On the Yard: Prison art connects with the outside

(This story appeared in High Performance #58/59, Summer/Fall 1992.)

Museum art and prison art continually add to their own histories. We might read about Finley and Beuys on the outside. On the inside we hear about Snake and Baby. It doesn't matter if you're a first timer or a lifer, a first-watch culinary supervisor or the warden, the visual language of art in prison is everywhere and cannot be escaped. It is one of the engines that drives prison culture, its economy, hierarchy of respect and the relationship between cellies and custody. Like the surrounding coils of razor wire, the place of art in prison is constant, silent and never sleeps.

houghts and opinions about art come rolling off the lips of the inmates and staff with the ease and comfort of a possessed critic. Throughout prison, the air is thick with a kind of creativity that cleverly gets a person through the day. Here a good memory is essential, an important survival and art making tool. Images are remembered, stories are passed down and for these women and men, what they store in the headlocker is the only think that belongs to them that can't be stolen. For a population where privacy is everything, memorizing cryptic riddles and advice on how to stay alive is a tribal value.

Respect on the yard is equated with what a person is capable of doing. Small frail body types who can produce lifelike, ball-point pen portraits on handkerchiefs can attract as much respect and power as a body builder covered with tattoos. In a way considered almost magic, the yard artist can unlock the mysteries of reason, escape the confines of the cell and bring loved ones into focus. Everyone knows who the yard artists are.

Most prison art is not highly original, creative or even considered "art." Crafts, folk art and imitation may better describe a large portion of it. To copy something with photographic fidelity is highly respected and considered a great talent. An inmate talented in photorealism can get over big-time, his skill likened to that of a magician. These artists are the ones who will be most influenced by anything patented, copyrighted or generally accepted in order to receive sure-fire recognition and to fatten their lockers.

On the yard, an experienced inmate artist is likely to take another inmate under his wing and teach him how to do time. Across generations, inmates teach each other how to make art. There are time-honored techniques for drawing hair, folding paper, shading and lettering to which prison artists faithfully adhere. These distinct prison art traditions, while serving as a "school" for new yard artists, has the effect of inhibiting imaginations beyond the yard's unbroken aesthetic patterns.

There is a definite distinction between these prison artists and those who are truly creative. A creative inmate who excels in original art is usually considered "half weirdo" and left alone. Those who turn away from reproductions of famous cartoon characters and realistic portraits might give private tips to someone who asks, but by no means flaunt their own individual artistic direction. These serious artist try to alienate themselves from the madness of the yard by playing down their abilities to excel in a particular discipline. They will secure daily necessities through straightforward, legal means rather than use their art as currency. This also keeps their profile down. They would do without a Cup-O-Noodles or some postage stamps rather than use their art to get their canteen items.

Odd reputations get built around inmates who are not into art for the hustle. They have been described as "devil worshippers" or something equally unacceptable to conservative prison culture, when in fact they are sincerely engaged in exploring their own creativity and talents as artists.

The arts serve as one of the strongest economic exchanges in prison. A 55-year-old first-timer brought locked up on a DUI can't help becoming involved with the artistic culture of the incarcerated. He might be trading Camels, which he does not even smoke, with a card maker, or he might fall asleep to the sound of his celly pencil scratching out a portrait in the middle of the night. The arts reap small but important fixtures of daily life like food, cosmetics and cigarettes. To someone on the outside such items may appear small and insignificant but on the inside they flow like blood and have been treated as such. Serious injuries have occurred over trades not made in a timely manner. Violent incidents over handkerchief ink portraits and handmade cards for loved ones back home have led to investigations, lockdowns, transfers and medical treatment.

According to the manual of procedures, inmate-produced art is regarded as personal property and is to be held accountable. Anything an inmate possesses including art must be registered on their property card. If it is not, it is considered contraband and may be confiscated by an officer. The regulation of property does not inhibit artmaking but it certainly adds to its value and emotional weight. Since art is seen as an honest, internal expression of one's self, inmates willing to give their work away make a clear gesture of friendship and trust. Art that is given without economic purpose creates a bond of sincerity and respect that affects both staff and inmates. When the gift is made to staff, it serves as a nod of agreement or affirmation that something positive has transpired, connection has been made. Sometimes it can go to the extreme of an inmate calling an officer "Dad."

The number of hours it takes to finish an artwork also contributes to its value and is as important as more formal and aesthetic considerations. There is an appreciation and respect for inmates with the endurance and patience to stick with their art for hours, days, weeks. The inmate artist can always say how long it took to make something. The inmate viewer is always interested in knowing how long it took to make the artwork. In a system loosely resembling the hourly wage scale on the street, the greater the number of hours logged, the more valuable the piece. It seems an abstract and complicated way to attach monetary value to a piece of art but the participants are quite comfortable exchanging cartons and packs of cigarettes on these grounds.

Procuring authorized art supplies can be tiresome and time-consuming for inmates who more frequently turn to scavenging and creating out of prison incidentals and throw-aways. Bones from birds and rats, food coloring from jellybeans, folded Camel packs, peach pits, broken mirror pieces, cardboard, scrap metal, handkerchiefs, shoe polish and a host of other materials become recycled into objects of love, affection and power. Artists who work from such found objects are considered most creative and are said to be "trip'n," otherwise known as being freed-up or engaged in the creative process.

Because the Director's rules clearly state size limitations for handicraft items, most art will comfortably fit in one's hand. While these specifications satisfy departmental procedures, they also work to the advantage of inmates. Hand-held items are easily concealed and transported. From an inmate's pocket, a hand full of monkeys carved out of peach pits can quickly be produced to charm an onlooker or make a necessary purchase.

Scrap-made objects not only meet the economic and aesthetic needs of the artist. Gangsters also exercise their imaginations to manufacture weapons and other illegal appliances. These homespun "sculptures" are more utilitarian and lethal. Matchheads, empty toothpaste tubes and urinated string can be concocted into efficient creations of destruction. A select few might consider these aggressive tools of survival art. Through the eyes of a "free person" they are at best caricatures of an arsenal.

Although illegal, tattoo art has been a privileged medium in prison. Tattoo artists have a hard time practicing their craft and finding a blind spot where there is enough time to tac out a pattern. Although primitive, the tattoo guns are fabricated out of a rubber band, a plastic ball point pen shaft, a pink pearl eraser and a small motor from a cassette player. When plugged into an audio component, the volume control dictates the speed of the guitar string used as a needle.

Like art, humor also serves as a necessary means of survival on the inside, sharing the same ability to supersede or sidestep reality. Cartoons and caricatures are popular not simply because they can be knocked off rapidly and induce a smile. They are part of the emphasis on humor in creative writing, visual arts and behavior to take the edge off prison life. One cannot help appreciating the sometimes painful truth that shows up on cards that will eventually be held by sons and daughters to let them know Mom or Dad is doing O.K.

In the late '70s, Eloise Smith, the iconoclastic director of the California Arts Council, toured the Vacaville Prison at the request of then-Governor Jerry Brown. Vern McKee, a long-time inmate on the far side of middle-age, tracked down the visiting director and passionately voiced the need for outside artists to come inside the pen and teach art. His recognition of the need for a bridge between prison art and the pulse of art on the outside inspired Smith.

Smith proved a powerful and effective advocate for McKee's vision. Under her conditions and in her own way, she created an intensive art program for incarcerated men and women in the state of California now called Arts-in-Corrections. The individual programs are administered by an artist facilitator, a full-time civil service position created by the California Department of Correction's Community Resource Division. Three studio artists were initially hired from the community to come to the institutions to design and implement a comprehensive, multi-arts program out of a void. Today, there are 22 artists in these positions throughout the state whose backgrounds are as diverse as their artistic disciplines. The official goal of the facilitator and the outside artists is to use the arts to improve the prison experience. The Arts-in-Corrections program has provided the added benefit of helping inmates to begin changing their attitudes toward themselves and others.

It takes a while for the inmates to drop their suspicions that the art program is some sort of plan devised by the institution to render them with less power than they already have. For those who have participated, the effect is just the opposite. Professional artists from the street bring with them a knowledge and experience of career art; art that is being made for the purpose of public exposure through stage performances, exhibitions and publications. The instructors gradually supply the pieces that complete a picture of what it is like to be a competitive, working artist on the street. Frequently, inmates have begun the program with an attitude that could only be brightened by an apology from a judge. They come to class to show the instructor how good their work is and try to receive praise for it. Instead they are treated and challenged as artists and a new relationship is entered into. Over the course of time, suspicion and resentment can be nurtured into a trusting "give and take" that results in mutual respect and acceptance between artists and inmates.

Prison is an appealing alternative gig for many artists on the outside. Some cannot wait to get in and rub shoulders with real cops and robbers, hoping to absorb the ambience so they can reflect it in their gallery work. Inmates seem to have radar to recognize these imposters and are quick to resist their exploitive agendas. The majority of artists, however, see their work in the prisons as part of their job in society. They leave the institution after work feeling that a civic duty has been performed. Although the artists do get paid, most travel long distances to take part in the program. Orientations are required and each artist must sign a "no hostage" policy waiver stating that the institution will not bargain with inmates if a hostage is taken. It is at this point that the artist instructor must make a final decision to commit or not.

In twelve years Arts-In-Corrections has grown from a tiny pilot program at Vacaville Prison to the largest institutional arts program in the world. Prisoners are redefining themselves and their lives. Words like "work," "commitment," "student," "beauty" and even "time" have taken on new meaning for them. The program functions as an alternative sanctuary where inmates can express and work past their animosities and fears. The workshops are one of the only places that instill a sense of camaraderie that transcends racial tensions on the inside. For some, the art program provides a nourishing constant in a world of skepticism and misgivings. For others it offers an upbeat, off the wall, cutting-edge attitude to remove them from the routine aspects of doing time. There is now a place in prison where, in the words of one inmate, "You can forget where you are. . .where the blacks and the browns and the whites put their shanks aside and not mess it up for a change."

In some form or fashion every inmate must learn how to reconcile his or her time. After all, on the inside it hangs over you with the weight of an iron pendulum. Most men and women can only hope their time won't be eclipsed by the rapid pace of change in the free world. If it weren't for the arts, television would serve as the only window for visualizing the society of which they were once a part. It helps keep the man or woman alive inside the inmate. There is a world outside and when the institution tells them it's time to leave they are issued two hundred dollars and sent out the gate.

Tom Skelly is a painter and radio artist who also conducts workshops. In 1980 he became one of the first artist/facilitators to begin a multi-art program at the Chino Men's Prison where he currently works.

This story originally appeared in High Performance #58/59, Summer/Fall 1992.

Original CAN/API publication: December 1999