The Year 9 teacher sits down to work, balancing her hot cup of tea precariously on the a pile of books while she rummages around in her pencil box for her favourite marking pen, the nice black ballpoint that runs smoothly, never mucks up - she is convinced, makes her writing neater. She is thrilled that all her art students submitted their journals on time, with no excuses or notes from home. She flips through the first book and a pile of unglued sheets fall out; sighing she picks them up; - the top one reads:


Art and Design
Practical Task 1
Year 9 ' Miss Barnbell

For this practical task, create a series of 5 paintings, one a day for a week (Mon ' Fri) starting next week Monday. Think of different things you did each day; choose one experience, scene, something or someone you saw, and how it relates to your life, however significant or insignificant it is. When you get home - paint it, in whatever fashion you like, do it your own unique way. Along with each painting submit 5 journal responses including what we discussed. Good luck and happy painting.
Thankyou - Mrs Barnbell


She places them back in the front of the book and gets to work. Next book she picks up is neatly covered. Noticing the title page she smiles: 'Jeremy's Art Book, Year 9, Miss Barnbell'. She finds the right section and after reading the journal picks up her pen and writes.

Practical Task 1
Five Paintings Journal

· Monday, painting 1. 'Me and my best friend': Friends are important, so for my first painting I chose to paint my best friend and I together.

· Tuesday, painting 2. 'The Flower': I wanted to try a landscape type picture or something natural. I know this sounds soft but there's this flower that I've noticed in the school gardens, it's so pretty. Whenever I see it I have to stop and admire its beauty.

· Wednesday, painting 3. 'Dancing': This ones an action shot. One night my parents were dancing. It's not the first time I've seen them like that. They came home late and thought I was asleep but I got up when I herd the noise. My mum was all made up - she's so beautiful.

· Thursday, painting 4. 'My mum': To contrast with the craziness of my last painting I chose a quieter scene. One evening I was looking for my mum and found her fast asleep, it was such a peaceful moment. I love my mum and she's really important to me, without her I wouldn't even be here.

· Friday, painting 5.



* * *

The gallery buzzed with conversation, we passed the first set of corridors, bypassing a group of restless school children.
We made our way towards the back of the building. I looked at my mother and the expression on her face inexplicably sent shivers down my spine and I stifled the urge to query her about the visit.
We walked on and the noise died down to a murmur. Behind me an elderly couple stood staring blankly up at the painting opposite them. I could see nothing but blank walls ahead, we were standing at the very back of the gallery.

At that point I could wait no longer and turned to question my mother but she was entering a door I had not seen; tucked away in a dark corner, and gestured for me to come. I took a deep breath and followed her in.
The room we entered was obviously set apart from the others and to get there we had to follow a short dark passage way. Coming out the other side was like entering into a new dimension: it felt almost abandoned and forgotten but that was not the case as there were tell tale signs, not one speck of dust visible, and the sweet scent of a newly polished floor filling the room. Someone had taken great care in keeping the room spotless and respectable.

The room was dim and empty except for a old woman who was studying the paintings on the wall in complete silence. Whatever hung there must be of great importance. The old woman seemed upset; our entrance must have disturbed her, although she seemed to take no notice of us as she walked out of the room. In fact I'm not sure she even saw us. I still had no idea why we were there. Did these paintings have some significance to my mother? She was now making her way towards the wall; the one you faced when you entered the room and the only wall with paintings on it, all of five painting spread evenly across in a line. I followed, unsure of what awaited me, my mothers face uneasy in the familiar way that I see in my daughters when she is anxious and, I suppose; to my husband, the revealing way mine is when something's troubling me. She drew my attention to the first painting

' Painting 1'� my mother spoke more quietly than in a whisper. I held my breath, trying not to miss a word: 'me and my best friend'� she recited in incorrect grammar, her tone emotionless and so unlike her own. Straight ahead was a painting. Although the room was quite dark a down light shone over the painting clear to see if you were standing in front of it. I looked around for an information plaque of some sort, the little signs that are normally there stating the date, title of the painting and the artist, but there were none.
The painting in front of me was of a young boy; mid teens from what I could see, huddled up; in the dark corner of a yard, with a large old dog for company; they both looked so sad and lonely. An old dog, his only friend and companion, the boys grip so tight not wanting to lose him, but the sad old dog with his drooping eyes looked so close to death. I somehow knew it had been painted by that boy. The quality of it was surprisingly good: his style full of emotion and expression, though the boy in the painting; his self-portrait, showed no facial expression, the sadness pouring from his tired eyes.
My mother touched my arm and I jumped; we were moving on.

'Painting 2, The Flower'� she said.
The second painting wasn't of a flower at all but of a young girl, sitting quietly in the schoolyard, so pretty and slender. She looked content and happy, I couldn't help but notice the loving way it was painted, very different to the first but I knew it was by the same artist. This boy must have really cared for this girl. Her watery blue eyes held such strength and an obvious disinterest in the senseless things of this world. The way she seemed so distant and out of reach suggested that this was the extent of contact between this girl and the lonely boy. I felt something tap my shoulder as if to bring me out of that world back into this one. I blinked, keeping my eyes closed for a tenth of a second longer than usual.

'Painting 3, Dancing'�
Oh it was horrible, a man; evidently drunk with bloody knuckles, his strong arms dripping with sweat, advancing on his already half beaten helpless wife. The woman was scurrying away, backwards on the ground, shielding her face, covered in the blood pouring from here nose, with two black eyes, her expression so pain filled and terrified. Her husband's rage dominated the room; it sent chills down my spine, smashed glass littered the floor, gleaming dangerously in the faint light. I gasped for air, realising I had been holding my breath trying to take in all that was before me. I looked down at my feet, ashamed of all the self-centred times I had complained to my husband about petty mishaps.

We took a step to the side and stood directly in front of the next painting, which nothing could prepare me for.
'Painting 4, My mum'�
I looked at the painting then quickly turned away; I forced myself to look again. A woman! The same woman in the painting before, lay dead on the floor, her face drained of life, clutching her pregnant stomach, her dead unborn child. Although so upsetting, I couldn't help but notice the peaceful nature of it all, no more pain and suffering under the hand of her husband. The boy, her son, who had painted this scene had taken his time showing these two extremes in the one painting, the death of his mother and her baby, and the final resting and end to their suffering.

My mother lead me over to the fifth and last painting but did not say a word, she turned without looking at it and left the room. There in the painting before me was a boy, the same boy from the first painting and presumably the painter. This boy's life immortalised in the canvas, his life hang on the wall for people to see. His dead body hang from the roof surrounded by black nothingness, a noose tied round his neck. In the corner signed: 'Jeremy', was the title 'The Five paintings'.

* * *


Dear Jeremy,

I was pleased by your report, you have been doing so well in art this year and your talent exceeds even those students in the grade above you. Jeremy you have great potential and it is such a joy teaching a positive boy like you. Give my regards to your mother; I hope she and the baby are well, not far now till you'll be welcoming a new member to the family. I was sad to hear that your dog passed away, it's a terrible thing loosing something so close to your heart. Stay positive and keep up the good work, can't wait to see your paintings. One thing though, you only wrote about four paintings, painting fives journal is missing, a surprise I hope.

Take care '
Mrs Barnbell

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