Both Major and Minor groups visited the nearby Fitzwilliam Museum this Friday where we were tasked with writing "realistic" passages based on paintings hung in the central portrait gallery. Earlier, we had discussed whether, as authors, it is our responsibility to be realistic. James Frey's A Million Little Pieces (2003) and Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin's Three Cups of Tea (2006) fuelled a fantastic discussion on the controversial relationship between fiction and nonfiction.
Notice how the following examples are based on details specific to each painting, whether related to facial expression, dress, posture, accessories, or location.
"The Last of England" Ford Maddox Brown
Dear diary,
It's the sixth day on sea. Days blur together as we rock to the rhythm of the waves and do nothing but stare into the crystal blue eternity. The freezing wind whips in our faces and snakes its way through our multiple layers of heavy jackets and blankets. There aren't enough blankets for those who suffer from seasickness to have two, so they must keep the dirty ones. We must ration food because two barrels went overboard when these fifty people were escaping. The ship is too small for all of us, so we have to cram together, making it too difficult to sleep.
Pierre has held my gloved hand this entire time, comforting me from all of the pain we left back in England. He proposed to me right before we escaped. He is the only person I truly love. That is the reason why I feel so guilty and can't even look into his eyes. I am the reason for his pain and suffering and that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Pierre and I don't know what's going to happen to us, where we are going to live, how we are going to get make money, and when we are going to get married. We have nothing but the clothes on our backs and my simple bronze engagement ring enshrined with the phrase: "forever and always, even through the strongest of storms."
The others on the ship stay to themselves. They all have different stories, but are too afraid to share them. One little girl, Margaret, loves to play with my pink scarf. She constantly tells me how beautiful it is and how pink is her favorite color. I allow her to play with it and sometimes tie it in her hair. Margaret is the only one who can put a smile on my face, besides Pierre. She reminds me of my little sister.
Some days I just want to jump overboard. I am tired of the babies crying, tired of being starving, and tired of sitting in soiled clothes. I am tired of not being able to sleep because of my nightmares. I don't know if I can last any longer.
Victoria Garden
- Kathleen (Minor course)
I don't like this. I don't like sitting here. She is holding my ear, and she won't let go. I want to run away, but they'll punish me for sure. I can smell a bird nearby. I ache to chase it, to stretch my legs and feel the pounding of my paws and the flapping of my ears. I long to scare off that enemy creature that has dared enter my territory. Did it not smell my markings? I very clearly set the boundaries of my land. I'll have to reinforce them after this. Oh no, now I have to pee. Don't pee, don't pee, don't pee...ugh. I wish she would at least scratch my ear, but she never shows any affection. I'll have to convince the little one to scratch my ear later. If only he'd play with me more. My life is so boring. Is that a squirrel? No, that's a raccoon. Did it really not smell my markings? Don't pee, don't pee, don't pee...
- Ali (Major course)
Grace Hoare: Mother just revealed to us our finished portrait. Kate’s cheekbones are too defined and her posture is atrocious. Squaring her shoulders and arching forward like a horse—completely unladylike. And her hat! I have absolutely no idea why Mr. Millais allows this sort of disrespect in his studio. A young lady with a hat atop her head, a whip in her hands, and a nasty animal nuzzling the fine velvet covering her knees! I cannot even believe how bold Kate has become. How will she find a suitable gentleman to take her in? No respectable gentleman wants a wife who hunts in her free time, or a wife who refuses to cook for the family, or a wife who chooses to pose as a shrew in her portrait! She is a nice girl, she really is. I just wish that I would not be the only one who can see her potential as a real lady. We are from the same womb after all, and therefore cannot be that much different. We have the exact same subdued eyes and curves of our lips. If only she took my advice, if only she decided to be more normal, then I would not have to worry about her future just as much.
Kate Hoare: Mr. Millais told me to look happier when he forced us to pose for hours on end. The velvet cloak was suffocating me. I am not the kind of lady who is content with standing for hours unmoving and unblinking, unlike my twin sister Grace who seems to be enjoying the attention. Now that I am presented with our portrait, I realise that I can never understand how Grace lives with rows of ruffles running down the centre of her chest and her porcelain neck outstretched. Her spine must be aching terribly, what with that unnatural posture. See, that is the problem with Grace—not that I do not enjoy her company—but she is too restrained and subdued. She refuses to let one little curl on her perfect head spring free. She is even standing like one of those aristocratic women on our walls—leaned to the side with her arms at perfect right angles, showing off her demure waist. I almost feel sorry for her because I receive so much more as the older twin. I have the chance to horse-back ride with Father and read tales in Latin while she sews and cooks with Mother. Maybe one day, she can find a man to take her in and she live a life just like Mother’s. It seems like hell to me but I think she would like that.
- Muriel (Minor course)
Scruffy
is as cheery as he always has been, giving us hope for the return of
happiness to these gloomy days since Papa left. Everyday, he would go
out at day to who-knows-where and return during supper for his food. His
wagging tail has always been a toy for Marie. Marie would try to
catch his tail, and he doesn’t seem to find it irritating. What a dog.
13 July, 1829
Dearest diary,
It
has been precisely three months since father left for his hunting
quest. No letters, no news, no nothing. I have absolutely no thought of
how father is doing, therefore leaving mother and I to loose sleep.
Marie misses her father greatly, perhaps more than I do, except she
knows not about her father’s state. She knows not that there is a
greater chance of Papa not coming back.
Nowadays
before supper, Marie would ask, “Where is papa, Anne?” I would respond
with a simple, “He will be back in a while, Mar.”
I
have not the courage to speak the truth to her, as who would want
to see the face of an innocent, peppy, 5-year-old sister when she is
told that she is not to see her father’s face any longer?
At
the moment, Mama and Aunt Julie are helping us survive this
cottage life. Aunt Julie has always been a pleasure help to the family.
It is from her that I learn to read and write. Who knows what will
happen if Aunt Julie goes missing? Mother and I would already be beggars
living on the streets.
- Zahra (Major course)
In my time, I've seen and learned a great deal from people. The problem
is, I can't teach others what I've learned. People have gazed up at my
face, the shadow of a little girl's face, and smiled, laughed, cried,
and so on goes the list. We've even had emotional interactions, people
and I; I've been loved, and loved back, I've been scolded, and smiled on
innocently. I've sat on my wooden perch, a blushing flower with fluffy
white petals, and kindly asked people to stare into my eyes. I'm
desperately searching for someone to decline my innocence and take me
for what I really am. I've waited centuries for someone to look at me
through my own eyes, me and not that plump little smile on that
perfectly smooth skin, me and not that silk and lace charade of a baby
doll that I will never be. Me who's still waiting for a friend, an
answer. Someone, anyone who can tell me who I am with certainty.
- Summer (Minor course)
June 5, 1880
Dear Anette,
I asked Marie to buy some flowers for the tea table. Flowers make me think of home. Hand-picked flowers, not bought flowers. I cannot live without flowers, flowers. The flowers in the city are nothing in comparison to the fresh flowers at home. The closest ones to resemblance I’ve seen in Paris are the confectionary flowers of soft colors on white-frosted wedding cakes with icing ruffles, which are placed like stacked gift boxes in the bakery window. It’s beginning to rain, not the rain I’m used to. It rains cold and hard, beating and beating like beads breaking from a snapped necklace. I miss the soft rain in the countryside that falls on my hair like snowflakes. This is not the countryside. A few days have lapsed since I’ve arrived in Saint-Georges, Paris. I wait for Marie to return with the flowers. I am sitting on the bench in front of the bakery, facing the park. I watch cars whirl past me like the warm wind I reminisce, and the Parisian people that pass me, uniform in luxuriousness, like different shades of green grass. I wait wantonly for Marie to return with the flowers. I loosen the tied ribbon that clasps like hands around my neck, shifting the piece silk fabric, itching and itching, because it feels so foreign to me. And the jacket that clings to my body uncomfortably, which dampens with the rain; it grows heavy like a burden upon my body that I am supposed to carry with me wherever I go. And my hat that sticks to my hair and forehead, the only shield I have from the rain; I would risk my vision for dryness. I see the lavender coat of a woman Marie breaking the dark, dismal crowd of people, with her lavender feather hat and white gloves, holding a bouquet of marvelous flowers. It was Marie. I miss the lavender fields back home, I can smell and see them in my mind like window cakes that I observe, mouth watering. I admit that a part of me hoped that the woman in the lavender breaking the dark, dismal crowd of people, with her lavender feather hat and white gloves, holding a bouquet of marvelous flowers was you.
Love,
Lydia
- Winter (Major course)
- Mina (Minor course) 
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