Winded.
Dionne, my stepmum takes me to the portait gallery. She leaves my Dad home with my little brothers, even though he's worked all week and I know he's knackered. He does this because he never sees me.
The gallery is almost haunting, there's thousands of faces looking at you, each set of eyes follow. Every photograph is a finalsit for the National Portrait awards, each is as glorious as the next. I take my time to read each discription, I have to crouch and my back hurts.
As a walk out of an small cut away of the room, I am faced with a 4 foot photograph. I stop dead in my tracks, aware, but not concerned about the woman and her pusher behind me. I feel as though I've been punched in the stomach or hit by a bus, I'm winded. All the air escapes me, I need closer inspection. I read the small tile once and then once more, looking at this boy Haydn with stark white scars all over his chest. Despite the cuts, his braids and freckles all I can look at are his eyes.
"Which one was your favourite?" Dionne asks me as we're leaving and headed to the car.
"That one with the boy who's got scars all over his chest, 'Demons'," I tell her.
"Oh yeah," she agrees, "why that one, do you think?"
I struggle for words a bit, then I come up with, "Because it looks like he still hurts."
Dionne looks a little suprised, she then hits me playfully in the chest, "Gemmm, how literate of you, that's really beautiful!"
Even though I think it's cliche, it's so true.
The gallery is almost haunting, there's thousands of faces looking at you, each set of eyes follow. Every photograph is a finalsit for the National Portrait awards, each is as glorious as the next. I take my time to read each discription, I have to crouch and my back hurts.
As a walk out of an small cut away of the room, I am faced with a 4 foot photograph. I stop dead in my tracks, aware, but not concerned about the woman and her pusher behind me. I feel as though I've been punched in the stomach or hit by a bus, I'm winded. All the air escapes me, I need closer inspection. I read the small tile once and then once more, looking at this boy Haydn with stark white scars all over his chest. Despite the cuts, his braids and freckles all I can look at are his eyes.
"Which one was your favourite?" Dionne asks me as we're leaving and headed to the car.
"That one with the boy who's got scars all over his chest, 'Demons'," I tell her.
"Oh yeah," she agrees, "why that one, do you think?"
I struggle for words a bit, then I come up with, "Because it looks like he still hurts."
Dionne looks a little suprised, she then hits me playfully in the chest, "Gemmm, how literate of you, that's really beautiful!"
Even though I think it's cliche, it's so true.
And the biggest shame of all is that some people make fun of people like him (even on this site).
Grandma, January 26th, 2008 at 05:47:08am
So sad. :[
dramamine;, January 26th, 2008 at 01:56:04am
its a really great image
Emo Orange Bunneh Ears, January 25th, 2008 at 01:40:51pm
aww *sad* ...*flies to Canberra*
KarenAndTheBabes, January 25th, 2008 at 05:31:19am
Amazing.
Tholomew Plague, January 25th, 2008 at 05:27:42am
Oh sorry, In Canberra.
SHould've mentioned that, but I think it's showing in Adealide soon.
germma margaret!, January 25th, 2008 at 05:24:42am
wow, i need to go into town tomorrow, but you're right, there is pain in his eyes
ps; what section of the gallery?
KarenAndTheBabes, January 25th, 2008 at 05:22:59am