Earlier in the year we read the novel, A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens. We studied his style and technique of writing. From this study we created our own pieces of writing using the newly found techniques used by Dickens. Our language arts teacher, Mr.R, told us to overdo it a bit- with all the similies, metaphors, lists, adjectives, etc.
When my mother mentions shopping, it doesn’t mean going to the mall or include the usual rush of intoxicating excitement that I have once felt, and am sure most girls feel all the time, but a rapid river that any Olympic swimmer would surely drown in, of dread fills my thoughts. Shopping to her means finding the most eccentric and obscure places to visit that are full of old useless junk, like dated jewelry, antique chairs, horse paintings, the unique, handmade, and one-of-a-kind. She loves to frequent dull and mind-numbing flea markets, antique shops, auction houses (especially Taylor’s Auction House in Montrose, Scotland), and garage sales, constantly in search of the elusive treasure, such as a classy broach, or an aged textile.
This day she chose the tent-like open-air market in the center of Doha, Qatar. Doha is a wealthy city of tall, gleaming skyscrapers that dot the horizon, making it impossible to see a clear, uninterrupted skyline. But right next to all this luxury, glamour, and show, lies poor, dirty markets, shops, and homes all covered in a sheet of dust. Between these two areas is the sandy, sun adorned, tented market.
The first thing I noticed was the way the petroleum fumes from the banged up, rusty cars in the area, would tangle and twist with the sweet scent of the dull and bright plantlife until it formed a mangled up mess that my senses couldn’t possibly decipher. Soon my taste buds became suddenly acquainted with a swift rush of wafting smoke that came dancing through the air toward me, just like the way the warm, dreamy, drifting scent of gooey, mouth-watering brownies in the oven penetrates the bland air.
Under the market’s corrugated metal awning I could see piles, stacks, boxes, bundles, aisles and rows of pulpy citrus, crumpled dates, malnourished mangoes, mossy coconuts, ripe bananas, bellowing melons, dusty corn, diseased lettuce, spiky pineapples, juicy pears, ethnic spices, crafted baskets, unique hats, colorful flowers, exotic trees, small plants, large plants, bright plants, dull plants, sharp plants, flowing plants, and many many people.
The first extreme sight that met my eyes was a pyramid of large, plump, juicy, green watermelons. I was tempted to slyly push one against another to witness them roll into a disorderly group on the ground like a mass of bulging hippopotami thrashing around in their comfortable Lake Manyara habitat in northern Tanzania.
My eyes wandered from the tempting sight, only to meet another of long, dull, dusty, forgotten, grayish-green corn cobs, each dressed in its own leafy jumpsuit. Once living upon tall skyward facing stalks, they were now laying like shrouded corpses in a heap. If a child were to look upon them they would surely carelessly discard the scene and hasten to occupy their energetic mind with another.
As I curiously meandered through the excited crowd, a mix of anxious, sweaty customers and merchants, I encountered a furious, buzzing tangle of hungry flies scavenging for anything edible they could find, and I quickly ducked into another narrow sandy aisle to escape them. The weary vendors around me were rapidly conversing in indistinguishable foreign tongues and I could feel all their penetrating eyes focused on me.
There were other people too, not just merchants. There were the opposite of them- the rich, over perfumed class. They were all in their large, sleek, impressive Landcruisers and Hummers. They would cruise up and down the dirt paths, like hungry sharks monitoring for a satisfying catch. When they found the desired they would hurriedly (once out of their automobiles) mutter to the dealer of the goods that they were interested in, eager to get back inside their comfortable, air-conditioned cars, where they could once again relax with the cool air streaming upon them while listening to their favorite music.
I rounded a corner and sighted many high mounds of colorful Asian spices that were mountains of mysterious, sweet scents waiting to be discovered by the next adventurous customer. Their listless sellers were sprawled out in a filthy plastic chair somewhere near, waiting for an interested customer to come along and examine their goods. These merchants were like the preying spider in its delicate, expertly spun web, they would pounce on their innocent target, then would spin the helpless victim in their sticky web of solicitation.
I found the next scene incredibly intriguing. I could see hundreds of small potted plants. There were impatiens, each dancing in a jolly fashion with their bright pinks, reds, and whites enhancing their performance. There were promising red roses, each twirling in its own sophisticated, expensive, ball gown, fluttering with frilly hems and sleeves. There were dreamy hibiscus dappled with the bright sunlight streaming in from above. It threatened their soft skin with harsh sunburn. There were shriveled flowers, whose names would never be known because of their rotting appearance that acts as a disguise. They would only be known as a disappointingly disgraceful rotten skeleton, having parted long ago from the thriving highway of life.
The most fascinating sight was of the groups of tall, lush, reaching plants and trees that were forests of mystery, fear, and adventure that any humble, weak, ignorant, and inexperienced wanderer could get deeply, terribly lost in. I wondered what kind of mystical, wild, tropical creatures lurked behind the leafy border.
Dusty boxes full of lazy dehydrated dates that complained to each other of the great heat they endured while waiting to be taken home by a customer, lined the exposed walkways. Underneath that dried leather exterior, I could invision the sweet, gooey, meaty center that makes them so appealing.
All the while my greedy eyes searched for compelling sights, ideas, or concepts to satisfy my relentless hunger to artistically analyze and build upon. I would then compile the memories in my mind for future reference.
Once again my creative imagination had turned the intolerably mundane shopping experience into a prosperous excursion. All the piles, stacks, boxes, bundles, aisles and rows of pulpy citrus, crumpled dates, malnourished mangoes, mossy coconuts, ripe bananas, bellowing melons, dusty corn, diseased lettuce, spiky pineapples, juicy pears, ethnic spices, crafted baskets, unique hats, colorful flowers, exotic trees, small plants, large plants, bright plants, dull plants, sharp plants, flowing plants, and many many people have been safely filed in my numerous awaiting memory banks. These vivid images, smells, tastes, and sounds will be used to express my eager creativity. They may resurface in an inspirational painting, song, dance, skit, drawing, or literary masterpiece.
Hence, it is fair to conclude that inspiration for an artist can come from anywhere, anyway, and at anytime.
. Like Capri-Sun or drink from juice packs? Just sew them together!
. It was so gloomy. Your art, music, and plants always made the room feel so welcoming. And dont worry- I wont stop blogging! I hope you dont stop commenting on and reading them. I was looking forward to hear what you had to say at the conferences the other day, and to what you had to say about The Wave- we’d just started reading. I was also looking forward to hearing your labor art song and will check for it if you post it on here. You made a huge impact on me and my learning and I will never forget you. I will still think of you as my teacher and will always visit your classroom on here. I will keep you and your family in my thoughts and prayers. Thanks for everything,
