Stories and Descriptions of Artwork Displayed around MAMSAll around Matawan-Aberdeen Middle School, we can look towards our hallway walls
for various pieces of art created by our students and staff. The staff of the Literary Arts Magazine took keen notice to the paintings below, so we took pictures of what caught our attention, and wrote about it. We enjoyed these paintings, and want you to notice them too, along with the beauty of what is around us - aspects of life that we may not normally pay attention to. |
"Living Nightmare - A New Pennywise Tale"
by Gabrielle Alli, Grade 6
“I’ve been having dreams,” I told my therapist. “Really vivid dreams. Almost like they’re coming to me.”
My jet black hair was messy on the top of my head, and my baggy eyes stared at the floor. My pale face and shaky hands made my anxiety show even more than usual.
“And it’s the same one, you said, right? Over and over?” Ms. Wolf tried her best to stay calm, but I could always see the worry in her face when I explained everything to her. Everything I thought. Things I saw that weren’t really there. That couldn’t have been there. Her brown hair hung over her eyes, and she moved it out of way as she fixed her glasses. She didn’t know what I knew.
“Yes. Same characters, same setting in my dreams, but a different exchange of words each time. Like, different conversations. Sometimes we talk about my past dreams together.”
“So this creature has a memory? This clown in your dreams? And two weeks this has been going on?” she muttered with ingenuine sympathy.
“Yeah, it can remember me. It’s been remembering everything since two weeks ago. It knew about me before I even said anything. Told me about my name. About my family. About how I shouldn’t be afraid, but I am. I can’t do this. I just… I’m done.” My eyes started to be overcome by tears, and I let them waterfall down my cheeks. Shameful. A stupid fifteen year old stuck in a dreary office with a not-so-good therapist that was being paid to listen to me.
My therapist looked at me. I knew that she wasn’t sure what to say; her mouth hung open and her eyes widened once my words had left my mouth. I had a history of depression and anxiety, and everyone who knew me (despite the amount being scarce) was always afraid that I’d do something I’d regret one day. Would ‘one day’ be soon? her eyes said.
“Colin, you need to breathe. I understand everything that happened when you were younger. I am trying my best to understand everything that is happening now. My professional opinion is that what had happened with the party clown as a child is now manifesting itself in your dreams, along with your fear of clowns still being present today. Just try to listen to calming music before bed, or a book with human elements; the fantasy may trigger the dreams. And keep writing in your journal. You know that I need daily entries in order to keep up with you,” Ms. Wolf stared into my eyes so intensely that I wondered if she lost something there for a second or two.
I listened to Ms. Wolf’s advice, told her to have a good day, and snatched up my journal. My journal had not been touched lately. The dreams have left me with so much anxiety that my body stays paralyzed in bed, and my chest feels heavier than a thousand weights. I break into a cold sweat, and forget everything. When I do write entries, they are usually long; the more detail, the less questions Ms. Wolf has to ask. But it stresses me out to look back at everything that had happened in that one day. How miserable I am, stuck in a trap that I myself have created.
I remember the party clown incident from my childhood as if it happened yesterday. When I was five years old, my mother and father had thrown me a huge birthday party. A little me, bursting with energy, had been running around for hours with my friends. We all sat down to eat cake when a vibrantly-dressed clown came in. Red locks came from each side of his head, with a smooth surface in the middle. His face was pale, as if there was no blood circulating there. Just pure bone and skin. His clothes were dandelion yellow, with a crimson and green-aqua trim bordering each hem. His makeup was elaborate, with sky blue lines across his eyes and neon red smeared on his lips. And I’ll never forget the red balloon that bobbed alongside his head.
I shouted for joy and went to go hug him when he pulled out a pocket knife. He screamed out and told me to back off. I looked at my parents, who already began to call 911 with trembling hands. They had never hired a party clown. This clown shouted in my face and told me that I would be sent to a place where nobody returns. My father tried to overtake him, and the clown dropped the knife. However, the clown had enough strength to push my father away and grab me. Stretching the neck of my shirt, he dragged me and then wrapped his hands around my neck.
“Bye, bye, little boy! Bye, bye, little boy! Close your eyes!” he cackled in a demented voice.
His hands finally released my neck as I gasped for air, but he still had a hold on my shirt. He left bruises on my legs from kicking me with his loose shoes, and he left bruises on my face from his rough knuckles. Sirens wailed from down the street as neighbors rushed out of their houses to see the commotion. Blue and red flashed one second, and then it all went dark.
I woke up in a hospital with a swollen eye. Bruises covered me as if they occurred as naturally as freckles. Every few minutes or so, I found a new set of stitches. There was no feeling; anesthesia left only a tingling sensation. My mother rushed to my side, and my father sat next to her. My father looked distracted after the clown incident. Throughout my night in the hospital, my father would get up, scream for five minutes straight, and then act as if nothing happened. Other times, he would stare at nothing and mutter a bunch of words that no one could make out. The doctors thought that he was suffering from hallucinations and an extreme form of PTSD, so they took him to a mental ward in the hospital. I wasn’t allowed to say goodbye. And I haven’t seen him since.
My mother is with me, but she’s not the same cheerful woman as before. I mostly take care of myself because of this. I bike to the therapy sessions and school. I clean the house and make my own food. My grandmother, my father’s mother - my only living relative other than my mother - pays for everything. She also makes sure my mom takes the medication that keeps her happy. I don’t think it works.
I closed my eyes that night, under covers but still cold. Urging myself to stay awake had not worked, and my eyelids had become unbearably heavy by midnight. Earbuds that I had shoved in my ears before my eyes shut played a classical music playlist.
And there he was. I stood in my backyard again, for what seemed like the millionth time. I was around the same height as him now; I used to be under his waist. He smiled his crimson smile, and wriggled his fingers as he waved to me from a distance of a few feet.
“You’re back, Colin!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting! And I hear the music too. Fur Elise, great choice.”
“I don’t want to be here. I’ve never wanted to be here. Let me go, and we can go our separate ways.” My pulse was racing and my thoughts went hundreds of miles per hour, but I created a fake sense of confidence anyway.
“Are you using music to block me, Colin? I told you not to be scared! How many times have I told you not to be scared?!” he screamed, as I let out a wince of fear. He breathed deeply, then pulled out a knife. I gasped, and hoped he couldn’t smell my fear in the air. He used the knife as a mirror for his makeup, but I knew that he also wanted to intimidate me. “Anyway, how’s the parents? I mean, the mother. Sorry about your dad again. I might have made a little mistake. But everyone does, right?” He cackled and let out a sigh of joy.
I would let him do anything but torment me about my father.
“Shut up! Don’t say anything about my father! You destroyed him! You ruined my mother, too! And now you’re ruining me! Just leave!” I shouted through tears. “You’re just a gut-wrenching monster that nothing could love! You’re insane...you’re an evil being that took everything away from me!”
He stalked closer to me, his white, black, and red shoes clacking with each mortifying step. The red pom-pom bobbed along with clack, clack, clack. Soon, his face was so close to mine that I could feel his breathing. “I’ll leave,” he whispered, “if you say my name. I’ll even tell you it.” He paused.” Quietly, he said, “Pennywise.” And he looked directly into my eyes. “Try it, boy. Pennywise, Pennywise, Pennywise.”
A smile crept across his face, and my fear grew. Pennywise, Pennywise, Pennywise, rang in my head. I stared into his cold eyes, tormented by the fear surrounding my thoughts.
“Penny-” I started, but then I noticed something. Something was off. Screaming, I closed my eyes. Then the scenery before me vanished, and so did the evil monster that ruined my life. But the voice and sounds lingered. A child’s laughter. The sound of a pocket knife brushing against a nylon costume. And a cackle. I thought that it would be over, but no.
A voice came out. “You couldn’t say it. But I’ll leave. We’ll both leave. Together forever.”
Then there was a creak of my door, then a creak of my bedroom floor. I could feel a cold rush of air. Clack, clack, clack all over again. Soon, it grabbed me and took me away. And I still haven’t escaped the dark room. The one that I’ve been kept in since that day. The one that I continue to wake up in, each and every day. My life.
“I’ve been having dreams,” I told my therapist. “Really vivid dreams. Almost like they’re coming to me.”
My jet black hair was messy on the top of my head, and my baggy eyes stared at the floor. My pale face and shaky hands made my anxiety show even more than usual.
“And it’s the same one, you said, right? Over and over?” Ms. Wolf tried her best to stay calm, but I could always see the worry in her face when I explained everything to her. Everything I thought. Things I saw that weren’t really there. That couldn’t have been there. Her brown hair hung over her eyes, and she moved it out of way as she fixed her glasses. She didn’t know what I knew.
“Yes. Same characters, same setting in my dreams, but a different exchange of words each time. Like, different conversations. Sometimes we talk about my past dreams together.”
“So this creature has a memory? This clown in your dreams? And two weeks this has been going on?” she muttered with ingenuine sympathy.
“Yeah, it can remember me. It’s been remembering everything since two weeks ago. It knew about me before I even said anything. Told me about my name. About my family. About how I shouldn’t be afraid, but I am. I can’t do this. I just… I’m done.” My eyes started to be overcome by tears, and I let them waterfall down my cheeks. Shameful. A stupid fifteen year old stuck in a dreary office with a not-so-good therapist that was being paid to listen to me.
My therapist looked at me. I knew that she wasn’t sure what to say; her mouth hung open and her eyes widened once my words had left my mouth. I had a history of depression and anxiety, and everyone who knew me (despite the amount being scarce) was always afraid that I’d do something I’d regret one day. Would ‘one day’ be soon? her eyes said.
“Colin, you need to breathe. I understand everything that happened when you were younger. I am trying my best to understand everything that is happening now. My professional opinion is that what had happened with the party clown as a child is now manifesting itself in your dreams, along with your fear of clowns still being present today. Just try to listen to calming music before bed, or a book with human elements; the fantasy may trigger the dreams. And keep writing in your journal. You know that I need daily entries in order to keep up with you,” Ms. Wolf stared into my eyes so intensely that I wondered if she lost something there for a second or two.
I listened to Ms. Wolf’s advice, told her to have a good day, and snatched up my journal. My journal had not been touched lately. The dreams have left me with so much anxiety that my body stays paralyzed in bed, and my chest feels heavier than a thousand weights. I break into a cold sweat, and forget everything. When I do write entries, they are usually long; the more detail, the less questions Ms. Wolf has to ask. But it stresses me out to look back at everything that had happened in that one day. How miserable I am, stuck in a trap that I myself have created.
I remember the party clown incident from my childhood as if it happened yesterday. When I was five years old, my mother and father had thrown me a huge birthday party. A little me, bursting with energy, had been running around for hours with my friends. We all sat down to eat cake when a vibrantly-dressed clown came in. Red locks came from each side of his head, with a smooth surface in the middle. His face was pale, as if there was no blood circulating there. Just pure bone and skin. His clothes were dandelion yellow, with a crimson and green-aqua trim bordering each hem. His makeup was elaborate, with sky blue lines across his eyes and neon red smeared on his lips. And I’ll never forget the red balloon that bobbed alongside his head.
I shouted for joy and went to go hug him when he pulled out a pocket knife. He screamed out and told me to back off. I looked at my parents, who already began to call 911 with trembling hands. They had never hired a party clown. This clown shouted in my face and told me that I would be sent to a place where nobody returns. My father tried to overtake him, and the clown dropped the knife. However, the clown had enough strength to push my father away and grab me. Stretching the neck of my shirt, he dragged me and then wrapped his hands around my neck.
“Bye, bye, little boy! Bye, bye, little boy! Close your eyes!” he cackled in a demented voice.
His hands finally released my neck as I gasped for air, but he still had a hold on my shirt. He left bruises on my legs from kicking me with his loose shoes, and he left bruises on my face from his rough knuckles. Sirens wailed from down the street as neighbors rushed out of their houses to see the commotion. Blue and red flashed one second, and then it all went dark.
I woke up in a hospital with a swollen eye. Bruises covered me as if they occurred as naturally as freckles. Every few minutes or so, I found a new set of stitches. There was no feeling; anesthesia left only a tingling sensation. My mother rushed to my side, and my father sat next to her. My father looked distracted after the clown incident. Throughout my night in the hospital, my father would get up, scream for five minutes straight, and then act as if nothing happened. Other times, he would stare at nothing and mutter a bunch of words that no one could make out. The doctors thought that he was suffering from hallucinations and an extreme form of PTSD, so they took him to a mental ward in the hospital. I wasn’t allowed to say goodbye. And I haven’t seen him since.
My mother is with me, but she’s not the same cheerful woman as before. I mostly take care of myself because of this. I bike to the therapy sessions and school. I clean the house and make my own food. My grandmother, my father’s mother - my only living relative other than my mother - pays for everything. She also makes sure my mom takes the medication that keeps her happy. I don’t think it works.
I closed my eyes that night, under covers but still cold. Urging myself to stay awake had not worked, and my eyelids had become unbearably heavy by midnight. Earbuds that I had shoved in my ears before my eyes shut played a classical music playlist.
And there he was. I stood in my backyard again, for what seemed like the millionth time. I was around the same height as him now; I used to be under his waist. He smiled his crimson smile, and wriggled his fingers as he waved to me from a distance of a few feet.
“You’re back, Colin!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting! And I hear the music too. Fur Elise, great choice.”
“I don’t want to be here. I’ve never wanted to be here. Let me go, and we can go our separate ways.” My pulse was racing and my thoughts went hundreds of miles per hour, but I created a fake sense of confidence anyway.
“Are you using music to block me, Colin? I told you not to be scared! How many times have I told you not to be scared?!” he screamed, as I let out a wince of fear. He breathed deeply, then pulled out a knife. I gasped, and hoped he couldn’t smell my fear in the air. He used the knife as a mirror for his makeup, but I knew that he also wanted to intimidate me. “Anyway, how’s the parents? I mean, the mother. Sorry about your dad again. I might have made a little mistake. But everyone does, right?” He cackled and let out a sigh of joy.
I would let him do anything but torment me about my father.
“Shut up! Don’t say anything about my father! You destroyed him! You ruined my mother, too! And now you’re ruining me! Just leave!” I shouted through tears. “You’re just a gut-wrenching monster that nothing could love! You’re insane...you’re an evil being that took everything away from me!”
He stalked closer to me, his white, black, and red shoes clacking with each mortifying step. The red pom-pom bobbed along with clack, clack, clack. Soon, his face was so close to mine that I could feel his breathing. “I’ll leave,” he whispered, “if you say my name. I’ll even tell you it.” He paused.” Quietly, he said, “Pennywise.” And he looked directly into my eyes. “Try it, boy. Pennywise, Pennywise, Pennywise.”
A smile crept across his face, and my fear grew. Pennywise, Pennywise, Pennywise, rang in my head. I stared into his cold eyes, tormented by the fear surrounding my thoughts.
“Penny-” I started, but then I noticed something. Something was off. Screaming, I closed my eyes. Then the scenery before me vanished, and so did the evil monster that ruined my life. But the voice and sounds lingered. A child’s laughter. The sound of a pocket knife brushing against a nylon costume. And a cackle. I thought that it would be over, but no.
A voice came out. “You couldn’t say it. But I’ll leave. We’ll both leave. Together forever.”
Then there was a creak of my door, then a creak of my bedroom floor. I could feel a cold rush of air. Clack, clack, clack all over again. Soon, it grabbed me and took me away. And I still haven’t escaped the dark room. The one that I’ve been kept in since that day. The one that I continue to wake up in, each and every day. My life.
Bansky
by Gabrielle Alli, Grade 6
In this picture, the artist decides to capture the life of graffiti artist Banksy. Banksy is anonymous and has not revealed his identity, but we know that he is based in England. Art is one of his greatest passions, and he expresses themself not only as a graffiti artist, but as a political activist and film director. He has won many awards and is therefore successful on showing his perspective to others. Despite critics, he rises up and make his opinion known.
The overall idea of the above painting is to describe Banksy. He is an anonymous graffiti artist, so the artist has him in a hood with sunglasses to hide his face. The artist also has Banksy in a mask, which protects his airways from the toxic fumes of spray paint. Girl and Balloon, arguably one of Banksy’s most famous artworks, is featured in the background as a sample of what Banksy’s street art looks like. The artist does this in a way that isn’t uniform, and this represents Banksy’s perspective of art nicely. The description is vivid, although only showing three simple parts: a covered face, a sample of their work, and a quote. Despite the description being vivid, a lot must be inferred or researched if you haven’t heard of Banksy before. Still, this is understandable as there is limited space and a complex topic.
Banksy’s artworks aren’t full of joy and they don’t follow standard rules. The art Banksy does is quite risky at times, as he displays them on the streets in public. The artist who depicted Banksy has done well with expressing Banksy’s feel through the color scheme. They make it known that Banksy will be described with a slightly dark shade of cerulean spelling out “BANKSY”. With the dark, coal black contrast of the background, it pops out nicely, and it contrasts to the rest of the canvas displaying a dreary mood. The quote is written in the same cerulean shade, which ties the title in a little more. A scarlet heart-shape with a tint of a merlot in the middle of “BANKSY” leads you to an image of a girl holding a balloon, the heart-shape from beforehand. The girl is midnight black on the outside, turning alabaster going inward. She stands on top of the cerulean quote from Banksy. To the left, there is a picture of Banksy. The sunglasses, mask, and hoodie all contain shades of ebony. The hoodie is a bit more complex, with a light tint of denim blue. The overall color scheme is goes together in a unique way and fits the graffiti artist’s painted biography well.
The painting leaves much to admire; the artist truly understood Banksy’s view on art and life itself. The color scheme was amazing, as well as the depiction on Banksy alone. One of the aspects I admire most is the quote and the way it was put. The artist wrote it in a shaky hand, not neat or uniform. I find that this symbolizes Banksy’s type of art, risky and out-of-the-box. With the little quote, the artist showed us so much of Banksy’s outlook on life. It shows Banksy’s thinking of what art should be like. “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable,” the quote said on the soulful canvas. Another aspect I admire is the skill in depicting Banksy. The artist could not draw his face. Instead, the artist looked into what Banksy was like to provide an image of him. The graffiti mask covering his mouth is derived from the fact that Banksy uses spray paint, harmful to the airways. The sunglasses and hoodie come from the idea that he is anonymous; the sunglasses hide his eyes and the hoodie hides his head. The artist has provided us with a good image of Banksy, while leaving any features used to identify someone out. The last aspect I admired is the featured image of Girl and Balloon, as the artist replicated one of his more popular paintings with the strongest expression of Banksy’s mood in this piece of art. It showed the tortured and dramatic feeling in Banksy’s creations in a subtle, but outstanding way.
What should someone who sees this painting take away? This piece is a beautiful representation of Banksy, but there’s a deeper meaning to it. Imagine a world where everything is perfect and good. Where everyone is happy, but never speaks out. This painting reminds us of people who speak out about things they don’t agree with. People who express themselves in a risky, rebellious way. It reminds us that everything isn’t uniform and that it’s okay to break the rules. The artist who created this painting itself has a great way of depicting things. The painting created sets a mood just like Banksy’s and describes Banksy vividly with simply pictures. Art is freedom, and this painting truly shows that belief. Art is thinking outside the box, and I believe that the artist who painted Banksy and Banksy himself has proven this. Art is beauty in everything.
In this picture, the artist decides to capture the life of graffiti artist Banksy. Banksy is anonymous and has not revealed his identity, but we know that he is based in England. Art is one of his greatest passions, and he expresses themself not only as a graffiti artist, but as a political activist and film director. He has won many awards and is therefore successful on showing his perspective to others. Despite critics, he rises up and make his opinion known.
The overall idea of the above painting is to describe Banksy. He is an anonymous graffiti artist, so the artist has him in a hood with sunglasses to hide his face. The artist also has Banksy in a mask, which protects his airways from the toxic fumes of spray paint. Girl and Balloon, arguably one of Banksy’s most famous artworks, is featured in the background as a sample of what Banksy’s street art looks like. The artist does this in a way that isn’t uniform, and this represents Banksy’s perspective of art nicely. The description is vivid, although only showing three simple parts: a covered face, a sample of their work, and a quote. Despite the description being vivid, a lot must be inferred or researched if you haven’t heard of Banksy before. Still, this is understandable as there is limited space and a complex topic.
Banksy’s artworks aren’t full of joy and they don’t follow standard rules. The art Banksy does is quite risky at times, as he displays them on the streets in public. The artist who depicted Banksy has done well with expressing Banksy’s feel through the color scheme. They make it known that Banksy will be described with a slightly dark shade of cerulean spelling out “BANKSY”. With the dark, coal black contrast of the background, it pops out nicely, and it contrasts to the rest of the canvas displaying a dreary mood. The quote is written in the same cerulean shade, which ties the title in a little more. A scarlet heart-shape with a tint of a merlot in the middle of “BANKSY” leads you to an image of a girl holding a balloon, the heart-shape from beforehand. The girl is midnight black on the outside, turning alabaster going inward. She stands on top of the cerulean quote from Banksy. To the left, there is a picture of Banksy. The sunglasses, mask, and hoodie all contain shades of ebony. The hoodie is a bit more complex, with a light tint of denim blue. The overall color scheme is goes together in a unique way and fits the graffiti artist’s painted biography well.
The painting leaves much to admire; the artist truly understood Banksy’s view on art and life itself. The color scheme was amazing, as well as the depiction on Banksy alone. One of the aspects I admire most is the quote and the way it was put. The artist wrote it in a shaky hand, not neat or uniform. I find that this symbolizes Banksy’s type of art, risky and out-of-the-box. With the little quote, the artist showed us so much of Banksy’s outlook on life. It shows Banksy’s thinking of what art should be like. “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable,” the quote said on the soulful canvas. Another aspect I admire is the skill in depicting Banksy. The artist could not draw his face. Instead, the artist looked into what Banksy was like to provide an image of him. The graffiti mask covering his mouth is derived from the fact that Banksy uses spray paint, harmful to the airways. The sunglasses and hoodie come from the idea that he is anonymous; the sunglasses hide his eyes and the hoodie hides his head. The artist has provided us with a good image of Banksy, while leaving any features used to identify someone out. The last aspect I admired is the featured image of Girl and Balloon, as the artist replicated one of his more popular paintings with the strongest expression of Banksy’s mood in this piece of art. It showed the tortured and dramatic feeling in Banksy’s creations in a subtle, but outstanding way.
What should someone who sees this painting take away? This piece is a beautiful representation of Banksy, but there’s a deeper meaning to it. Imagine a world where everything is perfect and good. Where everyone is happy, but never speaks out. This painting reminds us of people who speak out about things they don’t agree with. People who express themselves in a risky, rebellious way. It reminds us that everything isn’t uniform and that it’s okay to break the rules. The artist who created this painting itself has a great way of depicting things. The painting created sets a mood just like Banksy’s and describes Banksy vividly with simply pictures. Art is freedom, and this painting truly shows that belief. Art is thinking outside the box, and I believe that the artist who painted Banksy and Banksy himself has proven this. Art is beauty in everything.
Zebras
by Isabel Lindsay, Grade 8
The central idea of the picture is focused on the zebras. You can tell because of their color, which is different than the background and makes them stick out, and their large size. The zebras don’t have bold lines to seperate them from their background; instead, they have dotted bodies make by little paint splatters, and you can only tell where they end and where the back begins by their color. Zebras usually move in herds, so it’s only natural that the artist put three together. The colors of the painting are very earthy ones, with yellowish-brown, black, and white. Its background is a mustardy color, with some green in the middle, and black with grayish splats in between for the zebras.
The central idea of the picture is focused on the zebras. You can tell because of their color, which is different than the background and makes them stick out, and their large size. The zebras don’t have bold lines to seperate them from their background; instead, they have dotted bodies make by little paint splatters, and you can only tell where they end and where the back begins by their color. Zebras usually move in herds, so it’s only natural that the artist put three together. The colors of the painting are very earthy ones, with yellowish-brown, black, and white. Its background is a mustardy color, with some green in the middle, and black with grayish splats in between for the zebras.
Francisco Goya
by Isabel Lindsay, Grade 8
This painting shows Francisco Goya, featuring a dark night sky, owls and bats, and a person hiding his face in his hands, leaning on a table. By showing all of these things, we can see the darkness of Francisco Goya’s work. It makes sense, because Mr. Goya is known for his paintings of violence and historical events. He was a Spanish painter who lived during the 17-1800’s. His paintings of historical violence were inspired by when France invaded Spain. Mr. Goya was born on March 30, 1746, and died April 16, 1828 at the age of 82. His art utilized onyx colors, along with shades similar to those of cider and parmesan. He also enjoyed drawing people - sometimes posing - other times with looks of terror on their faces.
A few things that I admire about the painting is that there are enough details to make it look realistic, although it is whimsical. The way the lips, nose, and eyes are drawn is very much alike to those of a real person. There also aren’t so many wrinkles that he looks bizarre, but there’s enough that you know the artist in the painting is elderly. You can tell by the color choice and the person hiding his face in the background that Mr. Goya likes drawing people in dramatic and gothic ways. You can also tell by the flying owls and bats that his art style is dark.
This painting shows Francisco Goya, featuring a dark night sky, owls and bats, and a person hiding his face in his hands, leaning on a table. By showing all of these things, we can see the darkness of Francisco Goya’s work. It makes sense, because Mr. Goya is known for his paintings of violence and historical events. He was a Spanish painter who lived during the 17-1800’s. His paintings of historical violence were inspired by when France invaded Spain. Mr. Goya was born on March 30, 1746, and died April 16, 1828 at the age of 82. His art utilized onyx colors, along with shades similar to those of cider and parmesan. He also enjoyed drawing people - sometimes posing - other times with looks of terror on their faces.
A few things that I admire about the painting is that there are enough details to make it look realistic, although it is whimsical. The way the lips, nose, and eyes are drawn is very much alike to those of a real person. There also aren’t so many wrinkles that he looks bizarre, but there’s enough that you know the artist in the painting is elderly. You can tell by the color choice and the person hiding his face in the background that Mr. Goya likes drawing people in dramatic and gothic ways. You can also tell by the flying owls and bats that his art style is dark.