They gave me a pencil

I was never an artist before I came to prison. Other than how all kids are artists, anyway. I was and am a musician, but when I first came to prison, I went almost 5 years without touching a guitar. It was sad and lonely and made me hate the system even more to make me forget how much I love music.

The first week of my sentence in solitary was in a prison with no library and nothing in my grey cell except the bed and mattress. I had some paper and a pencil that they give everyone to write letters and after I’d written all (both) of them, I started to draw.

True to form, I started with what I now know (and any artist will confirm) is a very difficult subject: a hand(mine). After days of failure, I capitulated and moved on to simpler subjects like... the wall, the sink/toilet, my sandal. I had a lot of time, so I progressed, remembering principles from art classes when I was in grade school and even learning new things. e.g., a shader can be made from a rolled-up piece of newspaper. After a few months, someone sent me a photography magazine and it just clicked. Landscapes, flowers, eagles: I drew them all, badly, and I realized I could not only kill time (second most popular victim in prison) but that I could escape and even create. Like music, I could communicate, work through emotions, even make something... beautiful. This all sounds so cliché. Maybe you knew these things about art? Really, it was a revelation to me.

If I’m proud... well, it’s because they did their best to dehumanize me and gave me so little and now look what I can do. Every time I sit down to draw or paint, the walls dissolve around me, and I make more than their whole grey world can encompass. In a way, when they gave me a pencil... they set me free.