The day I drew New York ...

I draw things and they seem to come to life. I visit my imagination all of the time. One day i get stuck there, the day I drew New York. I am Ansonia Harvey, named after the New York hotel in which my parents met. In which I would discover more about my past than anyone could have told me. In which I was trapped...forever.


2. Travelling through ink,

My vision blurrs into a mass of ink blots and lead shading. Then comes the colour, an extream collage of pastel and neon shadow. Their reflection blinding, blending with the azure of my pupils. I see my past drawings, as if my mind was a photo album jotting every image that I had ever sketched, displayed in a kilidescope of memories. Every single nerve touched as I am greeted by my departed travells. Beaches, mountains, towns, cities...the destinations endless. And in each one, an eternal similarity. Me, gradually changing with age, the image mirroring my growing skill. And now, my imagination my brush, my mind the easel, I would visit New York.

All I can see for miles are smears of white cloud, atop a background of melting grey sky. As my sight enlarges the city, I consume a view of the roofs of buildings, the roads a streak of black, the cars only alternating colours at their intervals. I begin to target a patch of green. Emerald trees dotted around a large array of streets, Broadway. I was almost there, my pulse quickening as a gale forms behind my eyelids.

My posture stiffens, and I know that I am no longer sitting in my old office chair. Its as if I had been possesed, and as the imposter forces my body to stand, a tape of office-blocks and blue skies is broadcasted on the back of my eyelids, willing to be printed there forever. I begin to sense the people gathered around me, to smell the rusty cab engines, and not long after hear them along with the collision of unfamilliar voices. My feet meet gravel with a thud, and I open my eyes awaiting the world, in which I now stood in, to appear.

The air is cool, icy fresh against my shy skin. I feel naked in the crowd of people bearing eskimo coats so large that you could hardly see their faces.They hurry around, rushing, arms full of bags from shopping. They act as if nothing abnormal had just happened, had ever happened, and never would. I stood in front of an old stone building, the name in flashing lights, Ansonia.

I take the image and grasp it, reviewing its comparrisin to my thoughts, to the twenty year old picture which I had based my drawing on.Three main differences obiously displayed. The hugging couple had been erased leaving in place a similar looking young girl. And then the leaflet. Fluttering enthusiastically in the breeze towards me, landing at my feet. After picking it up I relise that on it is printed a block shillouette of a range of flags, all created by a differing technique. I place my home symbol, a spray-painted union-jack, and then my destinations, the American flag, sketched with a rough crayon texture.

I notice the also obvious itallic lettering and read 'Ansonia's world of art, the compotion that binds cultures, techniques, and generations...'

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