my dad would probably like. I don’t know why I am listening to this. All of a sudden the school bus pulls up on the side of the road and I spring up and claim my seat by the window. I glare at the shrubs in Mrs Porter’s yard as Anna walks right by me and sits next to Trini, who is staring at her phone. She looks up when Anna comes over, and her face glows like a lantern. I’m not kidding. It turns yellow and full of light. Okay, maybe she just smiles and acts all surprised, but I can see through it. I bet her mom is a murderer or something, and she has a knife in her backpack. I want Anna to get away from her as soon as possible but I also hate Anna and wish she didn’t exist. The school bus begins its journey down the road. I wish I had a T-shirt under my purple sweatshirt with skeletons on it because now I am slightly-sort-of-kind-of-maybe-a-teensy-bit hot and I will probably die in a few minutes. Well, no I won’t, but if I did then maybe Anna would
Writing Workshop #42: Ekphrasis
An update from William’s forty-second Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday May 22, plus some of the output published below William started off the Writing Workshop by explaining the concept of Ekphrasis, which typically refers to translating one piece of art from one format to another. As an example, William highlighted the poem “The Ambassador” by Emma Hoff, which was published in the January 2021 issue of Stone Soup. Emma’s inspiration for the poem was a painting by Italian painter Giorgio de Chirico (picture to the right). Additionally, William discussed Homer’s description of Achilles’s shield, Lucian of Syria’s description of a painting lost in ancient times, and later Boticelli’s painting that interpreted Lucian of Syria’s description. The Challenge: Write a piece that utilizes the technique of ekphrasis by reimagining a visual work of art into words. The Participants: Sierra, Mahika, Charlotte, Madeline, Julia, Lina, Reese, Nova, Mia, Hanbei, Iago, Reese, Peri, Gia, Jonathan, Nami, Sage, Lena A, Wesley, Rachael, Angela, Audrey, Grace, Delight, Jaya, Lena, Helen, Chelsea, Leo, Margaret. Nami Gajcowski, 11Seattle, WA The Face of Time Nami Gajcowski, 11 I talked, but I could hear my words filing into her ear and out of another like a string of music notes. She held her violin at playing position, but when I asked her to play something, she just looked at the brown mahogany that the instrument was made out of and didn’t say anything. I took out my violin and played a drawn-out and mournful tune. She didn’t notice, or she didn’t care. I wasn’t sure which. I was impatient. I couldn’t teach music to a student who would only stand motionless. So, I sent her away a half-hour early.She didn’t move, but she said the first thing I heard her say during this violin lesson: “I will leave when I want to.” She wasn’t being defiant. Or maybe she was, but she used her words and twisted them into an innocent tone. So, I let her stay. I let her stay and stare at her violin. I made stabs of conversation. She never responded. I tried playing a lively tune. She continued to look like stone. Out of the blue, she stood up. Still holding her violin, she went to the coat hanger and grabbed her brown cloak off the golden hook. She set down her violin to fasten her cape. “Are you going?” I asked. She finished fastening her cape and grabbed her violin. It was eerie the silence that she made. Her footsteps didn’t make a sound. Her cape didn’t rustle. She opened the red doors, and quietly stepped outside my house. I stared at her. Something was intriguing. I knew that there was more to uncover to her. I felt that her silence held a secret. Maybe deep loss or unbearable pain. However, when her mother had dropped her off at my house for her first violin practice, she had maintained a stiff smile. That was probably for her talkative and over-eager mother. But when her mother left, her lopsided smile diapered, and she took a seat in front of my desk. She swiveled the chair to face my direction, and she picked up her violin as if she were about to play. She never did, though, and then that’s when I began to speak even though I wasn’t sure if she was listening. I stared outside my window. She walked down the street that was wet from rain, her violin in hand. I didn’t know where she was going, but there was something peculiar about her footsteps. Unlike when she was in the house, her footsteps made an ominous and echoing sound. I could hear her footsteps from across the street. The rain wet the ringlets of her brown hair. Though it wasn’t the brown I saw in my house. It looked a different color. Though if it were a color, what color was it? It seemed to change with the wind. It was unpredictable. It was changing. She looked like the corpse of time. Or maybe she was time itself. Her figure suddenly changed from a 12-year-old girl to an adult with a broad stance. She seemed to be ageing by the minute. Then, she disappeared. Had she died? No, now she was a baby. An innocent and gentle baby. There was nothing more to her, but she kept on crawling down the street as she began ageing again. However, there was something odd with the street. I had walked down it many times before, but something was different. It stretched out and into the rain. It was never-ending. The cheery buildings turned a drab grey. I could still see the girl. She was walking, but instead of going farther down the street, she seemed not to be moving forward. Suddenly, she turned back into the girl in my house. When I was teaching her the violin. She was the 12-year-old girl with brown hair that matched the color of her cape. I touched the window. Its smooth glass was now somewhat bumpy. Smoke billowed out of the girl’s cloak. The street turned to normal. The window became smooth. The girl disappeared. I never saw her again, but little did I know, she would change my life. Lina Kim, 11Weston, FL Horses in the Snow Lina Kim, 11 The two majestic horses plunged through the snow, tossing snowflakes off of the ground. The mare on the left had fur the color of a chestnut and a mane and tail the shade of peanut butter. A light sprinkle of snow coated her back. Beside her, on her right, was a stallion, black as night. Both had a small streak of white starting on their foreheads between their eyes, reaching down until it touched their muzzles. Snow-covered trees reached up to touch the light orange-pink sky. One tree’s thin trunk had bent over. The red-orange leaves coated in white reached to the ground desperately, but the trunk refused to give in,
