We were given our first written brief to construct a visual piece of writing 400 words or more. We were given the choice to select any of the given postcards to study for our piece of writing. We were told to first off make a list of our first thoughts of the postcard given. My postcard featured the painting 'Nighthawks' by Edward Hopper- 1942, a piece that I found particularly eye-catching due to the isolated composition. Here are some initial notes I made on the piece:- Coffee Bar- probably USA
- Two Contrasting worlds- inside and outside, deserted
- Smells- Coffee, smoke, milk
- Sounds- Coffee pouring, porcelain, stirring with spoons, cups and saucers, coughs, sighs, mumbling
- Dark tones and shadows
- 4 characters involved, do they know each other?
- shape contrasts
- Late at night- no one else outside
- Mysterious figure
- 'Phillies' coffee bar
- The glow of the room
- A couple sat next to each other- have they fallen out?
I really enjoyed the fact that we were using our creativity in an alternate way, dissecting an unknown piece and constructing something new out of it. Here's the piece that I created.
Piercing silence. Only the brief clinking of spoon on porcelain could drop a sigh amongst the congregated few at Phillies coffee bar. Greeted with dull set tones a red haired lady in a scarlett gown, crouched over the wooden panels as if they would forever hold her weight, her brow crumpled with the heavy fury of her day. Lover in tow, she examines her nibbled nails, hoping that the glistening umber of her coffee would drown her pitiful marriage.
An intrusive cough splits the air like a concord, eyes dart towards the mysterious man sat in the corner, his hat engulfing his head, the bottom of his jaw floated like a crescent moon.
Outside the wall of glass and steam lay the sorrowful wait of reality pressing against the clocks; it lingered, waiting.
The beige walls lit like a dwindling flame whilst the steady silence daren't touch it. As if the very essence of syllables were cyanide to the mouth, not a single soul spoke, their eyes couldn't dare wonder from the cage of their own troubles.
The server sat in the centre of the bar, his face resembling the dull faces of his peers. He tried looking busy, a damp cloth embedded in his palm, but the firey haired lady was all that he saw. His eyes glistened at every sip of her coffee, as if every sip was a dose of admiration. Her eyes slowly and uncertainly flickered to the server, green as emeralds they sat on his face for less than a second, then scurried away back to her worn skeletal hands.
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