Street Art - Inspiration for Writing!

On a beautiful Spring afternoon, Room 14 headed off to town to follow the Dunedin Street Art trail for an up close look at the diverse range of street art hidden in and around buildings and alleyways in our inner city. 

We followed the map starting in Moray Place and played tourists in our own city. We were amazed at what we found - often hidden away and difficult to really appreciate while driving by. 

The inner city has come alive and this has had a positive Impact on revitalizing some of our inner city areas. 

We researched about the artists and used the photos we took of the art for inspiration for some writing back at school - character writing, moment in time, or story starters, 

Read through some of the writing below and see if you can decide which photo inspired it.

Room Fourteen

Lisa Dixon

Noah Hjertquist

ARTIST

Phlegm is a British muralist, who started in published comics (as shown)

and then moved to murals as he grew up. The name ‘Phlegm’ originates from one of the four temperaments in ancient Greek medicine; blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm.

WHY I CHOSE THIS

I chose this piece because I really like the contrast of colour, the messages that came up in my mind and also just where it is placed. The messages that came up in my mind consisted of things like freedom. I also love the way the artist shades and paints his pieces.

MOMENT IN TIME

Flick, the switch lowered itself, and by the law of cause and effect, the light shuttered off.  Black paint slid slowly down a wall.  A drip, a drop, an occasional pitter patter. The light flickered back on, but he just sat there, fingers dancing lightly over the keys , a dark in the light. The Reward was coming, the annual beauty. Colour, he thought, they would fly around the piano for a few moments, then speed out the window. He always stared through the window, it was like a crack in the sky, a hole in the ground. It was too small to fit through, but barely big enough to squeeze an arm through.

The iron door crashed open, and the Master tumbled into the room. Drunk, as usual, and one more dent in the door. Freedom, and the birds, they were all he thought about. He was prohibited from eating, sleeping, and stopping.

The birds were larger than usual, and darker in colour. The Master was fast asleep, and the door hung open. His chance, his one and only chance. The cage opened, and the birds flew, they stayed with him, never leaving. He must do it now.

In one motion, he turned around, and leapt over the hunk of meat he called aptly, the Master. He ran, oh god he ran, the corridors flew past, the doors were all the same. He smashed out of the dark window.

Flight. The birds. Flight. Colour. Flight. He believed. Flight. He was free.

Maria Potopov 

I looked down and saw many dark scary trees. I flew above all the beautiful bright red roses.  As I glided down, my shady black wings stretched. While I landed on a dusty old branch, I heard moaning coming from a bush. A dirty dress stuck out, I smelt blood everywhere. 

A woman was lying there, she had a cold pale face and a cute button nose. She was surrounded by trees that watched over her. The mysterious woman opened her crystal blue eyes and looked forward to me. She smiled and she let out her hand. I stared at her for a second and flew over to her hand. Her hand was freezing cold. She looked back at the sky and closed her eyes again. 

Lots of sharp arrows stuck out of the grass surrounding the woman. She was breathing hard, sweat was all over her face. I realized that she is hunter, and had failed to survive. All of a sudden, she stopped moving and stopped breathing. Her hand fell flat on the ground. I flew over her and landed on the tree.

Michael Stephenson

A shroud of darkness flows over the battlefield, anointing it.

Fear flows through the veins of those who are still alive.

Those who are dead seem to shiver in the wind as their foe approaches.

Huge gusts of wind sweep the field, there's a huge crushing sound like boulders being crushed together as the creature lands. Many of your fallen brethren are crushed as it's giant talons move forward, the sound is sickening, like insects being crushed in a tarantula's jaws. You quiver in fear as the huge beast stops and raises its wings, you cringe when you hear the noise of its metal feathers grinding together. You grip your spear tighter than a mother her child. Steam rises from the beast's nostrils as it’s muscles tense, it is motionless for but a second, before, It's massive wings come crashing down and it's talons raise from the ground, metal shards fly everywhere as the screams of your fellow soldiers follow the sickening sound of metal piercing flesh, there is no help from God on this day for this is the work of Satan sent to destroy man and all holy with it.

It's huge talons bared it brings on a wrath so mighty that even the strongest of heroes pass out at the sight of its mighty wings. With every stroke came another Barrage of deadly missiles each one finding it mark in a soldier's neck. There is no stopping this unholy force as it wreaks havoc over the battlefield.

It lets out a huge screech, but that's the last thing you hear before you eardrums burst, and your head collapses in on itself.

Hannah Matahaere 

Moonlight glints on her anemic face. Wispy dark hair escapes her head flying free in the gelid wind. She shrugs the golden overcoat closer to her petite figure shivering with cold.

Her furry fox creeps closer giving her a sense of protection. Sighing she lies down. Her piercing dark eyes flickering about for any unwanted danger.

Her small body tosses about struggling to find a comfortable place to sleep. Her eyes close delicately. A relief aurora shines brightly, calmly beating with her slowing heart.

Dawn pounds on the hills, sunlight smirks at the minuscule girl surrounded in a halo of golden flowers.

Elliott Shepherd

She looks down, sadness seeping from her eyes. Her innocence slowly flowing away from her, forever. The men look down on her they don't care and they never will. To them she's a product, merchandise, a toy. The cards slipped from her hands, leaving only a few in her hand with no will to pick the rest back up.

These a just a sample of some the creative writing inspired by the Street Art Walk.

Lisa Dixon

Room 14