A Trip ToThe Louvre Pigs and Princesses

 Installation of Wim Delvoye au Louvre 

 The work of Wim Delvoye

 Majolica to you too

Stag gun powder horn

Watch out she is armed

French High School Diary Part I, Cabbages

Or why I am now going to school in England.

French High School Diaries Part I

  

Back Story

I was moved to Paris from the blissful mountains of northern New Mexico at the tender age of two.   I don't remember much of this, and now It seems to me that I've always been in France.

My father speaks  French, and has always had a thing for the French and France. My mom is linguistically challenged, and is not a great fan of the French. C'est la vie. Vive la différence!

I have had no choice, I have had to adapt. I live inside an English speaking family in a French speaking country. I have always gone to French schools, where it's been trial by fire. It has taken nerves of steel to maintain a positive attitude, and a sense of humor.

So in France I became a "Petite choux", a little cabbage (child). With the hair style called, choucroute, named after an Alsatian cabbage dish.  From children to hairdos, the French are always comparing things to cabbages.

  -->

She, departed

How am I to presume that loves radiant shadow fall,

To the dark interior of life's call,

New feelings are laid in your way, they cry

New stars now to seek,

That I should not look at my life as something bleak.

But instead, free, fly, but then plummet in remembrance,

the wave of passion, had carried me to far,

as was the excuse of the betrayal,

as is my understanding of the weeping willow,

Why do you weep so?

Did she leave you to, tell you that you were to far from the shore,

From the beach of familiarity and regularity,

Is that why you slouch, you feel, as if the forever green of your leaves

Should loose there radiance and fall.

If you hear me now, do not feel for me,

If you did it would but hurt, not see, nor feel

Nor know if the world was still turning, for

You as you are, shall be as you are, shall be as to me, a memory of love,

And what, perhaps, it shouldn't be.

River Of Fire

 

River of Fire

What river of fire is that at the hill top,

No hill, for her heart, a mountain, indeed,

Perfect in that, a radiant crop,

That is, but itself, and will at that lead.

Where are you from, a star, an ocean, a deep green forest,

You, as you are, shall be as you are, shall be as to me,

A great triumph, a proud and honorable crest,

But, as if an angels call, you respond to me, that I no longer ask, what is she.

Man Of The Night

  Man Of The Night

 The man of the night, yes, we all know him, living in the shadow that life provides, his light heart hidden by his cloak, his eyes tenderly veiled by his hat, gazing into his peripheral darkness, and then, the undeniable, and yet unaccountable truth of his life. It is to this extent that his pain commences, on a unstoppable plummet towards madness, or other forms of safety, it is also from this that we barely know him, molding his mask to smile, his eyes, dead. Do we love him for it, the constant worry and awkward conversation, in which, interwoven with a wall of secrecy, is his love, blocked, unseen, till the warm grieving hands of death melt it away, that only love should remain. Love, in a place, a memory, a letter, love that would heal his wounds as well as yours, or mine, that forever he shall remain, man of the light.

Turning a corner, I walked down the hall toward the door, already open, letting in a dazzling white light from a street lamp. At first I was blinded, seeing nothing but a man's shadowy outline, smoothly shifting from side to side like a metronome, confused, I ran forward and out of the door, the light was dimming now, and I could just make out an old wrinkly face gazing passively at me. With the light still imprinted against my retina, I stumbled, trying to regain my balance and sense of direction. Holding myself steady against the wall, half kneeling, I looked up. There he was, on time for once, holding a crocodile briefcase, always the pretentious attention seeker, wearing his usual beige coat, that resembled more a cloak then anything else, and his wide rimed hat. “Hey pops” said said I, he grunted in reply, and perhaps tilted his head an inch in acknowledgment. I couldn't see his eyes, then again, I never really had, he had always hidden them from me, “a gateway to who someone really is” some say. I suppose that this is what angered me so much about him, his boasting, his patronizing, it infuriated me, I didn't know him.

With a forceful jerk of his head, he indicated that we should start walking. Always in control, through some kind of unnoticed manipulation, another betrayal. As we walked down the street, I was perplexed to see that, through the corner of my eye, it seemed as if he were gliding beside me, no tremulous juddering of footsteps, and yet, when I looked at his feet, everything seemed quite normal, in fact his usual smugness, and sense of superiority, emanated from each step, not only normal, but expected. As we past street after street, my legs started to ache, but his step never faltered for a instant, he didn't so much as flinch when a car siren went of right next to us, or when a bird swooped down and briefly landed on his hat, before being violently, even heartlessly, waved away. “we sure shared some good time. Ay Pop!?” he mumbled something in reply, I frowned, looking down at the ground, my fists clenched, holding back tears of rage. “Pop!?” no answer “Why were you in Germany when you told nan you were on a business meeting in New York, before you guys moved to Paris?”, he stopped dead in his footsteps, an almost perfect statue. He replied with one, piercing word, that he uttered with such force and severity, that it made me wish I hadn't said anything, “How?”. I looked at him blandly, but I was shocked, and fearful, of what he might say, what he might do, I didn't know him. “I, I... saw, pictures” I said hesitantly “Hmm” he answer in a voice that rumbled, like two boulders being repetitively smashed against each other. He continued walking, without waiting for me, I rushed forward to catch up with him, “I am sorry!” I said “but they were, kind of, just laying there, on your desk” I looked at him innocently “but then I put them away, no one would see” He clenched his fists and walked even faster,and then it hit me, like a huge wave, of impenetrable, unstoppable, realization. I stopped “You were trying to tell her” I called after him “weren't you? Nan?” I said in a softer voice, he stopped as well, and turned, so that is face was looking straight at me, but his body as parallel, his arms by his side, as if ready to fight.

What had I done? I couldn't bear it, it wasn't true, he just looked at me “I...” my voice trailed of “I... didn't... didn't... know...I... love you” I din't know why I said it, or how it happened to come out of my ever restraining mouth, but Suddenly, unexpectedly, his body relaxed, and he faced me, beaconing me forward with his big clumsy arms, I had never seen him like this before. I ran forward, young, a child, “Pop?” I said, my voice breaking, smiling, my arms held out in front of me. I reached him, and as I through my arms around his waist, I felt his warm stomach, so comforting, relaxing, I closed my eyes, smiling. He put his hand on my shoulders and pushed me, ever so slightly away, and bestowed a kiss o my forehead, had anyone said it to him before, had the world said it, had I, three simple words that made music in him, such harmonious music, as the one that the heart yearns to create, to live, love, to set upon someone, the gifts of his music, to make them sore, feeling the world, feeling his heart pound, marking the drum, marking him, setting him free.

We walked some more, coming to a little park, we sat on a bench, surrounded, by lamps, and their pure white light, rings seemed to float around each one, as his a celestial call, or beckoning was taking place. The lights seemed to be getting stronger, all of a sudden he turned and for the first time, taking of his hat said “I miss you, you that, right?” The light was even more powerful, almost blinding, and as I turned to look at him, perplexed, he had gone, but how, I could still feel his presence, his new joyful self. Then I remembered, he was gone, and had been for five, unresolved years, and that I remember him should be his only time back on earth, and should others too, should be the same, three simple words, were his resolution, the key to his cage, “I love you”. He was now, man of the light.

The Falling of a Leaf

 

The Falling of a Leaf

C.E.Davis

Bleak, solemn, dead. That is what this once beautiful planet so rich with color and life has become. Not even the flutter of a bird's wings can be heard, no, the world is devoid of such a sound. Such a music it was, why mute it? Why, why, why!!! Such stupid questions we ask when the answers are so obvious, but like a devious parent we ask those questions. You are idiotic father/mother, face the facts, you do not exist, or do not care. So, we were created in your image, mother, that nature has blessed, but see where we are now. If you are good, we are not, and it is absolute and final that we were indeed created in your image, oh lord of lords, king of kings, then you are not defined for it must be us in our inferior status that must be wrong. Therefore, let us assume that you are greater then us, so insignificant, and we are wrong, it is justified to say that you are not defined, undefinable, for we have no right to define. If you are so kind you would have talked, guided and helped, but this is not so, look what has come of your indolence. Therefore we define you not, and only hold you in us as that part of our being that is undefined, untouched, presumably given to us by you, but no, you exist only for us, you exist, for we created you father, to take care of your children, to blame for our faults. But that creation was weak and has led us to death.

“What do you know about death!?” yelled Adam, “Hey, I asked you a question!”he said. “What do you know about death!?” he said in barely a whisper his jaws aquiver with rage. The old face was worn and tired, the locked secrets of a whole race were in his heart and seemed to bear upon him an aura of eternal suffering. Adam laughed in a forced fashion, he bowed his face, and, as he looked up, his pale blue eyes reflected the grey sun, for the dark clouds were a constant filter, Adam was used to this dead light by now. A tear trickled down the old man's cheek following the contours of the wrinkled face, a tear, so innocent and delicate in the destitute void which was the desert around him. An image suddenly flew through his mind as thin and sharp as a knife cutting into his very soul, a tree, a women, blood, it was all too overwhelming, the man keeled over in pain and tears gushed out of his eyes as blood would a deep wound. “What do you know about death !!!” he yelled again, pounding his head “you... you...death...you shit” Adam was now on all fours “You stole everything... you thief...what do you know about death, death?” he laughed “You do not even know yourself” and then he was quiet, sobbing.

Memories, memories, so treacherous, so dangerous to those who's quick brains permit it. “Why am i left in this empty world, to feel, to suffer, to die by the hand of an old friend” said Adam calmly once his tears were but wet lines on his reddened face, an other, if more recent memory of pain and suffering. Adam had encountered death before, and had developed a thick and torturous bond with the fellow, so much as to call him an old friend. Adam was alone, “Alone you say” said Adam with a chuckle “Not as long as i have my sand, and land” he said picking up and childishly throwing in the air while madly laughing, dirt and rubble from the desert floor and the crumbled fragments of buildings, which had stood so bravely and boldly, as had Adam, and were now but fragments, fragments of and old, worn, and almost inchoate memory.

With difficulty, Adam stood up, his weak bones cracking as was the sand and rubble under his feet. As he bent over to pick up his walking stick, which was in fact a thick branch, he forced his old and fragile shell to the remains of a park, no longer green, but yellow, a dreadful reminder of sunny days, happy days, “Better days” said Adam lowering his head and then the rest of his weightless cargo, to lay on his stomach, his nose pressed upon the dead grass, breathing in an inexistent smell, a smell of grass that he had once known what seemed to be long, long ago. With the little strength that he had, he prostrated himself into a cross-legged position, his hands, resting one on top of the other in the center of his crossed legs, as in mediation, but his eyes were wide open, starring in front of him. His face, slowly, very slowly, became white and lifeless. A leaf suddenly fell into his range of vision drawn down, as was he, by that great master, gravity. “Hello old friend” said Adam, starring at the leaf, and, as he fell into his eternal slumber, he heard, close to him, the laughter of a child, and saw a small hand stretch out and grab the leaf, as if to say “you are safe now”.

A True Story

A True Story

Rolling as I was, in a tube of perpetual movement, arrogance and heat

Half standing half sitting, near the one who had nurtured me since birth,

Closer to creation, closer to love, closer to my mother,

the only god I know, that created me, no miracle, if only of life, that lays in question since that day.

A sudden and uncaring halt, a tensing of muscles,

A cry from in front “Allez vous a la Rue Claire monsieur?!”

The shriek of a crow, wearing it's funeral suit.

Turning, clearly did I see her,

Frail,

Alone,

Sharp and Alert,

In control, in her mind, of her mind, of this moment.

Her howling answered, annoyed look after annoyed look followed her to the front of the carriage,

no one saw my discreet helpings, a punching of tickets, a security pole that she might not slip off,

The seat, my mother gave her.

Who are you, was my first question, but only my mind heard it, as it heard my heart beating, as it, Perhaps, heard hers.

Her pink dress, reminiscent of childish dreams, the flowers woven in, reminiscent,

Of when she could,

See Them.

Words escaped her, words of the past, that, in my close proximity to her, stabilizing, sheltering,

heard with all its force, all its truth.

As such we talked, the bus passing all the landscapes that were so familiar, so reassuring,

as to be subdued by jealous society.

As she pointed and smiled, “Finally a student!”, I gazed at her whiskers, her white unwashed hair,

her dry lips, her countenance forming the purest and most natural waves of all,

Of age.

Then, I gazed into her eyes, where I saw who she was,

She had loved, she had feared, and as she told me stories of war, I said,

“What a story you tell me” and uncontrolled, replied “No no, a true story”,

At this, her life was full ,and had been but a fraction told, happy as she was,

Pleased as was I.

Looks Had Gone From The Misery Of Life, To Seeings Its Wonder.

We are here said I, your stop,

And as I held her hand, I saw a small girl, as if in a dream,

Skipping wearing a pink dress with flowers,

And heard her heart yearn to be.

As we walked down the clear road of time, she refused to stop,

And as I was to leave, she pulled me down, close to her and said,

“Half of me is dead, I was somewhere before, but now, I was supposed to die”

And she left, with the promise of a picture of Kennedy in Berlin, and of life.

 

Decaying around the television

It is there, at the side, yet in the center,

Present in our life only by choice, destroying our life only by choice,

Stains outline it, vomit, a drunken frenzy.

Next to the window, a thin grey pram,

Fabric interwoven with cigarette ashes,

Milk and baby food, pure white, purely dark,

Spilled in the attempt to feed a restless child,

Miserable, flailing, a broken mirror laid in a corner,

Reflection of his life, without a voice, feeble.

After working skillful trades,

A sudden rage throwing a beer bottle, at contact the glass is shattered, the screen is fractured,

A shout, “the telly!!!”

In a desperate rush, now Feeble is pushed aside, a flimsy second-hand wooden high chair,

Falling in slow motion,

Strapped down, a prisoner, fragile face against solid ground, a broken tooth, untended, passive.

The buckle, cheap Chinese plastic,

Snaps, Sharp and toothy, feeble runs, crawling and clawing away.

The sun, a translucent yellowish red,

Shining eerily on the chaos,

The wallpaper pealing,

The plaster yellowing, browning,

The heat scorching, the walls sweating,

Leaking an assortment of excrement and urine,

Unseen, unattended,

Decaying.

Scurrying away, Feeble, on the floor,

Pushes an innocent palm on a cold rusting nail protruding from the floor board,

Yelling now,

Unnoticed always,

Perseverant, onward, in the hall, the heavily holed carpet, stained, vomit, alcohol, ashes,

A drop or two of blood, memory of an idealistic love,

Out the dog flap, decaying yellow plastic, wet and muddy,

OUT NOW!

Perseverant strides, four legged, through the untended garden, dry, dead, un-green,

Juddering like a small impatient train on rugged tracks.

The sun revealing, formidable, glaring at decaying house after decaying house,

At the edge of the driveway now, near the road.

The whoosh of a car,

The blurring of it's thick lights,

A strike of red!

A splatter of blood!

It had hit a pigeon.

The sun was still in the sky, close to the ground,

By the time it had gone down, Brave would be free,

And when it rose, maybe, just maybe, he would survive.

 Dark Cave, Black as Smoke

The beast entered, growling, rumbling,
The caves dark interior, black
As a dead crow's feather.
It will be the demise of us all.

In desperate search for its toxic brew,
It demands its puppeteers approval.
One beast, another beast, and another,
Will the limitless numbers never stop?

Yes, they will, to the cost of their unreliable source.
A clowns nose blackened to the core,
Reddened to the blood that destroys
And renders oblivious.

C.E.Davis

My French School Bag Is Alive

This afternoon I was inspired, carrying around my heavy school bag. In French school  we carry our books all day long because there are no lockers.

I have recently become very interested.

in stop motion film making. This was a lot of fun I made it in one afternoon.

ENJOY

Filming Leonardo DiCaprio in Paris with Gawkers

 I was out shopping with my mom today when

 I noticed a group of paparazzi with big lenses and a film crew set up with lights and giant reflectors. I asked my mom if we could go look.  I have worked on location in a film, and I felt  for the actors who were working in font of the crew and all of us the Paparazzi and the Gawkers which includes my mom and I!
I do not know which project Mr. DiCaprio is working on here in Paris, but he was moving fast.

A Very White Paris

It rarely snows in Paris, but, when it does, everyone is excited, kids and adults alike. It has not snowed like it has in these last few days, for ages.

The Champs de Mars is particularly splendid, (the park in front of "La Tour Eiffel"), it is right next to my house so I am lucky.

It is as if the whole park has covered itself up with a white blanket, waiting for spring to arrive. There is something very pure in the whiteness of the snow.

I feel like the snow is calling me.

"As a dove's feather, it shines, gleaming, sparkling,
as the stars in the night sky, in the sun's magnificent rays"

Copyright all rights reserved, 2010/2011 Chase Davis

Shakespeare In Paris

Can you believe this?  This is the theater I went to last night. I went to see " As You Like It" By William Shakespeare in ENGLISH! in the middle of Paris.

It was fantastic The acting and the stage coordination were amazing. The lighting and the use of shadow  really interested me. I am studying Shakespeare For My IGCSE. This production was a good experience for me to see, and  I understood it. They did have subtitles for the non- English speakers, and I even helped translate for some of the French people sitting near me, it was fun.

My Big Little Movie The Sequel

Yesterday We had to go back to Normandy to re-shoot some scenes, it's months later, and

I am taller than i was last time we shot these scenes. The film got ruined.
We Had another great time. It was good to see the crew again.

I saw some of the rushes. The movie looks great!!!!

Take a look See the Film vimeo.com/33127666

My director, Oliver McGarvey,  is really talented.

A bientot

Chase

My Big Little Movie Experience Starring Me

Wow! I have just had the best and most exhausting experience ever. I just finished my third movie here in Paris. You might not think so, but this is a very demanding job both mentally and physically.  Even  for me who swims daily in my school's special sports program.  Talking about schools, I am sure you are wondering  how I managed to make a movie, with everything I have to do; school, swimming, homework...

To coordinate this intricate multi-location shooting schedule with my school schedule was very complicated.

Sometimes, one of the members of the crew  would pick me up from my house, take me to the location  where we were filming in the morning,  I would attend school for a half day,  and then I would be picked up again from school and escorted  back to the location, where we worked late into the night. Well it was not easy, that's for damn sure, and my grades suffered. Even though the director tried extremely hard to make sure I did not miss too many hours of class.

Working and preforming in front of  a crew of twenty two people

might appear stressful but it isn't, you get used to it.

Shown here are the dolly tracts, and  the camera mount for a slow zoom.

It's thrilling to go on a location in a place that's not home, and sleep somewhere else other then your familiar bed, well, that's what I did when I went to Normandy with the crew.  Of course I was a bit homesick.

Film making is a collaborative process. Every single person's job must be executed well, and in a coordinated fashion otherwise there is no movie.  For example, the people that lay down the dolly, which is the thing that looks like train tracks that the camera man uses to roll the camera on, could do this faster then their own shadows. If there was a problem with the lights the technician,  who we called the light god, would  come and fix  any lamp before we could blink an eye. This, crew, was, amazing! All the things they had to think about and coordinate, wow! All I had to do was rehearse, remember my lines, and act. It was very rewarding to be part of the bigger picture, each of us doing our part.

 I learned a lot. I got to observe first hand what it actually takes to make a movie. Now when I watch films I am seeing them with a deeper understanding and appreciation of what is really involved.

I was very lucky to work with such a good crew.  This is an experience I shall never forget.

 

Hidden Faces in Paris

Are our faces who we really are, or who we are trying to be?

The expressions on our faces us are sometimes different to what we say, but who is telling the truth the word or the face?

There are faces everywhere in Paris.

They are hidden, hidden from unseeing, eyes that are
too befuddled to see what's in front of them.

Even if they are laughing in front of us trying to steer your attention towards them.


Still many of us don't see them, we only see a face, just a face.

Look again , this time let's take in what we see, let's see the beauty residing in the human face and representations of it.



Some people feel they need to change their face with make up and other such things, not knowing how beautiful they really are.

You should see the ooh la la look they give me when I tell them that!

Don't hide, look.

(Ne vous cachez pas regarder.)

French School

Back to school annee scolaire 2009/2010

My school is actually a castle. I am in my second to last year of French middle school which is four years long rather then three like American Junior high school. This year is a decisive year the cumulative grade counts as one third of the Brevet des Colleges. This is our first professional diploma which we need to get into a Lycee ( high school).

The street view of our school. It is massive , it fills an entire city block.

We count down until graduation staring with Sixieme.

Age	Grade	Abbreviation
11 -> 12	Sixième	6e
12 -> 13	Cinquième	5e
13 -> 14	Quatrième	4e
14 -> 15	Troisième	3e
Lycée (High school)
Age	Grade	Abbreviation
15 -> 16	Seconde	2de
16 -> 17	Première	1e
17 -> 18	Terminale	Term or Tle

This is how it goes If you are lucky enough to pass all the tests and follow the academic route.
Otherwise one goes to the vocational schools. All this is determined next year when we sit the Brevet exam. This is a big deal. There are no second chances in France.

By the way my school has a beautiful courtyard inside the castle

We call all this going back to school la rentree.

I made another small film this past summer it is a pilot for an animated series. I did the English voice acting it was a lot of fun in the studio with headphones, and a screen! This film is going to an international animation festival in Denmark. They hope to pick up international distribution.

Cheers,

Chase

Summer Fun In Paris and Brittany

I had this Bande Dessinee (comic Book art) class at the Musee Des Arts Decoratifs. On Tuesday class started at the same time and in the same place as what some believe to be Christian Lacroix's last couture show( My mom told me this). Fortunately a representative of the museum was there to let the kids in past the burly body guards and beautiful girls with clip boards. you know invitation only, so the photographers where out in full force because of fashion week.

Traffic jam at the door.

The garden behind the louvre

After class we went to the gardens of the Louvre for a picnic before my evening acting class on the left bank. I was feeding the birds when suddenly out of the sky shot a small falcon to swoop up a bird for it's dinner. It was both beautiful and startling. I did not know there were falcons in Paris!

image by Terry Sohl
The falcon we saw small so it is probably a merlin.

My Bande Dessinee class was great. I learned to develop a story, and how to layout the pages.
I learned how to do the black and white Manga style illustrations. My teacher Piero Macola was cool. The class was only three days, but I learned a lot.

My first layout.

The 6 day acting work shop at BAW, with Marylin Fried, was amazing. It was such an intense learning experience Marylin taught us Meisner techniques and so much more. How to be fully present in your part, how to breath, and how to speak. We did improvisations, and monologues. She coached us. She is the best!

I am off to Brittany today to a town called Dinard with my Grandparents. I love the ocean and the surf.

Dinard has rocky cliffs, sandy coves and big old Victorian mansions.

This walk way goes all around the coast, cove to cove.

This is the main town beach with a view of the casino. I don't gamble, we play billiards.
I'll be back.

Summer Vacation in France

I Finally finished the school year July 2!
I am taking an intensive acting class at BAW for the next 6 days. Today the class is 10:00am-7:00 pm whew!

It is great, Yesterday was the fist day. I am really enjoying the summer already.



Happy July 4th
Happy Birthday America!!!!

Next week I am signed up to take a comic book drawing and design class
at the mueum of decorative arts
With Piero Macola
The French call it Bande Dessinee.


This is the cover of one of his books



here is the character I am developing, it is based on my late cat GUS
who died a few weeks ago. He liked to sit on the radiator, so we called it the "catiator"

I like drawing sequential art
I will tell you all about the class
Next time

Smokers abound in Paris

When I went out today, I was astonished by how many people were smoking (fumer). You can not walk down the street without literally being choked. Since they banned smoking in restaurants, cafes, hotels, and hospitals in Paris this has driven the smokers out on to the side walks. I decided to investigate why all these people (gens) were smoking so much. What were the facts?



15,000,000 people smoke in France [1] and on January 1st, 2008, cigarettes were banned in enclosed areas : cafés, restaurants, and in hospitals. The government is spending lots of money on advertisements asking people to stop smoking. Still the French continue to smoke.



The smokers say cigarettes represent libérte, or freedom, but health ministers claim that both active and passive smoking costs many lives and costs French tax payers millions in additional funding to its universal health care system, which is already over-burdened with debt.




In France, 60, 000 people die every year due to smoking. In a debate on France 24 (a TV news network), 3 January 2008, Lauren A. Colby [2], an American lawyer (paid by the tobacco lobby) argued that there is no evidence whatsoever that smoking causes lung cancer or death. He also says that the countries where people smoke the most are where there are the longest life spans.



Dr Hirayama [3], of the National Cancer Center Research Institute in Tokyo, proved in 1981 that wives of smokers in Japan had about 2o to 25 % increased rates of lung cancer. It was through these studies that Dr Hirayama demonstrated the first real proof of the effects of 2nd hand smoking.

I support banning smoking and trying to get people to reduce the quantity of tobacco they consume. I think it is time now to rely on children - who are, if we are not careful the smokers of the future. This is what I would do to prevent kids from smoking:

When I was in CM1, which is 4th grade in America, I went to a road safety lesson with my entire class . They showed us pictures and videos of car accidents and people dying because of them; after that, my class and I thought twice before crossing a road without looking carefully. My point is that it has stuck with me all of these years. However, I went to a stop smoking conference with my class 2 months ago and I have already forgotten most of the presentation. This goes to show that it was not shocking enough for me or my class. So, I would start educating children by showing them the shocking reality, using videos of surgery on patients with lung cancer, with commentaries explaining the medical situation and even interviewing a smoker with acute lung cancer. I would start this training in 6th grade, when children start getting the idea from older kids.

Many parents smoke, and thus influence their kids. After a while children whose parents smoke start getting ideas like, "My parents smoke, smoking is cool," or "smoking is being grown up". I disagree with both of these ideas . I think smoking is damaging and dangerous both to the smokers and anyone near them.

References:
1. Debate on France 24, 3 of January 2008
2. Lauren A. Colby on the same France 24 debate
3. Dr. Hirayama New York Times