Collected Pieces

Three pieces, collected from lesson work.

Narrative — the art-forgery "masterpiece"

Photographed across pages with many overlapping revisions; wording is approximate in places.

Many tall and green apple trees, they all look the same, swaying, but one is despised for attracting so much attention. All the trees around it have been slaughtered and regrown; only this one stands, towards the sun.

John and Leonardo turned to what they had to do, just for financing their needs, facing each other. Leonardo, grinning, said: "Let's find a load of paintings similar to his and dilute his prices — so no one will notice." He didn't need much money, not after selling it for so much.

I watched him smother his hands and run around the canvas abstractly, creating a fruit bowl in oily purple, keeping the depth and beauty of a realistic painting. He signed the piece and hopped off, knowing he'd made his masterpiece.

Masterpiece! He looked so smug; his smile expressed fortune. The other artists popped their eyes out, jealous looks surrounding him. The bid — a million — had been conned. After making double, glazed, dishonestly. Honestly, I'd do that. By this, the man had plenty.

Persuasive — school uniforms & ties

Ties force discomfort upon everyone wearing them. The tightness of the tie, combined with the top button of a button-up, creates almost no mobility for the neck, and little breathability. Especially during hot summer days, or after vigorous exercise, you would probably not want to take a deep breath — but with a tie you aren't granted the full breath.

Without easy mobility, the neck is forced to move just the slightest amount, unlike the freedom you're allowed in an average t-shirt. This lack of mobility also forces you to focus on your tie and collar while you're trying to concentrate on an important task, just to break focus.

Is the tool of the tie more important than the students' comfort?

Narrative — Martin & the treehouse

In the quiet neighbourhood, the afternoon sun cast a warm glow on the wooden playhouse perched high in the sturdy branches of the old oak tree. It was a masterpiece crafted by a loving father, which had become a safe place for a young boy named Martin. It was his personal kingdom, a place where he could escape his worries and let his imagination run wild.

His father visited to offer some snacks, but when he came through the door, a pile of clothes came tumbling at him like a hedgehog. With a gentle voice his dad politely asked his son to clean up.

Martin looked up from his Legos and action figures, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of his father. He knew he had promised to pack up before playing again, but the charm of his favourite toys was too strong to resist. The room was a chaotic vortex of colours and shapes, a stark contrast to his serene home.

With a sudden sound of footsteps coming, Martin burst out of the room and through his dad's lines of crops, his bare feet soaking into the dirt. The distant sound of his dad's footsteps grew louder, urging him to run faster. Martin's heart beat as he flung open the back door and sprinted into the yard. His eyes were on the ladder leading up to his treehouse. Just before reaching the top, his father hugged him, telling him to clean up, a bag of chips in his hand. After minutes of cleaning, the father and son enjoyed the pack of chips, staring at the starry sky.