I AM A CAMERA IMAGINATIVE WRITING & THE IMAGE created and taught by Adam Shemper
SONOMA ACADEMY • SANTA ROSA, CA • SUMMER 2014 Hannah Breall, Abbey Carmel, Reilly Dwight, Azalea Martin, Ilana Shotkin & Jonah Vogel
I AM A CAMERA IMAGINATIVE WRITING & THE IMAGE created and taught by Adam Shemper
SONOMA ACADEMY • SANTA ROSA, CA • SUMMER 2014 Hannah Breall, Abbey Carmel, Reilly Dwight, Azalea Martin, Ilana Shotkin & Jonah Vogel
The views in this book are the writers’ and do not reflect those of Sonoma Academy. This is a notfor-profit, educational publication of student work.
Cover photo credit: Dawoud Bey
CONTENTS The Words Begin to Act by Ilana Shotkin! The Ones Who Left Me by Hannah Breall ! ! ! ! Julia by Jonah Vogel ! ! ! !
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Let Me Tell You What a Girl Ought to Be by Azalea Martin ! ! Where Do We Go From Here? by Reilly Dwight! A Lonely Place by Ilana Shotkin
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Tin Can by Abbey Carmel
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4-5 6-7 8-9 10-11
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Endlessly Unchanging by Ilana Shotkin!
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The Pulley by Jonah Vogel Matthew by Abbey Carmel! ! ! ! ! ! !
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I AM A CAMERA: IMAGINATIVE WRITING & THE IMAGE SUMMER 2014
I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! --Christopher Isherwood In this exploratory course, students wrote creatively about the lives of people and places in photographs. To inspire them to write, they chose from a variety of images from art photography to documentary to photojournalism. Through the process of working with words and pictures, students began to discover the similarities and differences between the way people are represented in images and the way characters come to life in a story. As well as the way images give us an immediate visual sense of place and the way stories use verbal description to slowly reveal a setting. The ultimate aim was to teach students to trust the unique shape of their individual lives and voices and to trust the raw process of writing. In the end, six students wrote in a variety of unique forms that include creative vignettes of memories, fictional stories, inner dialogues and poems that are imaginative and deeply-felt in their descriptions of voice, character, mood and setting.
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THE WORDS BEGIN TO ACT
photo credit: Alice Doyle
by Ilana Shotkin The book's pages breathe their stories into the world. It is easy to imagine the author's pen running across the paper. The words on the paper ride through my mind Like a teacher trying to tame my thoughts. The book on the table can foretell my future, Can tell of the stars I will swing between, My hair dancing behind me. Like a dog willing to apply every bit of energy for a beloved master, The forest of my thoughts will film my life. With a flick of my wrist, the words begin to act.
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THE ONES WHO LEFT ME by Hannah Breall
Now that I'm home, bathed, settled and fed, All nicely tucked up in my warm new bed. I'd like to open my baggage, lest I forget, There is so much to carry - so much to regret. Hmm . . . Yes, there it is, right on the top. Let's unpack Loneliness, Heartache and Loss; And there by my leash hides Fear and Shame. As I look on these things I tried so hard to leave I still have to unpack my baggage called Pain. I loved them, the others, the ones who left me, But I wasn't good enough - for they didn't want me. Will you add to my baggage, will you help me unpack? Or will you just look at my things And take me right back? Do you have the time to help me unpack? To put away my baggage, to never repack? I pray that you do - I'm so tired you see, But I do come with baggage Will you still love me?
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photo credit: Dawoud Bey
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JULIA by Jonah Vogel Julia’s mother was always very vocal about the pride she felt for her relationship with her daughter. She used to say, “We can talk about anything, that’s just the type of bond we have.” When they drove together to this or that obligation they would banter and her mother always felt their words had deep sincerity and strong emotion within them. Her mother would say, “I don’t know what people are talking about when they say teenagers are rebellious and resentful, my sweet Julia has never been that way,” but Julia’s mother never really knew anything. She lived her life in the haze of her own ideas, her own attachments. The way she wanted to see things often overpowered the way things actually were. Her image of the world tended to reside far off in space, twisted, inverted, blurred image of the world. ! When Julia was young she didn’t see it. Her mother was the hull of the ship: strong, true, guiding. She felt comfortable in the wake of her mother’s movements, being pulled along in the calm eddies was what she knew. Julia grew though, as children do. Her small, accepting mind and her young body progressed. Her mother slowly transformed in her mind. The god-like entity that she once was slowly became an all- too-real flawed and equal human being. When Julia grew she swam away from her mother’s sinking ship. She left her mother completely, and was still always with her. She still drove in the car with her, and still bantered, but she had left a long time ago. ! Her life was elsewhere. Her body still went through the motions. Still fed itself and maintained enough not to be noticed but her life was in her mind. It was in the dark spiraling tracks that her thoughts glided along. Her life was in the few thoughts she could not escape. Her life was in the dark and fucked-up truth that lies behind the surface layer of the world. Julia saw things clearly; she didn’t distort reality to fit her opinions like her mother did. Her mother never listened––not truly––she simply waited for her turn to speak. And when she did hear something Julia said it only reached her because it fit through her filters; it only reached her because it was something she wanted to hear. Her mother only floated through life staring at her own reflection. She never dove down to the mud in the depths of life’s lake to find the bones and truths buried down there. Julia, on the other hand, was born with the inescapable weight of intelligence tied to her feet. She spent her life down in the mud at the bottom of the lake, drowning.
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photo credit: Arthur Tress
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LET ME TELL YOU WHAT A GIRL OUGHT TO BE by Azalea Martin “Small girls should be silent” But how can you silence whispers of sweet secrets and modest stories? And don’t you know, even if I stop my babbling, no one will ever be able to ignore the laughter fleeting from my honey-milk hair blowing in the afternoon breeze? “Small girls should watch their tongues” But how can you wipe the hush and lull of young, green ideas sprouting from rosy lips that curve at the edges, flowering from blissful carelessness? “Young girls should respect their elders” But how can I pay attention to you if you do not teach the beauty of the world and the beauty in a girl? How can I listen to you if you refuse to learn from us? “Young girls should not stutter” But how can you not want to draw out words, to savor them before they slip through your teeth and into the air? Don’t you know that words are a precious thing and speech is just a tool? “Good girls should be patient” But how can I wait and stop if it means I could lose something you may not understand. And how can you expect me to be patient if you cannot hear that the trees sing songs back, if only you would listen? So let me tell you what a girl ought to be. A girl ought to be young and imaginative and soft. A girl ought to be freckled noses and awkward hands. A girl should be a wild cry and not a silenced note. A girl is a special thing. A girl is not obedient; a girl is creative and offensive in her beauty. And this girl is learning more from what she is being restricted from than her punishments.
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WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE? by Reilly Dwight
photo credit: Manuel Alvarez Bravo
What is the world out there like? Has it changed? I can only vaguely remember the city with all its noise and twinkling lights and people bustling about constantly. The city made me think about my future. Then I got caught here, in this horror of a place with no hope of escape. Sometimes I think to myself what would happen if I could just escape from this trap? Run away? I have spent hours dreaming up ways to escape. This is no way to live my life, barred from going anywhere or making any difference. They think that eventually I will just give up and no longer strain against these bars but they are wrong. Being trapped is only making my hate of this place and these people grow stronger. Every time I hear that click of a key in the doorknob I can feel my hatred growing hotter. It has been three years since I’ve seen my family. They lost faith in me a long time ago. They sent me here to be fixed; tossed aside like a broken toy, no longer loved. Somedays I think I am getting better, stronger, more myself. The next day I still believe I am fine but I do things that I regret. It’s like a brain wash. How can I do this to myself? I don’t see how being here is helping, it’s inside my head, that is something that is hard to change. It’s like a constant war inside my head, a struggle too great. Letting my guard down creates a lot more peace and quiet but then that creates more trouble for me in the end. It is like turning a blind eye on a toddler and turning around two seconds later to find them gone, getting into trouble. The people in here have no trust in me, which does not allow me to have any trust in myself. I am no longer treated like a person, I am treated like a wild animal that cannot be tamed. My own mind is playing tricks on me, I feel lost and confused, trapped within my own mind. 8
photo credit: Sally Mann
Not so long ago I was young. Life was much easier. My parents made an effort to be happy for me and my little sister Daisy. That was before Ma left us and Daddy starting drinking again. I used to hear the screaming fights between them and I tried to be strong and fight back the tears growing heavy in my eyes; I used to hear Ma pleading with him and him laughing a harsh laugh that echoed through our small home. The worst part was when I would hear Ma scream, that is when the tears started to come warm and wet rushing down my face. Daisy would hide under her covers until the sobbing subsided and I don’t blame her, I wish I could do the same but I had to try to be brave for her sake. Then one night Ma was done; after years she just couldn’t take it any more; she started screaming at him and throwing things and she just stormed out of the house and that is the last time I saw my mother. Now Daddy is drinking even more coming home in the early morning stumbling in confused and asking for Ma, calling her name demanding she come to him. I wait for him to calm down and I remind him that she is gone and he crumples to the floor with a look of pain on his tired face. I wish I could run away I know that I would be able to make it out there on my own, I could take care of myself but if I did that then Daisy would have no one, all we have is each other. But the thought of leaving Daisy here with Daddy scares me and I know that if I did run away Daddy might start hitting Daisy and I could never live with myself if I let that happen. I miss my mother’s comforting touch and her soft voice reminding me that everything would be ok. I’m not sure that she believed it herself when she said things would improve, but I think it helped both of us to stay optimistic and not lose sight of the light. 9
photo credit: Sally Mann
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A LONELY PLACE by Ilana Shotkin It is the kind of place that makes you forget yourself, where the bleak light filtering through the trees saps your will like an ice cube drains your heat, slowly drawing it out of you and away. The branches hang low to the ground; the air is musky, damp, and full of floating feathers of dust, visible on the light that trickles down, stained green by the lichen. This place is so alive with plants and the small rustles of animals that flock to the place where the very air seems dead. People do not come here. When they do, they do not last long before the calm seeping into their bones turns to lethargy and the enormity of the trees weighs them down. Their bodies become too heavy to even allow a twitch of facial muscles, a smile. It is a place to go when there is no other place to go, when life seems hopeless. The ground sucks that away, leaving calm and emptiness. It is an escape of sorts. An escape from life and daily toil without rewards. It is a place to go to be reborn, born again in a timeless grove of ancient trees. In the middle of the grove is a clearing, full of revitalizing light, light that has traveled millions of miles to reach this spot and wake you up, to free you from the thrall of the trees. The light lends color to the bleak gray outlines and black shadows. It points out the flaws in an otherwise too perfect landscape. The light struggles to penetrate the blackest depths of the spaces between knobby, gnarled tree roots that reach up to trip and confuse unwitting journeyers who do not realize where they had stumbled and what awaits them in this strange, still place.
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photo credit: Antonin Kratochvil
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TIN CAN by Abbey Carmel His house was no more than a tin can. There was one window, no bigger than his hand,  and a fractured door that hung barely on its hinges. Inside this house, a beaten-down tin can, was a young man with a scraggly beard and unkempt hair. He looked twice his age, with a permanent wrinkle at his brow and  cracked, sun damaged skin. He was sprawled out on the tarnished floor with nothing but a single sheet covering his bare skin. When he inhaled it sounded like there was sand flying around in his windpipe. He took long, slow breaths in his house that was no more than a tin can, where time moved in slow motion. Everything was still.
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ENDLESSLY UNCHANGING by Ilana Shotkin !
It is the same every day, especially during the summer. My father and I wake up in our hard, creaky, little beds in our damp, drafty, little rooms. We visit the sink in the hallway for water to make tea, and we eat a few crackers for breakfast, if we have any. Usually, we do not. Then, I am told to sit back down on my bed and study my letters while my father sets up his workbench in front of the door, the only free space in the room. After lunch—never enough, my belly still hurts—my dad continues working and I go play with my friends. Sometimes, it is hard to find the energy to play. Then, I go home, eat some stew, and go to sleep. The next day is exactly the same. This morning, I finished the book I had borrowed from my teacher, who lends me books even over the summer break. I cannot leave the room because Papa’s workbench is set up. I peer over his shoulder. “Can I help?” “Neyn, Henrich. Go study. You still have a chance to do better at life than me.” “Yes, Papa.” But I stay. I watch carefully as his clever fingers fashion a little box from an old, misshapen log. People pay him for the little treasures that he frees from the wood, but it is never enough. Sometimes, we cannot afford coal or firewood and Papa has to burn his treasures to warm up our little room while we sleep in our clothes. We do not have blankets. I wish I could help him with his cutting and carving. Maybe things would not be so bad, then. I’m eight. Most of my friends have already left school. Soon, it will be just the rabbi’s son and me, but his father is going to pull him out after next year to learn about the Torah. That is why school does not go past the third grade. I do not think that Papa realizes that. He does not want me to grow up to be him, but what choice do I have? ! Nothing around her ever changes.
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photo credit: Roman Vishniac
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THE PULLEY by Jonah Vogel !
In many of my most comforting memories there is a soft, warm, golden light that
illuminates the scene. I have never been able to figure out if most of my comforting experiences have been lit by this similar glow or if I add this lighting in the postproduction edit my mind makes unconsciously. It’s a classic chicken or the egg dilemma, but all-in-all it’s not important. That warm light is in my memories one way or another, its importance to me unchanged by its origin. ! My earliest memory graced by that light is one of my childhood room in San Francisco. I remember it to be a large room on the second floor of our house, but in reality it was small and I was simply smaller. My bed was pressed up against the right wall of the room. It was covered by a loosely-knit, yellow blanket and my pillow cases were made of soft white cotton that were fuzzy, not smooth. The wall opposite my door had three windows in the classic half hexagonal shape present in so many San Francisco houses. I remember the walls to be a similar color to the light and my blanket but again, that may not be accurate, and again, it doesn’t affect the significance of the observation in my memory. ! My favorite part of my room was the pulley system my father had bought for me. It was a set of small wooden pulleys of assorted bright colors that could be stuck to your walls. They were spread all along the wall my bed was pressed up against in strange patterns that had no regard for functionality. One end of the string, wrapped through the maze of pulleys, I would tie to the frame of my bed, while the other was attached to a basket that I hung out my window and lowered down to the street. This basket held the same mystery and surprise that Santa Clause did at that age. ! Every night I would hang it out my window and down to the street. Every once in a while my favorite neighbors would put small trinkets and gifts in the basket for me to pull up in the morning. They gave me books, bouncy balls, and anything else my mind could desire. That time was warm and peaceful, just like the light that surrounds the memory.
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MATTHEW by Abbey Carmel
here i am finally after waiting for hours on end we have finally arrived at this moment the crowd screaming and pushing never have i ever been this close to a stranger the room goes black and out he jumps as the speakers boom the lights blare onto the stage he’s holding a wine bottle something to help him forget himself while he emerges in the sound he’s dressed in black from head to toe wow i am tired my feet hurt and it is way too hot but none of that matters tonight because here i am ten feet from the stage ten feet from Matty ten feet from the musicians that make life worth living and here i am cramped in between the girl i’ve known my entire life and a girl i don’t know at all but none of that matters tonight because he’s on stage singing as the whole crowd falls in love with him as he lights a cigarette and manifests himself into his music a random blast of air conditioning falls onto the crowd mixing the smells of sweat and marijuana and perfume but nobody minds the smell because
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everyone is caught in a trance everyone is embracing the blaring guitar and bass everyone is unified with love for the band and he picks up his guitar for the last time and he belts his voice into the microphone for the last time and the strobe lights flash for the last time and the crowd is making the floor shake and Matty strums his last chord as the room fades to black and the room is left in awe
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