2022 Notable Pieces
Imagine If We Took Our Masks Off…
Jet
Year 8 · Padua College, Rosebud Campus
Year 8 · Padua College, Rosebud Campus
Inspiration and Media
I began by asking myself what face do I present to the world? What is it I want others to see? Then I tried to imagine what it would be like to take my mask off and expose my deepest self. What would I find and would I be brave enough to share it?
I have experienced the results of mask wearing. I’ve seen first-hand what happens in an extreme case when someone hides their true self from the world. They become a shell, devoid of real connection. I’ve also witnessed the opposite, and the courage required to be who you are, without fear of rejection. The result is authenticity and true intimacy. That’s who inspired this artwork. My Mum. She’s not afraid to be herself, even though she can sometimes be embarrassing! “Search for the truth” (the truth in yourself) is one of her lessons to me.
This work is a mixture of fine liner with coloured pencil. The grid on the mask, shaded with bright, happy colours, shows the more ordered self we present to others, whilst the twisted, dark vines represent the tangled mess of our inner selves. The green leaves sprouting from the vines are the inner hopes and dreams and the beautiful vulnerabilities we are too afraid to share with others. They are pictured as green leaves because if these were nurtured instead of hidden, they would flourish - and us in turn with them.
My interpretation of the 2022 Anthology theme
Imagine if we showed the people in our lives who we really are…
We all wear masks from day to day. Facades that project to the world the person we want to be. We show others the best of us, our more admirable qualities. The things we’re most proud of. But we don’t show them everything. Some things we keep to only ourselves.
Imagine if we took our masks off and revealed to the world who we truly are. The good and the bad. The things we believe people wouldn’t like. The things were embarrassed about or even ashamed of. What would their reaction be? Would they reject us? Laugh at us? Maybe even fear us? Or would they surprise us?
Perhaps even embrace and praise us for being so brave? Maybe they would be inspired to take their masks off too. Imagine a world with no masks. What would that even look like? Can you imagine?
I began by asking myself what face do I present to the world? What is it I want others to see? Then I tried to imagine what it would be like to take my mask off and expose my deepest self. What would I find and would I be brave enough to share it?
I have experienced the results of mask wearing. I’ve seen first-hand what happens in an extreme case when someone hides their true self from the world. They become a shell, devoid of real connection. I’ve also witnessed the opposite, and the courage required to be who you are, without fear of rejection. The result is authenticity and true intimacy. That’s who inspired this artwork. My Mum. She’s not afraid to be herself, even though she can sometimes be embarrassing! “Search for the truth” (the truth in yourself) is one of her lessons to me.
This work is a mixture of fine liner with coloured pencil. The grid on the mask, shaded with bright, happy colours, shows the more ordered self we present to others, whilst the twisted, dark vines represent the tangled mess of our inner selves. The green leaves sprouting from the vines are the inner hopes and dreams and the beautiful vulnerabilities we are too afraid to share with others. They are pictured as green leaves because if these were nurtured instead of hidden, they would flourish - and us in turn with them.
My interpretation of the 2022 Anthology theme
Imagine if we showed the people in our lives who we really are…
We all wear masks from day to day. Facades that project to the world the person we want to be. We show others the best of us, our more admirable qualities. The things we’re most proud of. But we don’t show them everything. Some things we keep to only ourselves.
Imagine if we took our masks off and revealed to the world who we truly are. The good and the bad. The things we believe people wouldn’t like. The things were embarrassed about or even ashamed of. What would their reaction be? Would they reject us? Laugh at us? Maybe even fear us? Or would they surprise us?
Perhaps even embrace and praise us for being so brave? Maybe they would be inspired to take their masks off too. Imagine a world with no masks. What would that even look like? Can you imagine?
Cinema
Heidi
Year 12 · Catholic Regional College Melton
Year 12 · Catholic Regional College Melton
In an empty cinema, a movie on the screen.
I wandered through the waves of chairs to my designated seat.
The movie that was playing had a familiar scene.
The “lights, camera, action” was something I had seen before.
Neon colours of that play created from my dreams.
Those swirling shadows of memory and regret waltzed along the floor.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the shining film before me.
The plot playing from the projector of my heart, that was my story.
The actor in the leading role drowned in unfulfilled desires.
Their illusions of emotions went up in bursts of fire.
In every scene, my life would go and pass me like a play.
In the empty cinema, rising from my designated seat,
“Imagine if I became the leading star just for one day?”
My soul full of possibilities just down that vivid street.
And budding flowers yet to bloom.
Under the spotlight of the moon.
Doubts washed upon me, anxiety, and a pounding heart.
I had always thought “Imagine if I could restart?”
For every scene that I wanted to retake.
For every time that I had made a mistake.
The brilliant city lights seemed so close and yet so far.
For each one of my waiting wishes shone a shimmering star.
I had thought that these dreams were all an illusion.
But this movie hasn’t yet reached its conclusion.
This magical narrative, this make-believe scenario.
One day you’ll hear all about it on the radio.
In the illuminated theatre, the spotlight shone down upon me.
The graphics of my heart projected onto the big screen.
The safety of fragility, hiding in the audience,
waiting for the finale of the film in suspense.
Staring at the silver screen, isolated in my imagination,
“I’m about to be consumed by this lonely asphyxiation.”
The flowers of my dreams overflow from the projector.
When it’s time for “lights, camera, action”, I’ll be the director.
No more imagining for me today,
The “what ifs” will only get in the way,
This isn’t how I wanted it to finish for the record,
monotone and complete with an underwhelming chord.
I won’t waste any more time pretending.
I still have to go out and compose my ending.
I see those neon colours, that vivid street, those flower buds, that starry city.
The destination, projected from my heart, imbued with fluorescent electricity.
In an empty cinema, a movie on the screen.
I wander to the exit, looking back at the brilliant scene,
projecting from my heart, the millions of futures before me.
I’ll rewrite this script and take control of my story.
At the end of the show, the closing credits will say,
“I was the leading star of this play.”
I wandered through the waves of chairs to my designated seat.
The movie that was playing had a familiar scene.
The “lights, camera, action” was something I had seen before.
Neon colours of that play created from my dreams.
Those swirling shadows of memory and regret waltzed along the floor.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the shining film before me.
The plot playing from the projector of my heart, that was my story.
The actor in the leading role drowned in unfulfilled desires.
Their illusions of emotions went up in bursts of fire.
In every scene, my life would go and pass me like a play.
In the empty cinema, rising from my designated seat,
“Imagine if I became the leading star just for one day?”
My soul full of possibilities just down that vivid street.
And budding flowers yet to bloom.
Under the spotlight of the moon.
Doubts washed upon me, anxiety, and a pounding heart.
I had always thought “Imagine if I could restart?”
For every scene that I wanted to retake.
For every time that I had made a mistake.
The brilliant city lights seemed so close and yet so far.
For each one of my waiting wishes shone a shimmering star.
I had thought that these dreams were all an illusion.
But this movie hasn’t yet reached its conclusion.
This magical narrative, this make-believe scenario.
One day you’ll hear all about it on the radio.
In the illuminated theatre, the spotlight shone down upon me.
The graphics of my heart projected onto the big screen.
The safety of fragility, hiding in the audience,
waiting for the finale of the film in suspense.
Staring at the silver screen, isolated in my imagination,
“I’m about to be consumed by this lonely asphyxiation.”
The flowers of my dreams overflow from the projector.
When it’s time for “lights, camera, action”, I’ll be the director.
No more imagining for me today,
The “what ifs” will only get in the way,
This isn’t how I wanted it to finish for the record,
monotone and complete with an underwhelming chord.
I won’t waste any more time pretending.
I still have to go out and compose my ending.
I see those neon colours, that vivid street, those flower buds, that starry city.
The destination, projected from my heart, imbued with fluorescent electricity.
In an empty cinema, a movie on the screen.
I wander to the exit, looking back at the brilliant scene,
projecting from my heart, the millions of futures before me.
I’ll rewrite this script and take control of my story.
At the end of the show, the closing credits will say,
“I was the leading star of this play.”
A Weird Kind of Love
Alexander
Year 12 · Aquinas College
Year 12 · Aquinas College
A creative response to Rear Window
It’s evening as we arrive in Greenwich. The streets are still busy as we pass Lars’ new sales office; a sleek, slender building with a facade of great glass panes. I roll down the window for some fresh air, the sound of contemporary jazz filling the car.
My body tenses as the droning of a saxophone pierces the air. I crave peace.
Lars looks down at me, eyes shining. I can’t help but flush.
Over an infant’s cry, and the distant sound of a pianist’s latest composition, the closing of our car’s doors is inaudible. We approach the alley of a complex’s dark courtyard.
Lars shuts the apartment’s door behind us. We take in the small, pre-furnished flat: cheap, framed prints lining the walls, the musty odour of sweat and coffee radiating from the carpets.
I seek the bedroom.
The bed’s worn springs compress freely beneath my back. My husband lays down beside me, his warm breath grazing my neck.
It’s far from ideal, but I’m content. I force a tired smile.
Lars produces a bright red flower from behind his back, placing it carefully upon my empty, ageing stomach.
“I’m tired, Lars.”
***
“Anna. The man in the second story apartment, across the courtyard. He’s watching us with binoculars.”
Rather than greet each other, our neighbours observe one another from afar. Mistrust wafts through the air, interrogating each and every bohemian resident of the town. Red posters fill our letterbox.
We’re nearing the end of our lease, Lars working overtime to secure a second six month agreement.
It’s taking its toll.
As a salesman, Lars travels to deal with clients. Interaction motivates him. It drives him. Yet, he brings home stories of petty, pretentious patrons, depriving him of the human interaction that fuels his passion. He’s not the man of enterprise he once was, in Levittown.
As he walks through the front door, his shoulders slump. I see the disconnect in his body.
He doesn’t greet me. Sitting in the lounge room’s shadows, only the burning butt of a cigar illuminates his face, his empty eyes.
Our circumstances are worsened by me being bed bound, so Lars proclaims.
The doctor called it ‘the wonder drug,’ promising that medication was the solution to infertility. That day, Lars was quick in taking the prescription from the doctor’s hand, leading me from the office. He’d returned agitated from work. I conceded… We weren’t getting any younger.
Since then, I’ve woken nauseated. Only the morning song of Greenwich’s robins, sweet and soft, signifies the beginning of a new day; ever the same.
I look out our rear window into the courtyard, watching young wives equip their aprons. I glance up to see Lars holding a tray, my breakfast. The bacon is still pink, the eggs beginning to cool. I ensure my husband’s aware.
Once, the tray was accompanied by a yellow zinnia.
“Less presentation; firmer eggs. Thanks Lars, honey.”
He looked down at his watch, adjusted his glasses, and, without a word, his towering frame slipped briskly from the room. His face bore no expression.
***
It’s been weeks since Lars brought a meal to my bed.
Each night it’s later I hear him removing his shoes and slipping under the covers beside me.
His breath no longer grazes my neck.
I fear Lars sees me as a reminder of our childless marriage, a reminder too tragic to confront.
Only the soft melodies of the pianist, bittersweet in their beauty and sadness, offer me solace as I lay next to my husband. It’s as if the composer is painting a musical portrait, we the objects of his inspiration.
***
I wake to the slamming of the apartment’s door. It must be late, the night is silent; robins roosting and the pianist’s apartment dark. I hear the kettle beginning to whistle. I call for Lars to make me a cup of tea.
Suddenly, there’s a crash from the kitchen. The bedroom door snaps open. Light floods into the room from behind Lars, his face dark in the shadows.
“Do I have to do everything for you, woman?”
I’m taken aback, this isn’t like him.
“Lars, please.”
He takes a step forward, unsteady on his feet.
“I work my arse off every damn day, so that you can… you can, what, lie here in bed?
He again moves closer. The smell of whiskey emanates from not only his breath, but his navy jacket. The scent is so pungent I can taste it. His hair is ruffled, beads of sweat across his forehead.
It’s often I smell the cinnamon wafting from his clothes as we wake, but it’s rare I see him in such a state. ‘He’s quiet, drinks, but not to drunkenness.’
“What has gotten into you? You know it’s the medication Lars.”
He brushes my comment aside.
“My work, my care… and you, Anna, can’t give me a child?”
It’s been months since he’s addressed me with such emotion. And I’m now experiencing, in a surge, the force of the tension.
Lars sways on his feet, eyes narrowed as he looks down at the bed.
I feel my chest thumping. I’m still dazed, mind asleep. “ You think… you think I’m not crying out for a child? I’m the one on medication. I’m the one bearing the burden of infertility.”
I plead. “Lars, might you ever show gratitude? Get into bed, it’s late and you’re drunk.”
His eyes widen, their whites glowing in the shadows. He glances towards the closed blinds of the room’s window.
“You’re telling me what to do? Be careful Anna.”
I won’t stand down.
“You’re a fool Lars, a coward. What sort of man treats his ill wife like this? ”
I look into his bloodshot eyes, their whites beginning to glaze over. I see the man I’ve always loved. I see visions of Levittown.
Music resonates through the archaic church building, enveloping my soul; the pipes of the organ rich in song. My fingers tremble, steadied by my father’s proud arm as we approach the altar. I nervously lift my gaze to the rows of neighbours and friends joining our family in celebration, a sight that turns my cheeks to a rosy pink. It’s as if the whole of Levittown is here.
Like a zombie, Lars approaches my side of the bed. I’ve not feared him until this night. But this is not my Lars. This is a drunken, broken man. A man yearning for a family, living within a village in which he knows nobody; not even his wife.
My hands are held by those of my fiance, soft and comforting, as I survey a rogue thread on the cuff of his jacket. Suddenly, I’m brought to attention. “Anna, do you take Lars to be your lawfully wedded husband?” I meet the expectant, smiling eyes of my spouse. “I do…”
He raises his fist. I see the swing of his arm, almost in slow motion. I look him in the eyes. I see the man that held my hands lovingly at our wedding. He regrets this already, I can see it within him. We’re both broken, together ‘maladjusted misfits.’
He slips the cool, gold band onto my finger, I feel a wave of euphoria pulsate through my body, beginning at the fingertip, and reaching deep into my being. I vow to never take this ring from my finger.
The last thing I see is the outline of a hatbox, protruding like a totem from the dresser.
It’s evening as we arrive in Greenwich. The streets are still busy as we pass Lars’ new sales office; a sleek, slender building with a facade of great glass panes. I roll down the window for some fresh air, the sound of contemporary jazz filling the car.
My body tenses as the droning of a saxophone pierces the air. I crave peace.
Lars looks down at me, eyes shining. I can’t help but flush.
Over an infant’s cry, and the distant sound of a pianist’s latest composition, the closing of our car’s doors is inaudible. We approach the alley of a complex’s dark courtyard.
Lars shuts the apartment’s door behind us. We take in the small, pre-furnished flat: cheap, framed prints lining the walls, the musty odour of sweat and coffee radiating from the carpets.
I seek the bedroom.
The bed’s worn springs compress freely beneath my back. My husband lays down beside me, his warm breath grazing my neck.
It’s far from ideal, but I’m content. I force a tired smile.
Lars produces a bright red flower from behind his back, placing it carefully upon my empty, ageing stomach.
“I’m tired, Lars.”
***
“Anna. The man in the second story apartment, across the courtyard. He’s watching us with binoculars.”
Rather than greet each other, our neighbours observe one another from afar. Mistrust wafts through the air, interrogating each and every bohemian resident of the town. Red posters fill our letterbox.
We’re nearing the end of our lease, Lars working overtime to secure a second six month agreement.
It’s taking its toll.
As a salesman, Lars travels to deal with clients. Interaction motivates him. It drives him. Yet, he brings home stories of petty, pretentious patrons, depriving him of the human interaction that fuels his passion. He’s not the man of enterprise he once was, in Levittown.
As he walks through the front door, his shoulders slump. I see the disconnect in his body.
He doesn’t greet me. Sitting in the lounge room’s shadows, only the burning butt of a cigar illuminates his face, his empty eyes.
Our circumstances are worsened by me being bed bound, so Lars proclaims.
The doctor called it ‘the wonder drug,’ promising that medication was the solution to infertility. That day, Lars was quick in taking the prescription from the doctor’s hand, leading me from the office. He’d returned agitated from work. I conceded… We weren’t getting any younger.
Since then, I’ve woken nauseated. Only the morning song of Greenwich’s robins, sweet and soft, signifies the beginning of a new day; ever the same.
I look out our rear window into the courtyard, watching young wives equip their aprons. I glance up to see Lars holding a tray, my breakfast. The bacon is still pink, the eggs beginning to cool. I ensure my husband’s aware.
Once, the tray was accompanied by a yellow zinnia.
“Less presentation; firmer eggs. Thanks Lars, honey.”
He looked down at his watch, adjusted his glasses, and, without a word, his towering frame slipped briskly from the room. His face bore no expression.
***
It’s been weeks since Lars brought a meal to my bed.
Each night it’s later I hear him removing his shoes and slipping under the covers beside me.
His breath no longer grazes my neck.
I fear Lars sees me as a reminder of our childless marriage, a reminder too tragic to confront.
Only the soft melodies of the pianist, bittersweet in their beauty and sadness, offer me solace as I lay next to my husband. It’s as if the composer is painting a musical portrait, we the objects of his inspiration.
***
I wake to the slamming of the apartment’s door. It must be late, the night is silent; robins roosting and the pianist’s apartment dark. I hear the kettle beginning to whistle. I call for Lars to make me a cup of tea.
Suddenly, there’s a crash from the kitchen. The bedroom door snaps open. Light floods into the room from behind Lars, his face dark in the shadows.
“Do I have to do everything for you, woman?”
I’m taken aback, this isn’t like him.
“Lars, please.”
He takes a step forward, unsteady on his feet.
“I work my arse off every damn day, so that you can… you can, what, lie here in bed?
He again moves closer. The smell of whiskey emanates from not only his breath, but his navy jacket. The scent is so pungent I can taste it. His hair is ruffled, beads of sweat across his forehead.
It’s often I smell the cinnamon wafting from his clothes as we wake, but it’s rare I see him in such a state. ‘He’s quiet, drinks, but not to drunkenness.’
“What has gotten into you? You know it’s the medication Lars.”
He brushes my comment aside.
“My work, my care… and you, Anna, can’t give me a child?”
It’s been months since he’s addressed me with such emotion. And I’m now experiencing, in a surge, the force of the tension.
Lars sways on his feet, eyes narrowed as he looks down at the bed.
I feel my chest thumping. I’m still dazed, mind asleep. “ You think… you think I’m not crying out for a child? I’m the one on medication. I’m the one bearing the burden of infertility.”
I plead. “Lars, might you ever show gratitude? Get into bed, it’s late and you’re drunk.”
His eyes widen, their whites glowing in the shadows. He glances towards the closed blinds of the room’s window.
“You’re telling me what to do? Be careful Anna.”
I won’t stand down.
“You’re a fool Lars, a coward. What sort of man treats his ill wife like this? ”
I look into his bloodshot eyes, their whites beginning to glaze over. I see the man I’ve always loved. I see visions of Levittown.
Music resonates through the archaic church building, enveloping my soul; the pipes of the organ rich in song. My fingers tremble, steadied by my father’s proud arm as we approach the altar. I nervously lift my gaze to the rows of neighbours and friends joining our family in celebration, a sight that turns my cheeks to a rosy pink. It’s as if the whole of Levittown is here.
Like a zombie, Lars approaches my side of the bed. I’ve not feared him until this night. But this is not my Lars. This is a drunken, broken man. A man yearning for a family, living within a village in which he knows nobody; not even his wife.
My hands are held by those of my fiance, soft and comforting, as I survey a rogue thread on the cuff of his jacket. Suddenly, I’m brought to attention. “Anna, do you take Lars to be your lawfully wedded husband?” I meet the expectant, smiling eyes of my spouse. “I do…”
He raises his fist. I see the swing of his arm, almost in slow motion. I look him in the eyes. I see the man that held my hands lovingly at our wedding. He regrets this already, I can see it within him. We’re both broken, together ‘maladjusted misfits.’
He slips the cool, gold band onto my finger, I feel a wave of euphoria pulsate through my body, beginning at the fingertip, and reaching deep into my being. I vow to never take this ring from my finger.
The last thing I see is the outline of a hatbox, protruding like a totem from the dresser.
A New Life
Taylah
Year 10 · Star of the Sea College
Year 10 · Star of the Sea College
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Terror. Deafening screams. My eyes try to adjust to this chaotic scene, but instead begin to cloud over. I am met with the warm arms of my mother, who shields me from the debris. Police vehicles speed to the scene. I try to scream, “Don’t! You’ll only get killed!”, but my mind cannot form a coherent sentence. My heart pounds against my chest, rising to my throat and forcing out a terrified scream. We run.
The grandfather clock in the corner of the dimly lit room ticks excruciatingly slowly in the silence. Papa hasn’t come home. He reassured me that he would. I roll to my side, clutching my threadbare blanket to my chest. The silence is deafening and I am forced to think. Maman was ghostly pale during dinner. She barely ate; didn’t speak a word. Salty tears cascade down my cheeks. My hands shake violently against my damp pillow as I prepare for the worst. “Pack your things. We have to leave, now.” Suddenly, the overhead light becomes all the more blinding, and the distant sirens even louder. Papa’s badge, once pinned proudly to the left of his blazer, now hangs loosely in his hand. We could no longer evade the inevitable. Maman begins to heave clothes out of our cupboards as Gilbert and I form stacks of books against the oakwood door. I’m horrified for Didier, who faces the gruesome realities of war and will not join us. I’m scared for what will become of my family. What will become of me? Papa paces nervously, his footsteps and our sniffles the only thing that can be heard amongst the misery. I glance around the room, each wall and piece of furniture painted with the colours of my past. Everything is left behind. Papa came home. I invited him to ‘bring your parent to school day’. He came. I was elated to share his thrilling adventures as a detective. I even found a newspaper clipping hidden under Maman’s pillow. I proudly present the article titled ‘Yves Chéné’ to my class. Papa’s mouth widens slightly. He turns on his heel and leaves abruptly. Rain splatters harshly against the thin window pane. I’m left clinging to the fragile paper, completely defeated. I clasp Grandmother Mamé’s frail hand in my own, desperately trying to hide my dishevelled hair and sodden cheeks. She can’t see me like this. My uncle flanks her right side. My heart is ripped from my chest. A sob erupts from my throat. I cling to her tightly; treasure this final embrace. The ship sounds its horn. It’s time. Tonight, I lay awake, and I think about my life anywhere other than here. Will it ever be the same? Waves crash harshly against the ship, causing it to creak and shake. The chess pieces scatter across the floor. Gilbert tries his hardest to cheer me up. I admire his spirit, but I cannot bring myself to share his glistening smile. We’d left Mamé and Didier behind. The month passes by slowly, though there is a promise of a fresh start on the other side. When my feet finally find real ground, I release a sigh of relief. With every day that passes, I feel as though the invisible barrier between us grows stronger. They don’t understand me. I don’t belong here. I miss my family and friends. I miss what I had before. At night, when the world goes black, I am forced to do nothing but think. I remember the shaking ground and piercing shrieks of people like me. I’m compelled to realise that I am safer here. Not in the way I want to be, though. Hopefully one day, I will discover true peace in a world of acceptance. My Grandmother, Yveline Chéné My great grandfather, Yves Chéné and great grandmother, Paulette Veyssière, both moved from France to Casablanca, Morocco, for new work and life opportunities. My Apa and Ama met in Casablanca and married on 5 August, 1933. They had three children: Didier, Gilbert and my grandmother, Yveline. My Pama was born on 3 July, 1941. They lived a comfortable life until the early 50s, when Moroccan nationalists began to rebel against the French colonial government. They used terror tactics, including physical violence and bombs, against French immigrants. Apa, a French detective living in Morocco, was targeted. This prompted their family to immigrate to Australia in 1953, when my Pama was 12 years old. Her grandmother, too unfit to travel, returned to France. Didier remained in the army for another year. After a month of travelling, they arrived in Melbourne, Australia, on 14 October, 1953. Upon relocating to Adelaide, they faced the challenges of language, cultural and lifestyle barriers. As a result, their family immigrated to Montreal, Canada, arriving on 12 June, 1958. In 1967, they were deterred by the cold weather and returned to Melbourne. Here, my Pama and grandfather, whom I call Papa, met and later married in May 1968. She now lives a very happy and safe life. I am honoured to share part of her story. |
My great grandparents, Yves and Paulette.
My grandmother, Yveline, with her brothers Didier and Gilbert, and mother Paulette.
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