The Art: "Time Transfixed" by René Magritte (Painting) Click the link or painting to access a larger version of the file and some background about the piece and artist.
The Exercise: Today we’ll try our hand at a more traditional ekphrastic exercise: a series of timed observations and free writes.
Set a timer for two minutes and observe the artwork — in this case, Margritte’s “Time Transfixed”. Feel free to zoom in and out, but try to keep your eyes and mind on the painting for all two minutes. This is pure observation, so no need to begin writing yet.
Take two more minutes to write down a literal description of the painting. You can use full sentences or make a sort of list — however it emerges is just fine. Do try to be literal: i.e. describe the objects, colors, etc. You can look back at the painting to confirm your details as you like.
You guessed it! Another two-minute observation. This time, try to notice how you’re feeling as you look at the artwork. Do any particular details of the piece bring up different emotions than others? What aspect the painting seems to draw your attention most powerfully? Feel free to take notes as you go.
Write a one-page autobiography for your house (i.e. write about the life of your house in the first person. “I was born in 1887 on a foundation of four stolen railroad ties….”). Feel free make it fiction (make it up) and to bring in the emotions and attention to physical detail from steps one and two. Please share your writings below!
I'm a little scared to post--everyone else seems to already share a sensibility and a vocabulary I'm eavesdropping on. But: some bits from observing and emoting:
the fireplace is so cold and empty and perfect
no fire has ever been there
where are the candles? Why?
something forced itself in and stopped
I am not safe here
House Story
That old preacher/farmer and his spindly wife and their solemn son started my foundation when their cabin succumbed to crumble, right here beside the Ponca. One floor was sufficient, but they added the second in case some future came. The white paint on my siding gradually flaked away, but that must not have bothered anyone. There was a cottonwood to the west and an elm to the east, for shade someday.
After a while it was the solemn son and his solemn wife here; they laid down that gray speckled linoleum and brought in the big iron cookstove, complete with reservoir to lean against in chilly mornings. There was suddenly a flock of babies, breathing their first air here in the north bedroom, sleeping in clothesbaskets near the crouching cookstove, now breathing the air of warm bread and frying. They grew and worked and seldom spoke; they filled my hollows, snatching food or sleep, but seldom laughed.
One of those quiet boys stayed on when his brothers went to war. A quiet neighbor girl soon joined him. There were new babies, not born here, but brought in blankets from their first-air rooms. The quiet son-now-father built cabinets hung on my kitchen walls, and a counter for kneading bread. And a dinette with an arched entry and pale yellow curtains. In the north bedroom there was still crying, but not from babies. Sometimes someone would dare the words "new linoleum" or "exterior paint" or "indoor plumbing".
One afternoon in May, clouds of strident blackness forced the family inside my walls and down on into the root cellar for refuge. They made a ball of themselves against the potato bin while the raging trackless locomotive roared over their heads. By the time they found their way back up the steps and forced open the battered door, the sun was shining. The cottonwood and the elm laid twisted and broken. The cookstove stood on its linoleum island.