Prose- Alley Art Gallery
As promised, here is my award-winning story that I read today.
It is inspired by a linebyline line, "charcoal and old newspaper" and by the experiences I had at Crossroads over the summer talking to the homeless men at Earl's Place. Beyond that it just... appearedin my mind and the words flowed down my arm into my fingers and became something beautiful and poignant.
Alley Art Gallery
The casual passer-by would have missed it. Which meant that, of course, everybody missed it, because no one dawdled in alleyways in the inner city.
Yet, even those who might be willing to dawdle missed it, because no one ever looked. No one ever found beauty in the drug-ridden, gang-ruled neighborhood. No one ever wanted to.
The people that lived in that particular alley noticed, of course. But what did they care, when they were huddled desperately around the small fire they had managed to spark, when they were constantly pan-handling for food, or money, when they only had leaky cardboard over their heads in the bone-chilling night air? No one built shelters in that neighborhood, either.
It was in this environment of oppression, amidst the constant struggle for life instead of the death pervading the air, the omnipresent scent of gunpowder and blood, that the art was born.
It started slowly at first, but no one would have known that except the dozen denizens of that dark alley, who delighted in the brighter, warmer fire they got to enjoy for about a week. The amount of kindling slowly decreased after that as the craft was perfected, refined.
Eventually the kindling was down to its usual amount, that is, next to nothing, except the occasional bottle of tequila with a few drops of liquid still in it. But those fires quickly dimmed and faded.
The morning light rose, and the "residents", if you could call them that, of the alley went their various ways, scrounging out a living. One of them left behind a veritable museum.
Dozens of drawings, sketches really, done using half-burnt charcoal and old newspaper were lined up methodically against the wall. They depicted people, the everyday people around him. Sarah, laughing for one brief shining moment, at the small kittens tumbling past her. Marvin sleeping, not even restful when he did. Mark staring blankly ahead, eyes fixed on some bright, far-off future he hadn't yet lost hope for. And then, perhaps the most striking of all, Elizabeth, Lizzie, huddled by the fire, desperately cradling Damien, willing all her heat to go to his shivering young body. It didn't work, sadly. The picture seemed to show that, too, the edges wavering and fading to a blur, made partly by tears. And it was the only one that had color, too, the little boy's tattered blanket in red, colored using blood from the artist's own calloused hands.
Such simple, striking pictures, such wonderful, powerful masterpieces had been painted in the dark alley there, by the light of the feeble fire. Feeble, yet determined to overcome the howling winds with a fierce, internal strength that seemed to have emanated from its creators, the motley crew of the disenfranchised surrounding it. The same strength shown in each and every painting, the same spirit that everyone on the streets had.
The pictures stood without introduction, without the glass cases that should have protected them like all the great works of art, inconspicuous. Ignored just like the subjects they depicted.
A soft snow began to fall, quietly, gently covering everything in sight, making people hurry even more, and soaking the paper. The portraits were lost from memory just like their subjects.
It was a real shame.
It is inspired by a linebyline line, "charcoal and old newspaper" and by the experiences I had at Crossroads over the summer talking to the homeless men at Earl's Place. Beyond that it just... appearedin my mind and the words flowed down my arm into my fingers and became something beautiful and poignant.
Alley Art Gallery
The casual passer-by would have missed it. Which meant that, of course, everybody missed it, because no one dawdled in alleyways in the inner city.
Yet, even those who might be willing to dawdle missed it, because no one ever looked. No one ever found beauty in the drug-ridden, gang-ruled neighborhood. No one ever wanted to.
The people that lived in that particular alley noticed, of course. But what did they care, when they were huddled desperately around the small fire they had managed to spark, when they were constantly pan-handling for food, or money, when they only had leaky cardboard over their heads in the bone-chilling night air? No one built shelters in that neighborhood, either.
It was in this environment of oppression, amidst the constant struggle for life instead of the death pervading the air, the omnipresent scent of gunpowder and blood, that the art was born.
It started slowly at first, but no one would have known that except the dozen denizens of that dark alley, who delighted in the brighter, warmer fire they got to enjoy for about a week. The amount of kindling slowly decreased after that as the craft was perfected, refined.
Eventually the kindling was down to its usual amount, that is, next to nothing, except the occasional bottle of tequila with a few drops of liquid still in it. But those fires quickly dimmed and faded.
The morning light rose, and the "residents", if you could call them that, of the alley went their various ways, scrounging out a living. One of them left behind a veritable museum.
Dozens of drawings, sketches really, done using half-burnt charcoal and old newspaper were lined up methodically against the wall. They depicted people, the everyday people around him. Sarah, laughing for one brief shining moment, at the small kittens tumbling past her. Marvin sleeping, not even restful when he did. Mark staring blankly ahead, eyes fixed on some bright, far-off future he hadn't yet lost hope for. And then, perhaps the most striking of all, Elizabeth, Lizzie, huddled by the fire, desperately cradling Damien, willing all her heat to go to his shivering young body. It didn't work, sadly. The picture seemed to show that, too, the edges wavering and fading to a blur, made partly by tears. And it was the only one that had color, too, the little boy's tattered blanket in red, colored using blood from the artist's own calloused hands.
Such simple, striking pictures, such wonderful, powerful masterpieces had been painted in the dark alley there, by the light of the feeble fire. Feeble, yet determined to overcome the howling winds with a fierce, internal strength that seemed to have emanated from its creators, the motley crew of the disenfranchised surrounding it. The same strength shown in each and every painting, the same spirit that everyone on the streets had.
The pictures stood without introduction, without the glass cases that should have protected them like all the great works of art, inconspicuous. Ignored just like the subjects they depicted.
A soft snow began to fall, quietly, gently covering everything in sight, making people hurry even more, and soaking the paper. The portraits were lost from memory just like their subjects.
It was a real shame.