Here are examples of work from our Portraiture classes
Here is some absolutely smashing work from our new Life Painting class that began this year
Art students who use the top studio (room 901) may recognise this image – yes, it’s the sink after a painting session!
Imagination in art student and lyricist, David Mitchell, has used the photo for an album he has recently recorded.
Listen to it on Spotify or itunes…
Another example of the great work produced here at WMC in the Creative Writing courses. (click here for course info)
Remember the beauty of simplicity. Great power resides in all those one-syllable Anglo-Saxon words.
Sebastian’s story uses only one-syllable words:
The Lone Shoe
by Sebastian Kola-Bankole
On the night of the full moon, I see the man in front of me get hit by a big red bus. I lean on the bus stop sign and hold my breath. My heart pounds in my chest and I know I should try to help him. I try to move but I freeze. I try to run from the scene but my legs say nay.
I watch as a pool of blood, the hue of good red wine, seeps out from the back of the bus. I heave and retch as the ooze spreads, slow and thick. I think I can see a shoe, his left one. It is brown and its heel torn. It lies on the side of the road, this sad lone shoe, right next to a bare foot, ripped from its leg. I can’t tear my eyes from this dire sight. I want to leave but I stand there, fixed to the spot, dead still.
by Sebastian Kola-Bankole
Stayed alive to tell the tale
Even when near death he lay
Beneath a truck, his bones were crushed
All feeling below did turn to mush
Still he fought to stay alive
Through it all, he did survive
In the time that’s passed since then
As he falls, he stands again
Never shall he ever doubt, from all that pain, his strength did sprout
Here are some more fantastic examples of the Flash Fiction task from the Creative Writing classes here at WMC (click here for course info)
Waiting. I’m waiting. Always waiting.
The automated, robot voice on the end of the phone explains its dizzying array of options.
I’m waiting for my details to pop up on the monitor of a remote, invisible, call worker who just wants to go home.
I’m waiting to hear my personal details read back to confirm who I am.
Yes, I am me.
Twenty minutes later, the monotone, script-reading voice, finally asks for my payment details.
I’m going for a coffee I tell him.
He can wait for me.
It was that time in the festivities when bad dancing was rife on the dance floor. Perched on a spindly chair, I sipped at my cocktail. He loomed over me, red faced, swaying wet lipped:
“Wan’ dance?” he said extending a plump, pink hand.
“Rubbish dancer,” I said through gritted teeth. His hand descended, grasping my arm, forcefully lifting me, simultaneously spilling my drink and overturning the table.
“Oops!” he said. Now level with his chins and about to let fly with some righteous indignation, I suddenly registered his identity and saw over his shoulder, huddled in a corner in a froth of white netting and sobbing, the Bride.
He smiled at me from platform 3, then the 10.30 Express passed and he was gone.
White dress and veil. Black suit. Ring. ‘I don’t,’ he said.
After the first day of the Creative Writing course she saw a light in her future. She was changing into a beautiful butterfly and flying into the sky.
Vincy Kam Wai Lau
Italian students document their Italian adventures using Italian!
Last year we were contacted by a local author Joe Morris looking for illustration for his new children’s book. This opportunity was given to the Foundation Diploma learners and Veronique Shamhong produced some lovely illustrations for the book. The book is now published and we were thrilled to receive a copy!
The Big Draw: Exploring London Life though Art
On Saturday 16th February 2019 local Camden residents and college learners were invited to come and join Foundation Diploma and Childcare learners in the production of a huge collaborative drawing depicting London life in all its diversity. This event was part of the International Big Draw festival ((click here for more Big Draw info)
The piece starts at the top with prominent and well known London landmarks, what everyone would think of when thinking of London, but then moves down in to local landmarks and portraits of individual’s living spaces: Our local London. The image finishes with self-portraits of the participants showing the range of individuals who make up London Life at the college.
Contact email@example.com for any queries
the final piece close up:
and some pictures from the day:
Musings on a Train by Sylvia Keogh
The train lurched giddily from side to side…gatchy-gatch-gah- gatchy-gatchy-gah, disallowing the usual hypnotic lure towards sleep which I have always associated with train journeys. This ear splitting racket thundered through the barred, glassless windows, prohibiting any conversation unless one had the habit of bellowing. The lurching allowed me to read only a few pages in short bursts before travel sickness demanded I stop. And so I sat there as the familiar movie that is India slipped by my window.
My travelling companion slept the sleep of the innocents. He could sleep anywhere, anytime and he did. I alternately admired, envied, or was resentful of the fact that Morpheus always came to his rescue but never to mine.
I drifted again into musing on the circumstances which had brought us here together. He was now resenting every minute of the trip and that resentment was seeping towards me.
After all it was I who had planted the seed with photographs and stories of a previous trip I had taken alone a few years before. We were acquaintances then, but had become firm friends very quickly despite our age difference, and so we had carefully planned this trip.
Now he was so discontented that he saw those photographs and the books I had shown him containing information on customs, religions and landscapes as some mendacious plot used to entice him to India to fulfil the role of my sidekick and rucksack wallah.
The poverty, filth and inhumanity towards animals got to all of us at times, but he became so jaundiced that he was blind to the beauty. That sense of slipping in and out of centuries, and the brilliant technicolored world which would not have seemed out of place in a Cecil B de Mille film, can be found everywhere in India.
I loved watching from the windows the story of India, the dawn ablutions by rivers and lakes of people and their buffaloes. The brightly-dressed women filling their various containers at the wells, to be carried home on their heads, their backs straighter than any catwalk model. Later, when the big orange sun was sinking, smoke from the cow dung patties drifted skywards and the aroma of curry was mouth-watering.
My lone travels seemed so easy now. Besides a few inevitable hassles, I had lost myself in the magic of the diversity I found in and between the Holy places, the Mughal palaces, beaches and the foothills of Everest. I determined then that I would not allow his resentment to tarnish my romantic memories or this trip.
We were on our way to an elephant festival. It would be a joyful, riotous affair of grandly caparisoned elephants and the mahouts would be almost as impressive. There would be the inevitable tinny music played on long trumpet style instruments. I was going to have a good time, I would not allow this parade to be rained on by his black mood. We would go our separate ways.