Art Explained By A Writer: Under The Yoke (1893)

Workshop?

They said: Do you want to do a workshop, it is in the countryside. The people there are very nice and the air is healthy.
It was not that I wanted to go, but I had never been out of the slums and the trip was paid for, so Mom said: Why don't you go, my child? It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You will be amazed. Enjoy it and when you get home, you can tell me all about what you experienced.
I packed my suitcase reluctantly, actually, I would have preferred to stay with Mom because she has a nasty cough that she tries to hide from me, but I can hear her even when I am in bed and pretend to be asleep. At the bottom, I first put Lieselot, my rag doll that Grandma gave me. I am still happy with it, even though my friend says that dolls are childish.

There are strange people in the countryside.
They are not at all hospitable as people in the city say. Nobody talks to me and my bed was a mat by the fire in the kitchen. I wasn’t allowed to go to sleep until I had scrubbed everything and everyone was in bed and had been given warm milk.

After that first day, I still had high hopes the creativity workshop would start after breakfast. The opposite was true. I had to pump up a lot of buckets of water, and I felt like my back was breaking. I was also incredibly hungry because the last time I had eaten a piece of bread was the night I said goodbye to my mummy.

We all had to climb onto the cart. It was pulled by an old horse. Annoying Hans kept grabbing under my skirt. As we arrived, they told me to team up with him. How I wished I hadn’t been so scared and kicked him off the wagon. They all chatted happily during the journey. Was I the only one who felt listless? Some ate bread and bacon. No one offered me a bite.

When we arrived at the field, the farmer told us to wait until everything had been set on fire. The flames were high and licked everything that could burn, even part of my skirt, which made the others laugh and throw earth at me. The fire was huge and it burned until there was only charred plant remains. The stay here is endless and I would not call it a workshop, but a labor camp. I hate this vacation and what I find even worse is that man who hangs around there and takes pictures without asking permission and dares to smile at me. If he comes closer, I set his pants on fire.

_{19.3.25
Painting: Under the Yoke (Burning the Brushwood) by Eero Järnefelt (1893)
Prompt: workshop provided by @freewritehouse
The contest Art & Writing is hosted by @solperez}