Art
from Within
Noon-3
pm Saturday, April 29,
Oregon State Penitentiary
Salem
To learn more
about inmate-based programs, contact HAAP or Lifers Unlimited,
c/o Oregon State Penitentiary Activities Department,
2605 State St., Salem 97310,
(503) 378-4207.
Before the road
was expanded in October '99, there was a curio shop near
the prison grounds where the inmates' wares were sold.
Check out Don
Severy's silver work at www.chandlerphoto.com/severy.htm
The Lifers Unlimited
Club and HAAP work together to make stuffed animals, which
are donated to children's organizations.
James Garrick says he was born in the back seat of a '50s
Chevy as it barreled across the Ross Island Bridge.
"Hey, you better not print that," he says then, laughing.
Garrick stands in front of an intimate portrait of Willie
Nelson, painted by his friend Robert Shepard. At this moment,
it's useless to try to reconcile this man's wry sense of
humor and the backdrop of the easy-living country legend
with the fact that Garrick is a killer. But he is. That's
why we're talking deep inside the walls of Oregon State
Penitentiary in Salem.
Shepard's portrait of Nelson, as well as Garrick's own
intricate miniature carvings, are part of an innovative
art exhibit gathering work by denizens of the maximum-security
pen. Along with just nine other people from the outside,
I've been invited to check out the inmates' paintings, drawings
and jewelry, and to meet the artists, some of whom will
spend the rest of their lives in prison.
"I've been doing this in the hobby shop for 11 and a half
years now," Garrick says, showing me an early carving and
then later ones to illustrate the strides he's made as an
artist.
"I hope to be able to help lift people up out of their
pain," he continues. "I live in here and I'm happy: This
makes me happy."
Welcome to Art from Within, an art show that's about
as different from a Pearl District wine-and-cheese party
as you can imagine.
All the artwork in this first-ever exhibit was created
at benches in the prison's hobby shop, a place the men speak
of with reverence. Many of the inmates are limited in their
choice of materials to what is sold in the institution's
canteen--drawing paper, lead pencils and colored pencils.
Others have access to a greater range of tools and materials.
The work fills the prison's gymnasium. Aesthetic similarities
run deep through the various pieces. There's a lot of landscape
scenery: mountain ranges, rivers, lakes. There are a great
many closely observed scenes of Northwest wildlife--bears,
elk and owls--and meditative portraits of women and saints.
Above all, there's a patience, focus, and sense of time
in all the artwork.
When you visit a prison, you have plenty of time to think
about where you're headed. A deeply procedural check-in
process runs outsiders through a very acute metal detector
(no underwire bras, no belts). A series of checkpoints slows
things down. Only after we clear these hurdles do we get
to meet Coco and Charles.
Robert "Coco" Johnson and Charles White greet us at the
door to the activities room. Both men work inside with the
prison's HIV and AIDS Awareness Program (HAAP). They do
everything that genial hosts at a party would do to put
their guests at ease, short of offering us a drink.
They explain how HAAP, together with another group, Lifers
Unlimited, organized the art show. Karen Campbell, a prison
guard who works within the Activities Section of the prison,
says with plain modesty, "The show was initiated by the
guys. Sometimes I can make their ideas happen and sometimes
I can't."
Jeffrey Cree, a Yakima Indian, stands before a large-scale
mural created by the prison's various culture clubs: Uhuru,
Chicano, Asian, Celtic and Lakota. He wears dark sunglasses,
prison blues and white Nikes.
Like a lot of the guys, Cree shares a Cliffs Notes version
of an elaborate life: picking berries as a kid in Gresham;
a stint in an Oklahoma reeducation camp; being turned loose
at age 15; joining the Marine Corps.
"Hustling was a lot different back then," he explains,
and I nod, wanting to understand.
Gesturing toward the mural he says, "We all worked on this
together, on the stage, in different sections. Then we pieced
the parts together."
Tim Aikens and Kurt Gehring stand by a table of jewelry,
including small silver bell-shaped earrings. "Fifty percent
of the sales go to a group for homeless veterans," Gehring
says, adding that he's a vet himself.
Don Severy and Mark Klinger man another jewelry table.
Severy makes necklaces of malachite and sells some of his
jewelry on the Internet through a friend on the outside.
"There are a lot of creative people in prison," he says,
handing me his card.
David Drenth's resourceful and serene landscapes are painted
on scraps of prison-issue denim stretched across small wooden
frames. The small horizontal portals provide glimpses of
streams, mountains and deer. For others, he paints on pieces
of scrap formica.
Scott Teague, another veteran, is a proud-looking man.
His large-scale airbrush and acrylic painting of a nude
woman reclining amid a war-torn landscape looms behind him.
This particular work has been donated to the Women's Vietnam
memorial in Washington, D.C. Much of Teague's other work
depicts jazz scenes. The Hobbit, a now-defunct Southeast
Portland jazz club, used to display one of his pieces.
"All the work's done in the hobby shop, where I spend most
of my time," Teague says. "This is part of my sanity. This
keeps my spirits up. I'm really one of the very fortunate
ones," he adds, referring to his time in the hobby shop
and the prison's audio-video production unit.
Les Closner taught himself to draw in prison. As well as
any of the prisoners, he sums up the value of their creative
work. More than anything, art gives these men a chance to
do something recognizably humane and makes the stigma of
incarceration recede just a little.
"This gives me a sense of worthiness," Closner says. "Art
brings that out in me."
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Willamette Week | originally
published May 10,
2000
|
