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6 beautiful drawings by LGBTQ inmates that illustrate life in prison

Their artwork shows their strength, resilience, and talent.

"Acceptance" by Stevie S.


Tatiana von Furstenberg laid out more than 4,000 works of art on the floor of her apartment and was immediately struck by what she saw.

The pieces of artwork were submitted from various prisons across the country in hopes of being featured in "On the Inside," an exhibition of artwork by currently incarcerated LGBTQ inmates, curated by von Furstenberg and Black and Pink, a nonprofit organization that supports the LGBTQ community behind bars. The exhibit was held at the Abrons Arts Center in Manhattan toward the end of 2016.

"I put all the submissions on the floor and I saw that there were all these loving ones, these signs of affection, all of these two-spirit expressions of gender identity, and fairies and mermaids," von Furstenberg said.

She noticed the recurring topics throughout the works of different artists — eye contact, desire, fighting back, alienation, and longing — and these shared struggles became the themes of the art exhibition.

"These artists feel really forgotten. They really did not think that anybody cared for them. And so for them to have a show in New York and to hear what the responses have been is huge, it's very uplifting," she said.

Plenty of people turn to art as a means of escape. But for the artists involved in On the Inside, the act of making art also put them at risk.

Gay, lesbian, and bisexual people are incarcerated at twice the rate of heterosexuals, and trans people are three times as likely to end up behind bars than cisgender people. During incarceration, they're also much more vulnerable than non-LGBTQ inmates to violence, sexual assault, and unusual punishments such as solitary confinement.

Not every prison makes art supplies readily available, either, which means that some of the artists who submitted to "On the Inside" had to find ways to make their work from contraband materials, such as envelopes and ink tubes. And of course, by drawing provocative images about their identities, they also risked being outed and threatened by other inmates around them.

But sometimes, the act of self-expression is worth that risk. Here are some of the remarkable examples of that from the exhibition.

(Content warning: some of the images include nudity.)

1."A Self Portrait" by B. Tony.

inmates, jail, sketching

“A Self Portrait” by B. Tony

2. "Rihanna" by Gabriel S.

relationships, identity, rehabilitation

“Rihanna” by Gabriel S.

"Rihanna is who I got the most pictures of," von Furstenburg said. "I think it's because she is relatable in both her strength and her vulnerability. She's real.”

3. "Acceptance" by Stevie S.

body art, tattoo, mental health

"Acceptance" by Stevie S.

"This series is sexy and loving and domestic," von Furstenberg said about these two portraits by Stevie S. "A different look at family values/family portrait.”

4. "Michael Jackson" by Jeremy M.

celebrity, art, paintings

“Michael Jackson” by Jeremy M.

assets.rebelmouse.io

This was another one of von Furstenberg's favorites, because of the way it depicts a struggle with identity. "[MJ] was different, he was such a unique being that struggled so much with his identity and his body image the way a lot of our artists, especially our trans artists, are struggling behind bars," she said.

5. "Unknown" by Tiffany W.

pixies, fairie, fantasy

“Unknown” by Tiffany W.

6. "Genotype" and "Life Study," by J.S.

anatomy, Michaelangelo, nudes

“Genotype” and “Life Study” by J.S.

"This is the Michelangelo of the group," von Furstenberg said. "To be able to draw this with pencil and basic prison lighting is astounding. One of the best drawings I've ever seen in my life.”

When the exhibition opened to the public on Nov. 4, 2016, visitors even had the chance to share their thoughts with the artists.

The exhibit included an interactive feature that allowed people to text their comments and responses to the artist, which von Furstenberg then converted to physical paper and mailed to inmates.

Some of the messages included:

"I have had many long looks in the mirror like in your piece the beauty within us. I'm glad you can see your beautiful self smiling out. I see her too. Thank you."
"I am so wowed by your talent. You used paper, kool aid and an inhaler to draw a masterpiece. I feel lucky to have been able to see your work, and I know that other New Yorkers will feel the same. Keep creating."
"I've dreamed the same dreams. The barriers in your way are wrong. We will tear them down some day. Stay strong Dear."

Many people were also surprised at how good the artwork was — but they shouldn't have been.

Just because someone's spent time in prison doesn't mean they can't be a good person — or a talented artist. They're also being compensated for their artwork. While business transactions with incarcerated people are technically illegal, $50 donations have been made to each artist's commissary accounts to help them purchase food and other supplies.

"We're led to believe that people behind bars are dangerous, that we're safer without them, but it's not true," von Furstenberg said. "The fact that anybody would assume that [the art] would be anything less than phenomenal shows that there's this hierarchy: The artist is up on this pedestal, and other people marginalized people are looked down upon.”

Art has always been about connecting people. And for these incarcerated LGBTQ artists, that human connection is more important than ever.

Perhaps the only thing harder than being in prison is trying to integrate back into society — something that most LGBTQ people struggle with anyway. These are people who have already had difficulty expressing who they are on the inside and who are now hidden away from the world behind walls.

On the Inside's art show provided them a unique opportunity to have their voices heard — and hopefully, their individual messages are loud enough to resonate when they're on the outside too.


This article originally appeared on 11.14.16

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Why a small-town radio show gets call-ins from across the country every Monday night.

The best of hip-hop and the sounds of home, straight through prison walls.

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Dave's Killer Bread

William Griffin was a teenager when he had his first run-in with the law. Now in his mid-40s, he's been in prison for a quarter-century.

Michelle Hudson was a childhood friend of Griffin's, but the pair lost touch when her father's military job relocated her family. Returning to Virginia decades later, she learned about the mistakes that landed Griffin in prison.

"It was just street life, hanging out, doing the wrong thing," says Hudson, describing the unfortunate events that led Griffin from "street life" to "sentenced to life."

Photo via iStock.

Griffin's crimes weren't the fatal ones we typically associate with a life sentence, but he'd made one too many mistakes for the Commonwealth of Virginia. Between the state's three strikes law and an unsympathetic judge on the bench, he was ordered the maximum punishment.

For Hudson, a casual inquiry about an old friend became a mission to help him. What she didn't predict was that mission blossoming into mutual love and eventually an engagement — despite the challenges and uncertainty his life in prison presented.

In the beginning, Griffin and Hudson reconnected with help from "Calls From Home," a radio show broadcasting out of the small mountain town of Whitesburg, Kentucky.

Every Monday night after their nightly hip-hop program, WMMT-FM invites audiences to record messages of encouragement for their listeners in over a dozen prisons throughout Central Appalachia.  The station records calls from 7-9 p.m. local time to be aired during the one-hour show at 9 p.m.‌‌

Though Whitesburg is small enough that you may be reading about it for the first time, believe it or not, the radio station never has a shortage of calls. In fact, former co-host Sylvia Ryerson wrote, as more prisoners tuned in, they started receiving calls from all over the country. Here's why:

The majority of U.S. prisons are built in remote regions like eastern Kentucky or upstate New York, which makes visitation a challenge for many families.

Griffin, for example, spent the first 23 years of his sentence at Wallens Ridge State Prison in Big Stone Gap, Virginia, an hour south of Whitesburg and hundreds of miles from Hudson and the rest of his family.

In 2016, he was transferred to a prison closer to home, where after decades of isolation he finally enjoys weekly visitation. But during his time "in the mountains," Griffin says he was lucky to see a family member once a month.

‌"He said it was like 'dialing to his heart,'" Hudson said about Griffin's reaction to her first "Call From Home" in 2012. Photo via Michelle Hudson, used with permission.‌

"Over time, we start to think we don't even exist, that nobody cares what we're going through or the change we're trying to make," he says. "I deserved corrections. I deserved punishment. But I didn't deserve to lose my life."

For prisoners like Griffin, the inflated outgoing call rates, prospect of mail interception, and restrictive visitation rules are barriers enough. But the distance courts create by sending them to far-off facilities present often insurmountable financial hurdles for their families to visit.

Regular visitation between prisoners and their families can help reduce the likelihood of criminal offenses after they are released.  

A 2011 study by the Minnesota Department of Corrections found that "visitation in general significantly decreased the risk of recidivism."

And according to the Centre for Justice and Reconciliation, more "visitor-friendly" policies could be a boon to public safety by establishing for offenders "a continuum of social support from prison to the community."

‌Photo via iStock.‌

But since existing policies don't make regular visitation easy, "Calls From Home" has helped fill that void for 17 years, becoming a lifeline of sorts for its incarcerated listeners.

"I'm always amazed at the persistence and love that comes in every Monday night," says co-host Elizabeth Sanders. "Some days are harder than others. Sometimes you end up crying. Sometimes you laugh with them. But everyone is just so thankful for the chance to shout out to their loved ones."

[rebelmouse-image 19528370 dam="1" original_size="747x157" caption="Fan mail for WMMT from an area prison. Listeners know Sanders as "DJ Izzy Lizzy." Ryerson's fans knew her as "DJ Sly Rye." Image via WMMT/Restorative Radio, used with permission." expand=1]Fan mail for WMMT from an area prison. Listeners know Sanders as "DJ Izzy Lizzy." Ryerson's fans knew her as "DJ Sly Rye." Image via WMMT/Restorative Radio, used with permission.

Though the messages they record are usually directed at specific individuals on the inside, Ryerson believes sharing their families' stories can help change public perceptions about people with criminal backgrounds.

[rebelmouse-image 19528371 dam="1" original_size="750x419" caption="Sylvia Ryerson. Image via Field Studio/WMMT/Vimeo." expand=1]Sylvia Ryerson. Image via Field Studio/WMMT/Vimeo.

"When you air voices from their children, their grandmothers, their church pastors, it allows them to be seen as whole human beings that have families and communities that love them and want them to come home."

Ryerson has expanded on "Calls From Home" with a new project called "Restorative Radio: Audio Postcards."

In this longer-form radio series, she collaborates with family members to create immersive audio experiences that transport prisoners into their families' lives while also revealing to audiences the fundamental humanity beneath their criminal records.

Hudson was one of Ryerson's first participants, recording over 10 hours of her life and interactions — cooking, chatting with family and friends, visiting the local swimming pool with her kids, attending her daughter's dance recital — that ultimately became a one-hour "postcard" to Griffin.

Restorative Radio participants Lessie Gardner (left) and Louise Goode arrive for visitation at Red Onion State Prison in Virginia. Photo by Raymond Thompson/Restorative Radio, used with permission.

"These are not the love sounds he gets to hear every day," says Hudson. "He hears chains, prison guards, and prison doors slamming shut, which can make a person very cold. We wanted to warm his heart, bring that humanity back to him, because they try so hard to take that away from them."

Hudson explained how making the postcard became a form of healing not just for Griffin, but also for the people she recorded. "It brought him closer to his family and his family closer to him," she says, noting how it reunited him with his brother and even the son he never knew.

Griffin's story shows how even in the direst circumstances, a little bit of family contact can go a long way toward prisoner rehabilitation.

"I believe something good is going to happen for me. The show helped my wife come into my life and open the door for me to believe in myself again. Now I want to help other people," he says, adding that he hopes to one day be a guide for at-risk youth. "I have a testimony, and I want to bring it to people who want to do better."

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Why there's much ado about inmates doing Shakespeare behind bars.

Lights! Camera! Second chances!

The stage is set. The actors put the final touches on their costumes and wait nervously in the wings. The audience is ushered in by an armed guard or two. It's showtime.

This is not an ordinary production of Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar."  This is Shakespeare at San Quentin State Prison.

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

Since 2003, actors and staff from the Marin Shakespeare Company have taught classes at San Quentin, the state prison just a few miles away.

The company has always boasted a rich social outreach program to get Shakespeare's work out to as many people as possible. The prison population was nearby, and managing director Lesley Currie said they seemed like a logical fit for courses. So she and her team decided to give it a try.

"At first it was very poorly attended, but after a few years, we had enough men in the class to actually put on a full-length Shakespeare play in the prison chapel," Currier said in a phone interview. "And since then, it's just taken off."

LeMar Harrison (C) and Carlos Flores (R) take the stage. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

After their first full-length production, interest in the classes skyrocketed. These days, Currier sometimes manages a waitlist or two.

The sessions don't just focus on Shakespeare. Through exercises and activities, they also cover conflict resolution and positive decision making.

The classes are team taught, and local actors and directors often volunteer their time too. In addition to acting, the courses include lessons in self-reflection and teamwork. With the help of drama therapy students, the classes can also go a little deeper, allowing the inmates to work on their social skills.

"In a typical two and a half hour class, we'll often spend an hour doing all kinds of different exercises that are designed to build acting skills but also designed to build human skills," Currier said.

John Windham (L) and Richie Morris (C) rehearse lines before their performance. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

She often ends each class with what she calls, "group decision-making exercises." These creative assignments might ask participants to work as a team to turn lines from a play into a song and dance or a poem; or have them rewrite certain scenes, forcing characters to make a different choice.

According to Currier: "One of our students said, 'I've done a lot of conflict resolution work since I've gone to prison, but that kind of exercise is the best conflict resolution work I've ever done.'"

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

But as with the bard himself said, the play's the thing.

Since the early days of the program, the participants have put on more than a dozen full-length Shakespeare plays at San Quentin. The inmate actors work for months putting each show together. Memorizing lines, building sets, and getting into character is tough work, and the actors take their roles very seriously.

Because, for them, it's not just something to do, it's a point of pride and a place for self-expression.

Azraal Ford gets ready to play Julius Caesar. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

"One man said, 'I've been in prison for 12 years, I have a 12-year-old daughter, and all she's ever known about me is that I'm in prison. And today she gets to know that I'm a Shakespeare star."

The inmates' families aren't allowed into the facility to see the productions (the audience is mostly made up of other inmates), but each performance is recorded and put online so families can see their stars in action whenever they want.

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

Support from the state has allowed the program to expand to two more correctional facilities too.

"Three years ago the state actually started funding arts in corrections, and we were one of the first seven organizations in the state of California to get a grant," Currier said.

The grant allowed the program to expand to inmates at Solano State Prison in Vacaville, where inmates are working on "Hamlet" and "King John." And the Folsom Women's Facility, about 25 miles east of Sacramento, where they're working on "Taming of the Shrew."

The expansion gives more inmates a chance to take advantage of this powerful program.

"When you hear the men talk about why they do it and why it's important to them [the men and the women now] it just makes you realize, just more deeply what it means to be a human being on this planet," Currier said.

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images)

But the best part? It's really having a positive effect on the participants.

Programs like this are a win for everyone involved, and that's why California and other states continue to make the investment.

"Research has shown that structured arts programs improve inmates' problem-solving skills and self-discipline and increase their patience and their ability to work with others," said California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) Secretary Jeff Beard in a written statement. "These programs also direct inmates' energy in a positive direction, promote positive social interaction and lower tension levels, resulting in a safer environment for inmates and staff."

An inmate watches the performance. The audience is limited to inmates and select outside guests. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

Most importantly, for the actors and their teachers, these programs can be life-changing.

"Most California state prisons have versions of 12-step programs ... and most have some kind of education program where you can get your GED or do college coursework, and those are really important," Currier said. "But the arts are really important as well. Being able to engage with other people through the arts — that's a different kind of social learning than you can get writing an essay."

Anthony Passer (L) and Maurice Reed (R) rehearse lines before the big show. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

Whether it's "Hamlet," "Julius Caesar," or "Taming of the Shrew," it turns out that some of the best shows in California are behind lock and key.

They're full of heart, passion, and pride. The actors' performances transport the audience to worlds previously unimagined, even if just for a few hours. And when you're living in a restrictive environment, that's a beautiful, life-changing gift.

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

Family

How one jail's philosophy is turning the addiction epidemic on its head.

Ryan Hampton was a year into recovery when he learned a difficult lesson: silence kills.

While his professional and personal relationships were both improving, the former heroin addict was still actively avoiding awkward conversations about his decade-long battle with opioid addiction.

But after three friends died from addiction in a matter months, Hampton knew he had to speak up — about his own struggles and the addiction problems spreading across the entire United States.

"In an epidemic that’s taking 78 lives every day to opioid overdoses, only 10 percent of Americans who seek help for their substance use disorder actually get it," he wrote in a White House blog post. "This number is mind-blowing, and it’s unacceptable."

Ryan Hampton. Image via Facing Addiction/YouTube.

So Hampton packed his bags and took a road trip​ from Pasadena to Philadelphia to connect with those who were struggling with heroin addiction.

Hampton's newfound sobriety had enabled him to pursue his lifelong interest in politics, and he had been selected as an official delegate for the Democratic National Convention in July 2016. He and his best friend from his treatment program drove across the country to the convention, chronicling the stories of people they met along the way.

They visited small towns and cities alike, meeting with families who'd lost loved ones to substance abuse and individuals living through long-term recovery. Along the way, they witnessed firsthand the hope that proper health care could bring to those afflicted with addiction and also the harsh realities of underfunded rehab programs.

But one place stood out on his journey: Virginia's Chesterfield County Jail.

By February 2016, the heroin problem in Chesterfield County had reached an all-time high, with overdoses increasing by 80% from the previous year.

As the prison cells started filling up with more addicts than ever before, Sheriff Karl Leonard realized that a new approach was needed. "We needed to think outside the box to create workable solutions," the sheriff told Progress Index. "Instead of institutionalizing these guys in the criminal justice system, why not approach this from a medical standpoint?"

With help from the McShin Recovery Resource Foundation, the county jail launched the Heroin Addiction Recovery Program (HARP).

The program is revolutionary for a prison. It offers medical treatment, clinical peer-to-peer counseling, and mental services for inmates struggling with addiction. The HARP program also provides assistance in finding professional care after their release from prison — a coping strategy that actually addresses the disease of addiction in the long term instead of trapping people in an endless cycle of detox, crime, and relapse.

Perhaps most remarkably, the program took less than a week to implement, and it costs less than $750 per inmate per year. That's a lot less than the cost of jail time for taxpayers, and the money comes entirely from the jail's basic operating fund — meaning the sheriff gets no financial support for the program.

HARP has already seen 47 graduates in its first six months, some of whom even asked for longer stays behind bars in order to ensure that their sobriety sticks.

With permission from the sheriff, Hampton took a Facebook Live video from inside the jail, and inmates shared their inspiring stories with him.

Hundreds of thousands of people tuned in for a rare Facebook Live event broadcast from inside a county jail.

Since the War on Drugs began in the early 1980s, prison populations have increased by almost 600% — and nearly half of those people are serving time on drug-related charges. But most prisons aren't like the Chesterfield County Jail, and incarcerated opioid users often die from withdrawal while they're still behind bars, or they overdose shortly after their release.

Hampton's live-stream gave a voice to often-ignored individuals whose lives had been wrecked by addiction.

He helped to humanize their experiences and showed the world firsthand how bad our country's opioid has gotten.

You can see the video here:

What's up Facebook? It's the inmates at the Chesterfield County Jail's HARP program here. We've taken over Ryan's live from within the walls of the jail - first time EVER that a Facebook live has been done from inside a jail. We have a message for America. So listen up! #WeDoRecover #AddictionXAmerica #PourYourHeartOut

Posted by Ryan Hampton on Thursday, September 22, 2016

Hampton's video serves as a powerful reminder for all of us that people suffering from addiction don't deserve to be treated like villainous pariahs.

Addiction is a clinical disease, and folks who are struggling deserve understanding and compassion. They deserve help, and a cure.

According to one study, the U.S. economy could also save nearly $13 billion per year by simply providing comprehensive drug addiction treatment and recovery services to people, instead of throwing them in jail. That doesn't even include the lives that would be saved and the emotional distress that would be avoided by the reduction in crime and loved ones dying from overdoses.

The opioid epidemic is on the rise, and it's not something we can jail our way out of. But maybe with a little empathy, we can channel Hampton and actually save some lives and improve our communities along the way, too.

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