Lesson 8. Pyromania

Communicative area: inferring meaning from context

1. You are going to read a story from a Teen Ink magazine. Read about the magazine and decide if you would like to read it.

2. Q a) Listen to the story submitted by the Horsegirl, Minneapolis, and follow in the book. What kind of story do you think it might be?

Pyromania

I only came to the art gallery because my friend Clarice had invited me. Clarice belonged to a group of artists that called themselves the Ravens, because, as Clarice explained to me, the Raven is a traditional symbol of creation. The Ravens all share a studio, and twice a year, have gallery shows where people can buy their art. The art is awfully modern, and abstract, and to me, pretty boring. But when Clarice specifically asked that I come, I felt it would be rude to refuse. Clarice was really excited about showing me the other Ravens, and their art. Right now, she was leaning nervously on a wall next to her newest paint­ing, a swirl of colour, all spiraling up towards the top. "It's called Fern," she told me proudly. "Fern? Why Fern?" I had asked. Clarice looked at me, her eyebrows going up. "Because it is a fern," she explained in a patronising voice. Clarice looked just as she always did, in her knee-high suede boots and denim skirt, but she looked a lot more anxious than usual. She was al­ways anxious in the months leading up to shows, working fe­verishly to get one last painting done. "I'm going to look at the other art," I told her. She just nodded deafly, and put one hand over her stomach. Clarice is fond of telling the story of her first exhibition ever, where she threw up from nervousness right be­fore it started. I hoped she wouldn't now. I strolled aimlessly around the large airy room. It smelled of paint. I hardly glanced at the art though. It was the artists I looked at. People have al­ways fascinated me. I love to watch people and wonder what their story is. I guess you could call me an expert in people watching. Some people show their souls in their faces, and some you have to look at their eyes to see what they're like. Some people have mysterious looking faces, that don't give you one clue what their story is. Suddenly, one of the paintings caught my eye. I walked over to it. "What's this one called?" I asked the artist. She had light blond golden hair that was cut to just below her ears and a serious expression. She was wearing a tee shirt that said "I Used Up All My Sick Days... So I Called In Dead". "Pyromania," she responded. Her voice was loud and harsh, like she had a sore throat, but was trying to talk nor­mally through it. I stared at the painting, and I don't know how long I stood there and gazed at it. It was huge, and it was hung in a little niche in the wall. It was very abstract, and not a pic­ture of anything, but it was clear that the painting was portray­ing a flame. At the bottom of the canvas was a light blue colour, but not sky blue. This was an intense, almost silver colour. Then it blended into light golden colours that zigzagged angrily up­wards. Next came dark orange, curling and interweaving with reds and golds and yellows, like an intricate glass sculpture. The most amazing thing about the painting though, was not the colour, but the texture. The paint was so smooth that it looked like a liquid, a gas. The image didn't look solid; I felt like if I put my hand on it, it would go right through. It was violent, but had a fierce kind of beauty at the same time. I surreptitiously checked the plaque on the wall next to it. "It's for sale," I remarked to the artist. "Yeah, it is." "And nobody's bought it yet?" "No, no one." "I'll take it." The artist smiled a small smile. When I told Cla­rice, I'd bought the painting, I noticed that her worried look slightly deepened, but she said nothing except "I think she'll be glad to be rid of it." "What do you mean?" I asked, a little wor­ried myself. "Oh, you know, it was pretty inconvenient to have around..." her voice trailed off and she resumed fidgeting ner­vously. About a week or so later, after I'd gotten the picture mounted nicely on the wall opposite my bed, I understood what she meant. One morning after I got up,...

b) Read the story again. Look up the glossary to check the meaning of the words you don't understand. What do you think happened next in the story?

c) Work in small groups. Invent different endings for the story depending on the story type. The story has to end in 4-5 sentences.

d) Work individually. Write the ending for the story.

3. d Listen to the end of the story. Has anyone guessed it right? What type of story is it?

4. Use the coloured crayons or paints to reproduce the painting the author bought.

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