The wonderful Miss Tse (there she goes, speaking about herself in third-person again) arranged for the Writer’s Block to visit the Millenium Gallery in Sheffield this week. There, students wrote a range of art-inspired pieces, explored the jacketed nature in the Winter Gardens and found an xbox controller in an old painting.
You can read some of their writing below – can you guess what inspired them?
The ‘I am John Ruskin’ Project:
For this task, students pretended that they were the John Ruskin, who gathered together a collection of beautiful art pieces, trinkets, crystals and taxidermied birds for the entertainment of Sheffield workers. Their writing explored the imaginary moment Mr Ruskin first laid eyes on their chosen object.
I had laid my eyes on pure beauty. My creation was finished. The streets of Port Chenzelles lay rolled out before me. The tall buildings above the cobbled street were like castles, spreading joy across the kingdom. The sun poured down on to the wonderful street of Port Chenzelles, full of joy and happiness. The grape trees hung in the air and swayed to a rhythm. A woman stood washing away all the water from her wooden bucket. Trees with berries lay, peeking over the top of a building. If trees were human, they would be smiling – as I was.
The texture of my masterpiece is outstanding! It’s like no other creation ever to be seen. I simply had the desire to draw this from the second I saw it. It was just their, all alone. Now part of it is here to be seen by many – many that didn’t even know this plant and these animals ever even existed in the first place.
The Metalworkers’ Project:
For this project, students had to imagine various scenarios that included various metal-craft products, all of which were stunning to behold (and so very shiny, too!). In a somewhat violent turn of events, here is what they came up with.
I lunged the knife forward into the stomach of the Baron. He didn’t make any noise, but his lung popped and he fell to the group. I’d completely lost it in a rage. I can’t believe a knife made with such passion and displayed in such beauty could cause so much pain and draw so much blood. I ran for it.
In an almost eroded charity shop at the end of an old, dusty road, there was a man of mystery. Nobody knew his name, nobody knew where he came from. Gravity pulled him towards the knife. From the day he saw it, he had an urge to buy it. It wasn’t an ordinary knife; the man knew it was special. He slid the knife into the right pocket of his leather jacket and ran away. From his pocket, razor-thin wires erupted, wrapping round the man’s head to strangle him to death.