Critique #2

"The Beauty of Sadness B&W"
Robert Jaffe

Looking at Robert Jaffe’s photograph entitled “The Beauty of Sadness B&W”; the viewer is immediately drawn to the down-turned flowers. Sadness is exhibited by the use of black and white photography. The overall feeling of the photograph is calm, peaceful, and relaxing. The brightness of the flowers against the black background creates a chiaroscuro effect. The neutral gray color of the stem exudes a warm, tranquil sensation. On the bends of the stem, specs of light appear to be kissing the top side of the stem creating a highlight. A similar effect can be found on the flower petal tips. There is a shade of black that distinguishes the individual petals from the bud itself.
When the viewer first sees the photograph, they are overcome with a feeling of sadness. The sadness appears first because the flowers appear to be wilting which gives a sensation of death. The stem growing towards the sky contrasts the sad thought of death because it gives the feeling of hope and life. Flowers are a symbol of life and happiness, so by having the two bulbs wilting, the photographer is able to convey a stronger message of heartache. Flowers are also given to people in times of despair such as a funeral, a surgery, or to beg for forgiveness. Just the sight of the flower demonstrates the need for condolences or forgiveness.
This photograph captures heartache at its finest. The death of the flower is inevitable and is implied by the wilting of the buds. Whether these flowers will appear at a funeral to symbolize death or at the bedside of a cancer victim to bring good luck, they exude heartache in a subtle way. Heartache can be as drastic as a death of a loved one or as simplistic as getting a bad grade

Short Story #3

"Barricade Rue Mortellerie"

I haven’t been allowed to see my father or my brother in over a month. It is just my mother and I and all the other women and girls who are on this side of the wire barricade. We all look awkwardly similar to one another; blonde hair and blue eyes. We also share our nightly silent prayer time which we must keep from them. Our shelter is made up of rotten pieces of wood, rusted slabs of metal, and globs of hay. The shelves, or beds as they call them, are made of portions of plywood with mounds of hay on top. There are only sixteen of these so-called beds for one hundred and fifty people. The whole building exudes a stench of mildew, feces, and filth. Showers are nonexistent; bathrooms consist of holes dug in the ground. To say the least, torture is a daily occurrence.
We are distinguished by our eclectic numbers and symbols carved into our wrists. We are ordered around by the men in the uniforms. They blow their whistles and yell constantly at us. If we don’t obey, we are severely punished if not worse. We work in the fields from sunup till sundown, sometimes even longer. We dig endless mass graves and continue to weed around the metal border where we catch glimpses of our masculine loved ones. But we mustn’t try to talk or touch them, for if we do, we will end up in one of those graves. This is one of the ways they torture us; make us see what we can’t have.
I am ten years old and I have already seen about 100 deaths. They are not so much deaths as they are mass murders. Many more people have died, we think. Nobody actually knows exactly what has happened to them. All we know is that they are taken, groups at a time, out into the woods. A few hours later, the men in the uniforms return without the group they had left with. Sometimes they don’t take the whole family; just the females, or just the males depending upon the offense. We don’t hear screams, or pleas for help, nor do we ever see anybody try to run away. We don’t know how, why, or even when, yet we think its better that way. We thought that until it happened to us.
The other women and I were out in the field pulling weeds that were so minute we had to tweeze them with two fingers. The sun was scorching down upon us; heating our thick clothing and making it feel as though it was melting to us. It was barely possible to see in between beads of sweat that trickled down our faces dropping into our eyes like acid rain. Despite the intense heat, they still managed to blow their whistles and bellow out orders at us like it was any other day. Except it wasn’t just an ordinary day, not for my mother and father at least. Ten years ago today they became man and wife and vowed to love each other for eternity. They were dieing to see each other; you could just tell by the look in my mother’s face that she wanted nothing more than to see my father for a mere minute. I’m sure my father felt the same way; that’s why he got caught.
Both he and my mother were weeding near the fence when he whispered to her “Happy anniversary Sweetie!” The sound of his voice made my mother’s eyes swell up, yet she was able to muster “I love you Jonah.” Just as he began to respond with a faint “I love you too, Ann” one of them turned and spotted him talking. Whistles sounded and many of them began roaring and sprinting towards my father. They tackled him to the ground and then pulled him to his feet. Then they went and found my brother and pulled him over to my father. Mother and I looked on in horror wondering what they were going to do to them. They began heading towards those dreaded woods; the woods where people entered but never returned. Mother was screaming and crying as she held me and tried to protect me. The men in the uniforms didn’t care about us or what was going to happen to my father and brother; they just continued monitoring the other laborers. I didn’t understand what was happening or why it was happening. All I knew was that my father and brother were headed for the woods, whether to be seen or spoken to again was unknown.
Mother knew they were not going to return. She knew that once they entered the perimeter of the woods, she would not see her husband or son again. She knew that whatever happened in those woods was torturous and deadly. She knew that her son would not live to see his eighth birthday, nor would her husband be alive to celebrate their next anniversary. Every since that day, mother has become quiet, depressed, fragile in a way. I feel as though it has made me stronger; more observant, proud, and strong. I live everyday knowing that they are watching over me; knowing that one day, mother and I will once again be reunited with my father and brother. We will once again be a happy family like we were before this whole invasion began. Every night during our silent prayer time, I recite the same prayer:
“Please watch over mother and I and all the other people who are still here fighting for our freedom. Please give me the strength to make it through another day and forgive me for prior offenses. And please tell father and brother that I miss them and think about them everyday and that I love them very much.”