Drawing Papers 140: The Pencil Is a Key: Drawings by Incarcerated Artists by The Drawing Center

The Pencil Is a Key : Drawings by Incarcerated Artists

Drawing Papers 140

The Pencil Is a Key: Drawings by Incarcerated Artists Drawing Papers 140

The Drawing Center

The Pencil Is a Key: Drawings by Incarcerated Artists

Claire Gilman Rosario Güiraldes Laura Hoptman Isabella Kapur Duncan Tomlin With essays by

Courtenay Finn Nicole R. Fleetwood Valérie Rousseau

Contents

Acknowledgments Laura Hoptman 9

A Note from the Curators Claire Gilman, Rosario Güiraldes, Laura Hoptman, Isabella Kapur, and Duncan Tomlin 13

Art Brut Is Not Pathological Valérie Rousseau 18

Drawing Toward Freedom Nicole R. Fleetwood 23

Staying with the Trouble Courtenay Finn 26

Selections from the Exhibition 132

Bibliography Duncan Tomlin 137

Works in the Exhibition

Acknowledgments

This endeavor, undertaken by the entire curatorial staff and the Executive Director over a period of one year, could not have been possible without the help and support of a vast number of people from literally all over the world. Museum colleagues, scholars, artists, lenders, funders, and the board and staff of The Drawing Center gave unstintingly of their resources, precious works of art, time, expertise, and talents to allow us to gather more than 135 individual works and groups of works for the exhibition. I would like to thank the curatorial team—Claire Gilman, Rosario Güiraldes, Isabella Kapur, and Duncan Tomlin—who researched, wrote, traveled, and looked deeply at hundreds of works of art. Using their expertise while simultaneously learning new vocabularies, they have been able to contextualize a group of works made by artists hailing from vastly different cultures and in unbelievably diverse circumstances and contexts. We are honored and frankly fortunate to be curators, but it takes a particular kind of dedication to create an entirely new genre and build its history. Each member of the group contributed equally; I must single out Duncan Tomlin for his dedication to the project, all while serving as a curatorial intern. A crack researcher and art historical gumshoe, Duncan identified and then found works that others would have considered unfindable. He traveled to museum collections. He reached out to living artists and worked closely with them, even befriending a few. Duncan read widely on the subject of incarceration, and it is him that we have to thank for the excellent bibliography. Dr. Nicole R. Fleetwood, Professor of American Studies and Art History at Rutgers University; Dr. Valérie Rousseau, Curator at the American Folk Art Museum; and our colleague Courtenay Finn, Chief Curator at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Cleveland, contributed thoughtful essays to our catalog. In addition to their scholarship, they lent their expert opinions as we developed the shape of the exhibition, publication, and programs. We are also grateful to Jill Snyder, Executive Director of the Museum of Contemporary Art, Cleveland, whose wonderful institution will host the show after its run at The Drawing Center. The board and the staff members of The Drawing Center (listed elsewhere) rolled up their sleeves and with enthusiasm and an excess of good will did everything in their power to make this show—ambitious for an institution of our size—happen with the customary professionalism and precision on which The Drawing Center prides itself. Olga Valle Tetkowski, Deputy Director, and Kate Robinson, Registrar, deserve special mention for going above and beyond their already considerable duties with efficiency and love. Rebecca Brickman, Director of Development, embraced the project and turbocharged our support, while Aimee Good, Director of Education, organized with

creativity and empathy a rich set of public programs that accompany the exhibition. Allison Underwood, Director of Communications, jumped in at the last minute to promote this show with zeal, and our interns Lucia Zezza and Kaira Mediratta were also helpful to this project. For the editing and design of this special edition of the Drawing Papers series that serves as a catalog of the exhibition, I thank Peter Ahlberg, Designer; Joanna Alhberg, Managing Editor; and Noah Chasin, Executive Editor. The exhibition would not include the art historical masterpieces it does without the help of Frances Beatty Adler and Dita Amory, board members and art historians. Frances found or helped us find key drawings squirreled away in private collections, and Dita, Curator in Charge and Administrator, the Robert Lehman Collection at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, helped shepherd crucial loans from that venerable institution. Both contributed their curatorial expertise and insight during the early stages of planning the show, and served as crucial sounding boards for our ideas. Museum colleagues outside of The Drawing Center family were also enormously generous, giving advice and loaning work from their magnificent collections. Jason T. Busch, Director, and Valérie Rousseau, Curator, at the American Folk Art Museum are invaluable colleagues who facilitated numerous loans from their collection, gave freely of their expertise, and have become partners in some of our joint programming. At The Metropolitan Museum of Art, in addition to Dita, thanks are due to Max Hollein, Director; Nadine Orenstein, Dru Heinz Curator in Charge, Drawings and Prints; and Sabine Rewald, Jack and Natasha Gellman Curator of Modern Art, Modern and Contemporary Art. These colleagues were generous with their expertise and permissions and it is because of them that we are able to display nineteenth-century masterpieces on Wooster Street. Our gratitude also goes to Claudia Gould, Helen Goldsmith Menschel Director of the Jewish Museum; James Christen Steward, Nancy A. Nasher–David J. Haemisegger, Class of 1976, Director, Princeton University Art Gallery; Ann Burroughs, Director, Karen L. Ishizuka, Chief Curator, Kristin Hayashi, Collections Manager, and especially Jamie Henricks, Archivist, Japanese American National Museum, Los Angeles; and Suzy Snyder and Kyra Schuster, Curators, National Holocaust Museum, Washington, D.C., who graciously shared their time and their permissions. Abroad, Irina Galkova of the Memorial International Society in Moscow and María Luisa Ortiz Rojas, Head of Collections and Research at the Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos in Santiago, Chile, kindly assisted with our research and lent works from their institutions’ collections. In the area of shipping, Jessica Leventhal Pierce at U.S.Art has been an invaluable consultant. Other colleagues who helped with our research and facilitated loans include: Max Adler, Cecilia Alemani, Adam Boxer, Emily Braun, Shira Brisman, Tania Bruguera, Daniel Buchholz, Kate Butler, Pete Brook, Bernadette Caille, Shari Cavin, Carla Chammas, Christope Cherix, Larry Clemons, Aiko Cuneo, Verne Dawson, Florence Derieux, Sophie Duvillier, Andrew Edlin, Ayman Eissa, Donald Ellis, Aniko Erdosi, Onur Erem, Irene Faber, Henrique Faria, Rafaela Mendes Ferreira, Mónica Montes Flores, Tatiana Flores, Emilie Forey, Sarah Gavlak, Laura M. Giles, Massimiliano Gioni, Mark Godsey, Izabela Gola, Dana Gluck, Frank Gratz, Verne Harris, Salah Hassan, Martha Henry, Helena Huang, Aliya Hussain, Beth D. Jacob, Jennifer Josten, Sermin Kardestuncer, Eric Karpeles, Phyllis Kornfeld, Jonathan Laib, Addie Lanier, Juliette Laffon, Katrin Lewinsky, Mary-Kay Lombino, Ana Longoni, Diana López, Mark Maher, Frank Maresca, Shamim Meer, Jacqueline Munck, Julio García Murillo, Nonhlanhla Ngwenya, Sarah Pharaon, Lisbet Portman, Joel Japeth Pérez Robles, Daniel Roesler, Olivier Rolin, Eric Rudin, Selig Sacks, Luis Vargas Santiago, Gaisang Sathekge, Dieter Schwartz, Jaime Schwartz, Rodica Sibleyras, Patterson Sims, Mark Strandquist, Eugenia Sucre, Sarah Suzuki, Erin Thompson, Phyllis Tuchman, Frederic Tuten, Verónica Sánchez Ulloa, Tatiana von Furstenberg, Damien Voutay, Darren Walker, Ryan Woodard, Andrea Woodner, Xin Zhou, Michelle Yun, and Zhou Yi. The exhibition could not have happened without the generosity of our lenders— both public institutions and private individuals. They are listed elsewhere, but on behalf of The Drawing Center, I thank them profoundly.

Equal to the lenders in importance are those who believed in the exhibition enough to support it. Agnes Gund and Lonti Ebers gave generously at the show’s inception, offering crucial support when we needed it the most. We are proud that Allen Adler and Frances Beatty Adler, Dita Amory, Anonymous, Rashid Johnson and Sheree Hovsepian, Svetlana Kuzmicheva-Uspenskaya, Marco Perego-Saldana and Zoe Saldana-Perego, and Fiona and Eric Rudin saw the importance of the show, and are grateful to these wonderful friends for their generosity. The Director’s Circle of The Drawing Center is made up of sixteen of the world’s most dedicated collectors of contemporary art and their support was also key to making this exhibition a reality. The Burger Collection, Hong Kong, along with albertz benda, Andrew Edlin, Daniel Buchholz Gallery, David Zwirner, Donald Ellis Gallery, Gavlak Gallery, Nara Roesler Gallery, and Ubu Gallery, New York, also gave critical assistance. A grant from The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts made the dream of adding this exhibition to our schedule a reality. For its vote of confidence we owe our profound thanks. Finally, we are grateful to Furthermore, a program of the J.M. Kaplan Fund, for helping to support this publication. Last, but of course most importantly, we must thank the living artists in the exhibition. They have been exemplars for their talent, for their perseverance in the face of adversity, and for their humanity. The entire team of The Pencil Is a Key joins me in thanking the following artists for sharing their work: Abdualmalik Abud, Mansoor Adayfi, Rosendo Aguilar, Jose Alvarez (D.O.P.A.), Djamel Ameziane, Anonymous, Gil Batle, Frank Bautista, B.C.D.C., Beek, Bring, Chester Brost, Mel Castillo, Carlos Conde, Timothy Curtis, Devon Daniels, Ángel Delgado, Valentino Dixon, Zehra Doğan, Joseph Dole, Thomas Dufield, Mahmoud Mohamed Abd El Aziz, Ibrahim El-Salahi, Alfred Espinoza, Francisco “Paco” Estrada, Darrell W. Fair, Nicholas Gross, Jose Angel Guevara, Ray Hernandez, David Huron, Dell Konieczko, Kontonhuang, Lily Ester Rivas Labbé, Damon Locks, C. McLaurin, Flynard “Fly 1” Miller, R Dot Nandez, Johnny Nieto, Raymond Parra, Leonard Peña, Adam Policzer, Khalid Qasim, Ahmed Rabbani, Azza Abo Rebieh, Andrés Reyes, El Roller, Sarah Ross, Saeed, Scout, Welmon Sharlhorne, B.R. Shaw, Sérgio Sister, Miguel Lawner Steiman, Johnny Taylor, M. Vargas, Rodrigo Silva Vial, and Zhang Yue. —Laura Hoptman, Executive Director

A Note from the Curators

This exhibition provides an introduction to the global practice of artists drawing while incarcerated. Throughout a period of intense research by the five members of our curatorial team—Claire Gilman, Chief Curator; Rosario Güiraldes, Assistant Curator; Laura Hoptman, Executive Director; Isabella Kapur, Curatorial Assistant; and Duncan Tomlin, Curatorial Intern—we gathered hundreds of drawings from around the world created under conditions of imprisonment. While the narrative told by the drawings included in The Pencil Is a Key is neither linear nor totalizing, we believe that it provides evidence of the many vital functions drawing can serve for those experiencing a loss of freedom. Drawings are containers of memories, testimonials to terrible circumstances, tools for survival, weapons in the fight for justice, and portals to a better future. We do not claim to be the only ones to focus our interests on artwork made by those who have lost their freedom, and we recognize the work of a number of passionate advocates like Tatiana von Furstenberg, whose illuminating exhibition On the Inside at the Abrons Art Center in New York in 2016 and the Craft Contemporary in Los Angeles in 2019 brought drawings by contemporary LGBTQ artists to greater public attention. However, for this exhibition, we have chosen primarily to focus on individuals who identify as artists, rather than on children, on individuals enrolled in therapeutic art programs, or on those who happened to make an occasional drawing while incarcerated. Some were practicing artists before they were imprisoned; others cultivated an artistic practice during their incarceration. We have not made the distinction between self-taught and trained artists and have included work that represents several subgenres of drawings that are unique to art made in US prisons in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, including drawings on prisonissue handkerchiefs (known as paños chicanos), drawings on the exterior of mailing envelopes, and hand-drawn playing cards. These works stand out from others in the exhibition because of their subject matter and illustrational aspect reliant on traced magazine illustrations, photos, and tattoo templates. The compositional intricacy, imaginative narrative, and graphic sophistication of these paños, envelopes, and cards make their inclusion a logical choice for us, despite the fact that we cannot always confirm that these authors thought of themselves as artists, and notwithstanding the fact that their drawings are the ones that most conform to a clichéd and reductive notion of “prison art.” All the drawings in our exhibition were made by self-defined artists in a state of confinement but they represent a variety of nationalities and historical periods, ranging

from revolutionary Paris to apartheid-era South Africa to contemporary Syria in the midst of civil war. Incarceration surely follows patterns of systemic inequality and disenfranchisement across history and geography; it can result from any number of social circumstances, and hinges upon questions of agency, prejudice, ethics, politics, power, and mental health protocols. Although our research indicates that captivity does not create a particular kind of drawing, there is little doubt that sustained periods of isolation from society have an impact on artistic expression. Artists tend to draw what they see, and in prison the view is often radically limited. It may come as no surprise then that more portraits are produced than landscapes; that the landscapes are most often views out of windows or otherwise reliant on magazine or book illustrations, or in some astonishing cases like that of Guantanamo prisoner Abdualmalik Abud, memory. Along with portraiture and landscapes, drawings embedded in epistolary texts are common, as are scenes that document daily life in incarceration—some commonplace, others horrific. We have chosen to interpret the term “incarceration” broadly, using it to mean any situation in which an individual is denied their freedom. This definition includes penal incarceration; imprisonment of combatants during wartime; systematic imprisonment by governments on the basis of political affiliation, gender, sexuality, race, or religion; as well as forced restriction of movement and involuntary imprisonment in psychiatric institutions. How can we account for the preponderance of drawing by those in captivity? The obvious answer is that drawing materials are much more accessible in constrained circumstances like prison than are painting materials, sculptors’ tools, or electronic recording equipment. Throughout the exhibition, examples abound of the ingenious ways that artists draw by any means available to them. Laundry pencils, ballpoint pen refills, food, and bodily fluids are applied to scraps of cloth, letters, envelopes, bills, and discarded packaging. Foldable, flat, and unassuming, drawings are also easier to hide than are three-dimensional works, an advantage in circumstances where the act of artmaking itself has the potential to constitute insurgency. But beyond these practical concerns, we believe there are other, more existential reasons for the choice of such a primary medium. Drawing is a vehicle for investigation and reportage, for mapping, sketching, counting, and measuring, and these activities can be helpful, even essential to surviving imprisonment or for struggling against it. That drawing can be subversive, even a weapon, is not lost on authorities. For example, Kurdish artist and journalist Zehra Doğan was imprisoned by the Turkish government and was explicitly denied drawing materials during her incarceration. She continued to draw, but with improvised materials, marking her own clothes with pigments made from soot, food, and even her own blood. Drawing is also a skill that, in many situations of imprisonment, can have practical effects. Zhang Yue, an artist from Beijing, has explained that his portraits of fellow inmates helped to prevent their being physically disciplined. Prisoners deemed unruly typically were beaten into submission by guards. Using his drawings as evidence, Yue convinced prison authorities that since his subjects clearly had the discipline required to sit quietly for long periods, corporal punishment was unnecessary. For artists imprisoned in the Soviet Union in the 1950s, Chile and Brazil in the 1970s, Cuba in the 1990s, or in contemporary prisons in the American Southwest, drawings acted as forms of currency to be used within the prison community. Gil Batle, for example, has described how while incarcerated in a US penitentiary, he exchanged drawings for personal protection and coveted commodities from the prison commissary. For artists imprisoned in concentration camps during the Second World War, drawing was a way to retain a sense of identity and equally important, a means to bear witness. Many drew their fellow prisoners, themselves, and their surroundings as aide-mémoire, or testimonies, providing powerful evidence to the world outside of horrors meant to be kept secret. The Pencil Is a Key is neither a show about social justice nor about the politics of incarceration, though many drawings included in it address these issues. Nor is it a show about the necessity, efficacy, or morality of prison art programs, though a

small portion of the work on display was created as a result of such programs. The overarching theme that has emerged from these drawings made at different times, in different places, and as a result of wildly different circumstances, is the way in which drawing serves as a vehicle for imagining freedom in the broadest sense. This doesn’t mean that all the drawings in the exhibition express hope, though many of them display elements of hopefulness. What they do reveal is the way in which the mind can escape intolerable conditions through the act of creative expression. To put pencil to paper—to activate one’s capacity to reflect on one’s situation from a critical distance—can be a vehicle for measuring one’s humanity against systems of repression. For all of the artists represented in this exhibition, drawing is what allows the mind and the self to rise above circumstances that seek to make the individual feel less than human. Together, these drawings from all over the globe, produced over a roughly two-hundred-year period, make a powerful argument for the persistence of human creativity in inhumane circumstances, as well as for the necessity of art—in the form of drawing—to the life of every human being. The very existence of the drawings in The Pencil Is a Key proves that art serves a vital purpose. The works also offer the clearest explanation as to why The Drawing Center persists in its mission to present art to a larger public. And why we must continue to do so. —Claire Gilman, Rosario Güiraldes, Laura Hoptman, Isabella Kapur, Duncan Tomlin

Art Brut Is Not Pathological Valérie Rousseau

In 1951, Jean Dubuffet dissolved the Compagnie de l’Art Brut and exported his art brut collection to the United States, where it remained at the East Hampton residence of artist Alfonso Ossorio until 1962. At that point, Dubuffet reconvened the organization in Paris and installed his collection in a building he had purchased at 137 rue de Sèvres. The organization was dedicated “to the study of works whose creators are from outside intellectual circles, mostly free from any artistic education, and for whom invention is exercised, in fact, without any incidence that could alter its spontaneity.”1 Permeated by the modernist spirit at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the conceptualization of art brut was the “illustration of an idea of art refuting the idea of the ‘work of art’ carried by the museum,” or the withdrawal of an absolute judgment by the artistic elite.2 In 1964, the Compagnie de l’Art Brut’s first publication project—a series of fascicles still published to this day—took a close look at the oeuvre of Joseph Giavarini (1877–1934), the so-called “Prisoner of Basel,” as well as at the mediumistic drawings of the postman Raphael Lonné, the wood paneling of Clément Fraisse created at the psychiatric hospital of Saint-Alban, and the geometric compositions of pastry chef Francis Palanc made of eggshells, boiled sugar, and gum tragacanth. In this fascicle, one learns that Giavarini was arrested for committing a crime of passion in 1927. Indeed, all the texts from this collection of fascicles provide a detailed analysis of the works discussed therein, including artistic techniques and iconographic sources linked to the creator’s personal journey. These investigations borrowed from the methods of the ethnologist. Often they were written by an acquaintance (a doctor for instance) of the artist—if not by Dubuffet or colleagues in his close circle—qualified to deliver a nuanced reading of the oeuvre in perspective with biographical data. The essay on Giavarini reports that after being sent to a psychiatric hospital, he ultimately served a six-year sentence in a prison. The detention—which triggered his artistic practice—took the form of a redemption. From his cell, he molded the breadcrumbs that he accumulated from his meals in order to make figurines, reinforcing the crumbs with unfired clay provided by his family and wood that he gathered from the carpentry workshops of the penitentiary. He painted the sculptures (the pale faces of his characters a translation of his remorse) and then dipped them into a strong glue that provided a kind of varnished effect.

1 2

Jean Dubuffet, Publications de la Compagnie de L’Art Brut–Fascicule 1 (Paris: Compagnie de l’Art Brut, 1964), 3 (author’s translation). Baptiste Brun, “Le Musée imaginaire de Jean Dubuffet? Réflexions sur la documentation photographique dans les archives de la Collection de l’Art Brut,” Les Cahiers de l’École du Louvre (Paris: École du Louvre, 2012). http://journals.openedition.org/cel/665.

The case of Giavarini, as well as the other self-taught artists included in this publication, exemplifies Dubuffet’s criteria for selection: unequivocally he preferred the sculptures of the cork maker, the paintings of the pastry chef, and the scribbles of individuals without artistic training. Admitting his deep familiarity with the history of painting and sculpture, he remarked that “if something profoundly new appears in a work, I feel it, I see it immediately.”3 To this end, Dubuffet described the lack of impact he felt from many works which, as he wrote, “borrow[ed] from the most traditional and usual ways to create … without any veritable inventiveness in their means of expression and drawing.”4 The art historian Céline Delavaux writes that, for Dubuffet, “the use of modest materials and the artistic conversion of waste are forms of subversion, like the return of the socioculturally repressed (retour du refoulé).”5 Inadvertently, the material becomes an object of protest. It is on this very point that Dubuffet resisted the category of “naïve art,” to which Henri Rousseau and Séraphine de Senlis, among others, have been commonly identified, claiming that these creators—although untrained—seek to adopt the materials (mainly oil on canvas) and conventions used by professional artists. Dubuffet paid particular attention to technical knowledge (or savoir-faire), both with regard to his own artistic practice and to art brut. Art historian Emmanuel Pernoud recently put into perspective Dubuffet’s propensity to favor and to take an interest in the “double activity” (concurrently having a profession and being an artist) of the “common man,”positioning himself against the dated views of writer Georges Courteline.6 With his collection of “Sunday painters” assembled at the end of the nineteenth century that he referred to as his “Museum of Horrors,” Courteline “sought to demonstrate that art can’t be the work of a customs officer or any other individual subordinate to the hierarchy and routine of labor, that creation is the privilege of independent spirits.”7 Dubuffet was undeniably fascinated by the misappropriation of materials in the oeuvre of countless art brut artists, which was informed by the materials and skills specific to their respective professions. And when their expertise is not clearly reflected in their art, as in the case of the miner Augustin Lesage or the farmhand Adolf Wölfli, Dubuffet instead reflects upon “the origin of their creative faculties and … the independence that fatally alienated them from their communities under the obscure pretext of eccentricity.”8 Dubuffet conceded that creators associated with art brut borrow the impromptu approach of the bricoleur (tinkerer), whose inventiveness is distinct—in gesture, mode of reinterpretation, materialization—from the systematic mechanisms used by the scientist or the engineer.9 This first fascicle of the Compagnie de l’Art Brut also puts forward a tenet of Dubuffet’s position, namely the diversity of creative individuals associated with art brut. He recalled that the term is not limited to a particular institutional ground—psychiatric hospital, prison, retirement home, street—but that it is rather deeply anchored in personal life experiences, with no regard for artistic education. A correspondence between Dubuffet and the anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss—who attended the exhibitions of the Foyer de l’Art Brut in Paris in 1948 and 1949—is revealing in this context. Lévi-Strauss proposed to help Dubuffet with his explorations into the penal system: “As I said yesterday to André Breton, your effort seems to be the only real one path to face the failure of so-called professional art, and I will follow its development with a friendly and warm interest. As for the art in prisons, I reached out to the people 3 4 5

6 7

8 9

Jean Dubuffet, “Clés du regard,” Radio Télévision Suisse (RTS), film by Jaroslav Vizner, 25 février 1976, 50:25. https://www.rts.ch/archives/tv/culture/cles-du-regard/3442857-fol-art.html (author’s translation). Jean Dubuffet, letter to Dr Philippson, November 13, 1948, Collection de l’Art Brut Archives, Lausanne, box 19, “Angleterre” (author’s translation). Céline Delavaux, “Dubuffet et l’art brut: les enjeux d’un discours,” PhD dissertation, Université Paris 8 and Université du Québec à Montréal, 2005, 249. The expression “retour du refoulé” is borrowed from Michel Thévoz, L’Art Brut (Geneva: Skira, 1975), 98. A figure discussed by Jean Dubuffet in L’homme du commun à l’ouvrage (Paris: Gallimard, 1973). Emmanuel Pernoud, “Les tableaux d’un pâtissier, les sculptures d’un bouchonnier: la double activité selon Dubuffet,” in L’art brut existe-t-il?, Laurence Bertrand Dorléac and Laurent Gervereau, eds. (Paris: Liénart, 2019), 83. Pernoud, L’art brut existe-t-il?, 83. See Claude Lévi-Strauss, La pensée sauvage (Paris: Librairie Plon, 1962). Let’s note, among others, the mixtures of Aloïse Corbaz (geranium sap and saliva), James Castle (saliva and soot) and Martín Ramírez (bread or potatoes and saliva).

I told you about, but I have not been well understood: I was offered rehabilitation works: lace, embroidery, … created in supervised workshops.”10 Lévi-Strauss urged him to pursue his “researches on the side of criminology, tattoos, drawings or writings by prisoners, graffiti on cell walls, small works, such as figures of breadcrumbs which are made by offenders.”11 He suggested that Dubuffet organize an exhibition of works made by prisoners, aided by the penitentiaries themselves, to be linked to the 1950 International Congress of Criminology in Paris. Probably afraid that this large conference, with its focus on the prison system, would further blur the definition of art brut, Dubuffet disregarded Lévi-Strauss’s proposal.12 He believed that imprisonment or internment alone was not a valid criterion for artistic selection. Art brut was not the art of madness—a major point of dissension with Breton—any more than there was an art specific to psychosis or an aesthetics of la folie. Similarly, art brut was not an artistic category, and illness was not a benchmark for art brut. Dubuffet had the following to say about the complicated definition of the term: “Art brut is not pathological. . . . People who are in psychiatric hospitals are called les fous (the insane or mad). But this word does not make sense in today’s medicine. This notion of madness is being more and more challenged. In reality, these are people who are different from common people, … they take an opposing view of conventional and accepted practices. So, it is very natural that we find in psychiatric hospitals people who take a counterpoint to cultural art, who take a total counterpoint, who refuse deeply. Psychiatric hospitals are filled with refuseurs (those who “oppose” and/or “challenge”), who refuse to eat with a spoon, who refuse to use the usual language, who refuse to behave like other people, who refuse to put shoes on their feet.”13 Dubuffet considered that this rebellious driving force propelled art brut artists much further—in an unrestricted if not uninhibited manner—in their quests, compared to their professional counterparts. He looked for oeuvres that reflected an inner world, escaped the circuits of cultural inhibition, and stumbled upon artistic flows due to the alternative modes of communication of their creators. If Dubuffet’s initiatives beginning in 1945 led him on the path toward asylums and penitentiaries, it is because in those institutions resided “the champions of non-alignment, the standard bearers of the personal and unconditioned thought.”14 Céline Delavaux writes that when Dubuffet compared “the mental health patient to the prisoner, he makes madness a social problem and obliterates the field of pathology. The invention of art brut, against the use of the expression ‘art des fous,’ allows him to remain in the exclusive field of the artistic.”15 Thus, his perspective on art brut allowed him to focus on a “specific visual production. … If he wants so much to evacuate the pathological, it is because he considers the latter as the dissolution of individual differences, of singularity by the psychological.”16 The personalized introduction for each creator in the fascicles of the Compagnie de l’Art Brut proves that Dubuffet was not interested in the socially marginalized and rebellious individual per se, but 10 Claude Lévi-Strauss, letter to Dubuffet dated November 15, 1948. Fondation Dubuffet Archives, Paris (author’s translation). 11 Jean Dubuffet, letter to Claude Lévi-Strauss dated November 11, 1948. Fondation Dubuffet Archives, Paris (author’s translation) 12 In spite of his stated intentions, Dubuffet’s research led to the inclusion of a small proportion of works made by prisoners in his art brut collection. Was this a question of affinity, access, and networks? His photographic albums include both prisoner tattoos registered by the Paris police headquarters as well as graffiti photographed by Brassaï—this illegally crafted “bastard street art,” as he called it. In addition to the works of Joseph Giavarini mentioned above, the archivist of the Collection de l’Art Brut Vincent Monod cites several other cases of incarcerated individuals represented in the collection. Spanish artists Joaquim Vicens Gironella (1911–97) and Miguel Hernández (1893–1957) both fled the Franco regime and were imprisoned in concentration camps in France. A German national in France when the Second World War broke out, Gustav Schaefer was locked up in French concentration camps. A prisoner of war around 1943, Jean Radovic was sent to a psychiatric hospital in Lausanne—a period during which he drew. Giovanna René was incarcerated in a Basel prison in 1926. Adolf Wölfli was sent to prison at the age of 25 before spending the rest of his life in a psychiatric hospital. 13 Jean Dubuffet, “Clés du regard.” 14 Jean Dubuffet, “Place à l’incivisme,” February 1967, in Prospectus et tous écrits suivants, tome 1 (Paris: Gallimard, 1967), 457 (author’s translation). 15 Céline Delavaux, Dubuffet, 224. 16 Céline Delavaux, Dubuffet, 251.

rather in the criteria that clearly distinguish each creator. Highly selective, he reiterated that “there is no more an art of the insane than there is an art of dyspeptics or of people with sore knees,” and that “really creative and interesting things aren’t found on every corner.”17 Art brut gathers a wide spectrum of unrelated figures under one denomination— from the reclusive visionary to the prototypical amateur. This heterogeneity often works against the clarity of the concept, especially when we consider the dramatic differences between the conditions at psychiatric hospitals and prisons. The first operates according to psychological factors, the second pertains to legal and social inequities, such as poverty, racism, cultural inequality, education, criminal family history, and addiction. Time management also differs between the two sites: while the prisoner serves a specific sentence during which s/he seeks to “occupy” her/his time, confinement to a psychiatric hospital is based on the improvement of the patient’s mental health, which is unpredictable. Wölfli, who spent the last thirty-five years of his life at the Waldau Mental Asylum near Bern, Switzerland, seems to have taken advantage of this timelessness, developing a seemingly endless illustrated narrative— spread over multiple notebooks—that constantly struggles toward resolution over its 25,000 pages. Despite fundamental distinctions, these sites remain epicenters of dissent: knowing that the functioning of justice and conditions for incarceration vary according to eras and geographic locations, there is no absolute data that would predict whether someone will be imprisoned or institutionalized. For instance, we know that a large number of inmates have psychological or psychiatric disorders (either preexisting or induced by incarceration itself), but that the prison system is a reluctant environment to address such suffering. In the state of detention, an individual is sidelined from society, confined against her/his will, and devoid of power. Routine is prescribed, loneliness imposed, and distribution of roles (doctors/guardians versus patient/inmate) strengthened. The inherent structure of restriction and censorship is meant to protect, discipline, and reprogram. Consequently, many incarcerated people are barred from reading certain books and deprived of certain artistic tools and materials, which has a significant effect on creative approaches and aesthetics.18 Dubuffet cited the “secondary benefits of internment”: Detention could be seen as conducive to creativity, which is perceived as an adaptation to an experience of isolation. He wrote: “It is natural that people deprived of occupation and pleasure are more inclined than others to make for themselves feasts for their own use by taking the route of an artistic activity.”19 The exhibition The Pencil Is a Key at The Drawing Center offers, from this perspective, a unique platform to explore common denominators among the works of mostly self-identified artists who drew while in a state of confinement. Representing a vast range of cultural affiliations and contexts of captivity, this carefully curated presentation exemplifies the very idea that not everything created during a period of confinement finds its way outside of the systems of incarceration. These works have been conserved and later selected for their engaging graphic skill, despite the circumstances of deprivation and repression from which they emerged. In his book Art and Agency, anthropologist Alfred Gell defines art as a “system of action” that exists within an interactive dynamic; it embodies complex intents and influences our thoughts.20 This object-oriented approach resonates across the experiences of Dubuffet, who repeatedly expressed his desire to separate “art brut from the field of psychiatry and subtract these works from psychopathological analysis.”21 Whether 17 Jean Dubuffet, “L’art brut préféré aux arts culturels,” (1949), in Prospectus et tous écrits suivants, tome 1 (Paris: Gallimard, 1967), 202 (author’s translation); and Jean Dubuffet, letter to Georges Henri Rivière dated February 11, 1971, Fondation Dubuffet Archives, Paris (author’s translation). 18 See the project of Daniel McCarthy Clifford, “Section of Disapproved Books,” which catalogs the thousands of publications that are banned in state and federal prisons in the United States. Among these books are Charles D. O’Malley and J. B. de C. M. Saunders, Leonardo da Vinci on the Human Body; Daniel C. Dennett, From Bacteria to Bach and Back: The Evolutionary Minds; Joyce Carol Oates, A Widow’s Story: A Memoir; and Mark W. Scott, Shakespeare for Students. 19 Jean Dubuffet, “Place à l‘incivisme,” (1967), 455. 20 Alfred Gell, Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 71. 21 Céline Delavaux, Dubuffet, 222.

a work was made by a prisoner such as Frank Jones, produced during a period of transience or homelessness as in the case of Lee Godie, reclusively like Henry Darger, or in a psychiatric hospital as experienced by AloĂŻse Corbaz, what remained essential for Dubuffet was to move the conversation on the nature of art beyond the field of aesthetics, admitting that the singularity of such objects lies precisely, at a given time, in their intrinsic marginality.

Drawing Toward Freedom Nicole R. Fleetwood

The drawings in The Pencil Is a Key are from different historical periods and broadly international in scope. They demonstrate various aesthetic traditions and levels of training. What they powerfully have in common is the brutal force of institutional confinement as the condition under which artists create. Whether the subject matter of the art explicitly comments on the artist’s captivity or not, these drawings are reflections of the creative practices and aesthetic visions of people held against their will and who have been cast by governments and societies as those deserving to be criminalized, confined, and punished. They have been rendered unfree legally and otherwise and yet they create. They dream. They imagine. They make art that exceeds the state’s ability to hold them captive and to punish them. As part of my research for a book on art and mass incarceration in the United States, I have interviewed dozens of current and former prisoners about their experiences of making art in captivity. Their experiences speak to the title of this exhibit: the pencil is the key. The pencil, the pen, the utensil that moves often seamlessly between text and image, serves as the most accessible and viable tool for incarcerated people to create and to communicate. Acquiring art material is an enormous feat for many jailed artists. Prisons, detention centers, and other institutions of captivity range widely in terms of what material is available for artmaking and for other modes of communication. In some penal facilities, imprisoned people can access fully stocked, though heavily monitored, art rooms. Others receive limited supplies from art programs and teachers. For example, formerly detained artist Lisette Oblitas described how she received a few gel pens from a teaching artist who visited her unit periodically, and how she would work with the limited materials and colors provided to make art that resisted the prison’s mandate: the evisceration of personhood, of dreams, of belonging. In other sites, the act of making art is forbidden, heavily censored, or governed by institutional guidelines.1 The pencil in most institutions is the most accessible medium, making graphite drawings the most common visual art form in jails, prisons, and detention centers. Requiring little—a scrap piece of paper and a pencil— incarcerated artists transform material scarcity into expressive possibility. Take, for example, Moliere Dimanche, a formerly imprisoned artist who made fantastical drawings with pencil stubs and no eraser while held in solitary confinement.2 Dimanche 1 2

See Nicole R. Fleetwood, “Painting While Shackled to a Floor,” Public Books, 10 November 2017, http://www.publicbooks.org/painting-while-shackled-to-a-floor/. See Nicole R. Fleetwood, “Through his Art, a Former Prisoner Diagnoses the Systemic Sickness of Florida’s Penitentiaries,” The Conversation, August 31, 2018, https://theconversation.com/through-his-art-a-formerprisoner-diagnoses-the-systemic-sickness-of-floridas-penitentiaries-101588.

sharpened his broken pencils by scraping them against the concrete floor. Drawing serves as a lifeline for many people locked away in solitary confinement and supermax prisons. Gilberto Rivera, who spent considerable time in solitary confinement, did not even have access to pencils, so he used a soap bar to trace outlines on shower walls, watching his ephemeral drawings fade and then disappear. Under the conditions of immobility, deprivation, and surveillance, incarcerated artists transform prison documents, letters received, ruled paper, and cellblock walls into art tableaux. Teaching artist Phyllis Kornfeld has worked in numerous prisons for over three decades and has curated exhibitions on prison art. Writing in her book Cellblock Visions, she describes the meticulous craft of Braulio Diez, one of her first students in prison who “held in his arms a mountain of exquisite drawings made with a meager assortment of pencils and paper rescued from the trash. I wondered how a person can spend ten years in a single cramped room, plain walls, no windows, no pictures or books, and having no relationships, no affection, no communication, nor any such thing, and come up with these riches?”3 Kornfeld’s statement alludes to realms of artmaking that often go unseen by the public at large. Through her teaching and writing, she has documented a robust culture of visual arts production and circulation that takes place among people held in captivity. Like many other people, prisoners often doodle to pass time, but time in prison is like none other. It is seconds, hours, days, years, and decades away from home, loved ones, community, all while held in captivity as a mode of punishment. Doodling for those held in involuntary confinement is an activity that can easily be overlooked or dismissed by guards, wardens, and other enforcers, but one that can be richly symbolic and utilitarian for the imprisoned and detained. It can connect incarcerated people to worlds both experienced and imagined that extend beyond the walls of captivity. Doodling is a mode of creative expression and self-possessiveness that is interior and collective, a type of meandering and temporal engagement that foregrounds the subject(s) in relationship to societal, political, and institutional frameworks. While many jailed artists are described as self-taught, such a label diminishes robust and peer-led artistic training that takes place in prisons and detention institutions in the United States and abroad. In many facilities, accomplished artists mentor and train novice artists. Peer critique circles form; art collectives emerge in which prisoners share resources, skills, and networks. For many participants, drawing is a practice of survival and a marketable skill. Artists in prison barter and trade with other prisoners for hand-drawn portraits of loved ones and celebrities, sketches of tattoos and landscapes, and handmade greeting cards. They exchange art works for commissary goods—coffee, toiletries, ramen noodles—and services—haircuts and legal services, for example. Prison drawings are a palpable means of staying connected with loved ones and social networks outside of prisons. The majority of drawings and other forms of prison art are meant for private consumption. They are sent to relatives, lovers, friends, teachers, and attorneys. Incarcerated artists draw portraits of family members from photographs and create portraits of fellow prisoners and detainees to be sent to their loved ones. In many respects, such drawings serve as modes of belonging; they are visual and material objects shared between loved ones separated by incarceration, offering interpretations that resist the state’s mandate to render prisoners as criminal, suspect, pathological, and/or underserving. Portraiture is among the most common genres of artmaking for those in prison. Apart from their circulation among loved ones and within prisons, drawings by captive artists are also commonly published in prison newsletters and publications by advocacy groups. Among them is The Angolite, a magazine edited and printed by prisoners in Louisiana State Prison since 1975. The Angolite was a result of prisoner-led movements of the 1960s and 1970s to create more humane conditions throughout the United States prison system and to provide more educational, rehabilitative, and creative programs for those held inside.

Phyllis Kornfeld, Cellblock Visions: Prison Art in America (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), 4.

Prisoner Express, a free newsletter published by Durland Alternatives Library and distributed nationwide, publishes drawings from prisoners along with offering a number of correspondence courses, including drawing for those who want to hone their skills. The correspondence drawings are organized and taught by artist Treacy Ziegler who for many years has been working as a volunteer, teaching artists in several prisons, including Trumbull and Grafton Correctional Institutions in Ohio, and through correspondence. Ziegler and volunteers at the organization publish art instructions in the newsletter and send limited materials to artists who otherwise do not have access. They provide written feedback on the work and maintain an ongoing exchange with detainees who have enrolled in their course. Black and Pink, a volunteer-run organization that advocates on behalf on imprisoned LGBTQIA people, collects and publishes drawings and other art forms from queer, trans, and gender-nonconforming prisoners. Works in the Black and Pink collection appear in the organization’s reports and have been shown as part of a previous exhibition entitled On the Inside at Abrons Art Center in New York City.4 An Iconic Prison Portraitist The late artist Inez Nathaniel-Walker, known for her fantastical portraits, began drawing while detained at the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility in the early 1970s. Initially, Walker used prison newsletters and penal documents as surfaces on which to draw her subjects; drawing served as a release from the harsh realities of prison. Walker’s Untitled (Woman with High Hairdo) is exemplary of a survival strategy and aesthetic vision that she cultivated in prison [p. 79]. The portrait consists of a long face of a woman with singularly curled hair follicles, elaborate eyelashes, and large oval eyes. The hair extends down to curve around her cheeks. Her nose is flat and expansive. Like in many of Walker’s work, her subject is dressed in ornate and patterned clothes in a deliberate effort to incorporate fashion as a mode of self-presentation. Untitled (Woman with High Hairdo) is a graphite and color pencil drawing on the reverse of a mimeographed prison newsletter. The work was either gifted or sold to Pat O’Brien Parsons, an art dealer introduced to Walker by an English teacher at Bedford. Walker and Parsons developed a relationship during Walker’s time in prison; Parsons provided the art supplies used for Walker’s monumental portraits.5 She focused on portraits of people she knew and on imagined subjects. Her works consist of large, elongated faces with ornate eyes. The portraits are marked by the artist’s labor-intensive processes of detailing hair as individual follicles and shirts and dresses with meticulous patterns. Unlike most jailed artists, Walker’s art circulated widely outside of prison while she was incarcerated. She became famous for her drawings, and her work has been collected and exhibited internationally. After her release from prison in 1972, Walker continued to draw in the style that she cultivated while locked away, though she was less prolific after her release. She is often described as a folk or outsider artist, a label assigned to many imprisoned artists who develop their craft while held within institutions. While categories of folk and outsider arts function as ways to classify the works of self-taught artists or those who emerge out of state institutions (like prisons or asylums), such classification often does not account for the aesthetic experimentations and creative outputs of incarcerated artists and other creatives on the margins of the larger art world. Fantasy-scapes of Recreation and Freedom For many artists, drawing is an exercise in fantasy and a way of escaping the brutality and tedium of captivity. Valentino Dixon’s drawings of golf courses received national attention when they were featured in Golf Digest magazine in 2012. Like many people 4 5

https://www.abronsartscenter.org/on-view/exhibits/inside-group-show-lgbtq-artists-currently-incarcerated/. Mary-Kay Lombino, “Free to Draw,” in Freehand: Drawings by Inez Nathaniel Walker (Poughkeepsie, NY: Vassar College, 2019).

in prison, Dixon drew as a creative practice of passing time in prison, explaining that his first golf course drawing took fifteen hours.6 Dixon’s works are bright, colorful drawings of highly manicured golf courses, inspired by photographs in golf magazines and other source materials. They feature permutations of greens and blues to produce idyllic sites that Dixon had never visited [p. 114]. He began drawing golf courses after a prison warden asked him “as a favor” to create a drawing of the Augusta National Golf Club’s famous twelfth hole.7 The warden’s request was not uncommon in prison; prison staff and administrators will often ask incarcerated artists to make art for their personal consumption or for gifts. Prisoners are rarely in the position to refuse these requests. The attention that Dixon received for his art led to several investigations into his case, and eventually to his release for wrongful conviction of murder after having served twenty-seven years. Dixon’s story suggests some of the complexity of how art circulates inside prisons and beyond. First, many prisoners like Dixon are “commissioned” by prison staff to make art for private consumption. Many prisoners like Dixon are “commissioned” by prison staff, people who hold enormous power over their livelihood, to make art in exchange for money, goods, or special treatment. Visions of Home Drawings also open up alternative worlds and produce new visions of home. Herman Wallace spent nearly four decades imprisoned at the notorious Louisiana State Penitentiary, also known as Angola after the slave plantation on which it was built. Angola is a penal farm where to this day prisoners are forced to perform agricultural labor; it is also the largest maximum security prison in the world, with over 6,000 prisoners, the majority of whom will die there. Wallace, who died in 2013, was among Angola’s most famous prisoners and a member of the Angola 3, along with Albert Woodfox and Robert King. In the late 1960s– early 1970s, the three men became vocal activists who organized other prisoners to advocate for prison reform and for better conditions at Angola. Together, they helped form a Black Panther Party chapter inside the prison. Wallace, King, and Woodfox were falsely accused of killing prison guard Brent Miller during an uprising in 1972. They were convicted and sentenced indefinitely to solitary confinement, a conviction about which several human rights organizations and news media, including Amnesty International and NPR, have raised serious concerns. In 2003, Wallace and artist jackie sumell began a collaboration to construct Wallace’s dream home, after sumell had written to Wallace, asking of him: “What kind of house does a man who has lived in a 6x9-foot cell for over thirty years dream of?”8 Wallace responded, leading to a decade-long collaboration that has received international attention [p. 113]. Over the years, sumell moved from and between various locations while Wallace remained twenty-three hours per day in solitary confinement. They continued their correspondence and collaboration, with sumell building a cell to scale based on Wallace’s illustration, which was installed at Artists Space, New York, in 2007.9 Wallace’s sister maintained contact with her brother throughout his long sentence and attended the gallery opening. She was photographed sitting in the replica cell that sumell built. Wallace’s drawings of his cell and of the home he imagined outside of prison have been exhibited nationally and have circulated in a number of venues including a book titled The House That Herman Built, along with a documentary film about the Wallace6 7

Valentino Dixon and Max Adler, “Drawings from Prison,” GolfDigest.com, May 20, 2012, https://www.golfdigest.com/story/golf-saved-my-life-valentino-dixon. Max Adler, “For Valentino Dixon, A Wrong Righted,” GolfDigest.com, September 19, 2018, https://www.golfdigest.com/story/for-valentino-dixon-a-wrong-righted-murder-charge-vacatedby-court-after-serving-27-years-in-prison. See James Ridgeway and Jean Casella’s “Torturous Milestone: 40 Years in Solitary,” Mother Jones, April 17, 2012, http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/04/angola-prison-3herman-wallace-albert-woodfox-40-years-solitary-confinement. See list of exhibitions, http://hermanshouse.org/the-exhibit/; and Chris Colin, “Mr. 76759 Designs His Dream House,” The New York Times, Art & Design, March 11, 2007, https://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/11/arts/design/11colin.html.

sumell collaboration titled Herman’s House. Over time, the project grew more ambitious and includes a computer simulation of Wallace’s dream house with a swimming pool, glass bathroom, large open spaces, and African-themed art. The collaboration was meant not only to advocate on Wallace’s behalf, but also to bring broader public awareness to the condition of other political prisoners held in solitary confinement. More than just providing representational space through art, sumell (working with others) sought to supply material space by securing land to construct Wallace’s dream house in New Orleans, the city in which he was born and raised. The collaboration extended beyond the realm of artmaking. When Wallace was diagnosed with liver cancer, sumell and a team of allies and attorneys worked to make sure that he did not die in Angola. Wallace was released from prison on October 1, 2013, after a federal judge ruled that his indictment was unconstitutional. He died a couple of days later, surrounded by his sister, sumell, and other supporters, knowing and stating that he was free. Taken together, the works in The Pencil Is a Key reflect on human individuality and ingenuity by people held in confinement, stripped of mobility and rights, and deemed of little value to society. Moreover, they reflect on the modes of governance that societies have created and supported, globally, at various moments in the past. Imprisonment, indefinite detention, concentration camps, and parole are conditions that exist inasmuch as we allow them. Drawings by people in captivity are reflections of who we are as a society.

Staying with the Trouble Courtenay Finn

Writer and journalist Ta-Nehisi Coates poignantly uses the term “the Gray Waste” to describe the sprawling interconnected web that is our current prison system in the United States.1 Taken from within the cosmology of the role-playing and fantasy game Dungeons & Dragons, the Gray Waste is described as an evil plane of existence and a place of utter hopelessness and despair. Coates evokes the term as a way to draw attention to the abstraction of language that exists around mass incarceration—language that all too often renders people as numbers, burying them in graphs and statistics. By using this term instead of “mass incarceration,” Coates is asking us to acknowledge the inherent violence of our carceral state and to see it for what it is: a system of brutal oppression stretching far and wide across our country. The very conditions that make up the Gray Waste—structural and institutional racism, economic injustice and statesanctioned violence—are at the heart of The Drawing Center’s exhibition The Pencil Is a Key: Drawings by Incarcerated Artists, which presents a collection of works from specific moments in history, ranging from the period of apartheid in South Africa, the Holocaust, and the Brazilian Military Regime, to Japanese American concentration camps and the Arab Spring. The exhibition asks us to examine the interior narratives and expressions produced from within structures of confinement and captivity, demanding that we contemplate the conditions of these artists’ constraints, while simultaneously taking the time to see the world from their perspectives. The collection of drawings offers a powerful counter-narrative to the abstraction of the carceral state, one that viscerally reminds us of the precarity of the human condition. As a curator I believe that the work we do within our arts institutions should not shy away from addressing the fundamental issues facing our constituencies, no matter how tough, multilayered, or divisive they may be. In a non-collecting contemporary art establishment like the Museum of Contemporary Art Cleveland (moCa)—one that operates predominantly with living artists in the production and construction of new 1

Coates writes: “Indeed, if I’d had my druthers, I would not have used the word ‘mass incarceration’ in my latest piece. It is [sic] has the same problem as ‘white privilege’—it’s an abstraction which deadens the very real violence that lurks behind the term. . . . But I did not give up my quest for some new language to evoke what I felt going through the research and reporting. . . . and eventually picked up my old Manual of the Planes and came up with this: ‘The Gray Waste refers to the plane of strongly focused evil within the D&D [Dungeons and Dragons] cosmology; its main theme is that of hopelessness and despair. In the Gray Waste, colors fade to muted shades of gray . . . and the land itself works to remain as soulless as possible. Extended visits to the plane cause travelers to lose interest in leaving; soon after, the entrapping effect of the plane takes over, causing increased apathy and despair. Eventually their sanity and memories fade away, and they become permanent petitioners of the plane.’ . . . You just can’t beat that.” Ta-Nehisi Coates, “Mass Incarceration and the Problem of Language,” The Atlantic, September 16, 2015, https://www.theatlantic.com/notes/2015/09/mass-incarceration-and-the-problem-of-language/405511.

work—the staff’s practice is inherently impacted by the politics of the day. As such, it is imperative that we provide a framework for navigating rough terrain and take the time to question existing narratives while cultivating ways of working that embrace nuance and complexity. Recently an artist recalled to me theorist Donna Haraway’s phrase “staying with the trouble” as a way of reaffirming how important it is to challenge how we arrive at what it is we think we know. Haraway is interested in reconfiguring our relation to our world and environment, positing that we can only learn if we take risks and make mistakes—making and staying with the trouble.2 She challenges us to think through our responsibility and our response-ability, emphasizing that it is not just the act of paying attention, but how we listen, hear, and respond that ultimately will impact how we move forward. Haraway believes we need to learn how to grapple with living and dying and how to unpack our world with all of its inherent contradictions and interconnectivities, in order to be able to build new narratives and, subsequently, new futures. In Cleveland and, and I would argue, all across our nation, staying with the trouble means addressing a world in which oppression, marginalization, and systemic violence continue to exist. It means facing the knowledge that for many, this fear, terror, and brutality have always existed, it’s just that its form or name has morphed and changed over time. Our current system of mass incarceration, one whose effects can be seen throughout our country, has its roots in our nation’s native genocide, in slavery, in the racial-terror of lynching, in segregation, and in the systematic oppression and marginalization of diverse communities. Today, nearly seven million people in the United States are incarcerated, on probation, or on parole.3 We are embedded in a system that perpetuates the normalization of violence, weaponizes time, and renders millions of human beings incredibly vulnerable. The late Harvard sociologist Devah Pager wrote, “Prison is no longer a rare or extreme event among our nation’s most marginalized groups. Rather it has now become a normal and anticipated marker in the transition to adulthood.”4 In Ohio, 78,000 people are currently behind bars and the population of prison inmates aged between fifteen and twenty-nine is steadily growing, having increased over thirty percent in the last decade.5 The effects of our current carceral state are political and for many, deeply personal, but perhaps even more importantly, they are pervasive. Armed with this knowledge and in service to our public—all of whom are impacted by mass incarceration and many of whom have parents, children, or loved ones in the system—how can arts institutions engage in meaningful conversation around such structures of constraint? What might we learn, unlearn, reveal, and reclaim if we dug deeper into the ideologies embedded in the Gray Waste? The Pencil Is a Key explores the multitude of ways in which a prison—by definition a state of confinement or captivity—takes shape. The collected works showcase the widespread and persistent conditions that have been and continue to be used to deny human beings free agency, restrict their movements, and enable cycles of violence. Positioning the exhibition at the center of moCa’s summer 2020 season, we want to make connections between the works on view and our contemporary moment. We will use the show as a platform for larger dialogues around fear, inequality, racism, and our current carceral state, and ultimately, to pose the question: What does liberation look like? A physical prison is by definition meant to keep people in—purposefully removing them from the larger public—yet its very strategy also intentionally keeps the public out. By denying and regulating access to friends and family and monitoring and controlling the imagery that circulates in the media, our prison system enacts a purposeful 2

3 4 5

Donna Haraway with Thyrza Nicols Goodeve, “Speaking Resurgence to Despair/ I’d Rather Stay with the Trouble,” The Brooklyn Rail, December 13, 2017, https://brooklynrail.org/2017/12/art/DONNA-HARAWAY-withThyrza-Nichols-Goodeve. The Equal Justice Initiative, “Mass Incarceration,” accessed July 23, 2019, https://eji.org/mass-incarceration. Devah Pager, Marked: Race, Crime, and Finding Work in an Era of Mass Incarceration (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 5. Prison Policy Initiative, Ohio profile, accessed July 23, 2019, https://www.prisonpolicy.org/profiles/OH.html.

disappearance and erasure of millions of human beings. The recuperation of their voices and their stories is integral to resisting the abstraction of language around our carceral state. Writing from death row, journalist and activist Mumia Abu-Jamal describes the effects of incarceration: “The most profound horror of prison lives in the day-to-day banal occurrences that turn days into months, and months into years, and years into decades. . . . Prison is a second-by-second assault on the soul, a day-to-day degradation of the self, an oppressive steel and brick umbrella that transforms seconds into hours and hours into days.”6 Like the artists in The Pencil Is a Key, Abu-Jamal uses his pencil as a tool to bear witness, to mark existence, and to express resistance. As a collection of works from across the globe, The Pencil Is a Key asks us to reflect on our understanding of imprisonment, captivity, and confinement. What is the image that comes to mind when we think of imprisonment? What happens to a body over time when it is subjected to violence, to day-to-day surveillance and monitoring, or denied agency? What might it mean to create, record, and share under these circumstances? How can we both acknowledge and process the fact that these systems and structures of power continue to persist—vilifying, targeting, and brutalizing people in the very streets, cities, and places where we reside? Anarchism theorist Gustav Landauer once wrote, “The state is a social relationship; a certain way of people relating to one another. It can be destroyed by creating new social relationships; i.e., by people relating to one another differently. . . .”7 Art institutions like The Drawing Center and moCa are made by, populated by, and run by people. As such, I fundamentally believe that we have a mandate to operate as what writer and curator Laura Raicovich lovingly terms a “creative commons”—a collectively held resource, shared and accessible to all.8 Through our work with artists, our institutions can be places where we gather together to learn, unlearn, discuss, and debate the world we live in. The Pencil Is a Key is an evocative reminder that the world has been and continues to be shaped by conditions of fear, oppression, and incarceration, within which artists not only resist, but ultimately persist. The exhibition asks us to consider the politics of visibility around incarceration—who and what is seen—while emphasizing that our past is still very much a part of our present. And in the United States—the country with the highest confinement rate in the world—this is now more important than ever. For there is no hope for liberation, and no chance to fight the epidemic of the Gray Waste, if we refuse to reckon with the conditions of our own history. Artists have always powerfully and eloquently reminded us that art can be a means through which we are able to look beyond our own experiences. In The Pencil Is a Key, the artists ask us to construct new narratives around incarceration, ones that demand that we remember what it is to be human. It might sound naïve to say that art can be a conductor for change, but I do believe if we—as artists, curators, and institutions— ask more questions, examine our landscape from new perspectives, and stay with the trouble, we might just have a chance at it. I definitely think it is worth a try.

6 7 8

E. San Juan, Jr., In the Wake of Terror: Class, Race, Nation, Ethnicity in the Postmodern World (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2007), 52. Gustav Landauer, “Weak Statesmen, Weaker People!” (1910), in G. Kuhn, ed., Revolution and Other Political Writings: A Political Reader (Wales: The Merlin Press Ltd., 2010), 214. Dushko Petrovich and Roger White, eds., As Radical, As Mother, As Salad, As Shelter: What Should Art Institutions Do Now? (New York: Paper Monument, 2018), 79.

Selections from the Exhibition Annotated by Rosario GĂźiraldes (RG), Isabella Kapur (IK), and Duncan Tomlin (DT)

Ed. note The dates and locations of artistsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; births and deaths have been listed beneath their names. In cases when this information was not available, the line has been intentionally left blank or incomplete.

Hubert Robert 1733, Paris–1808, Paris

An Inmate of Saint-Lazare Prison, 1794

French painter Hubert Robert is best known for his capricci, imaginary landscapes that incorporate classical architectural elements observed during his travels in Europe and his eleven years living in Italy. When Robert returned to France his work found great popularity, earning him the affectionate nickname “Robert des Ruines” as well as patrons like Louis XVI who

provided him with several notable positions in French art institutions. During the French Revolution (1789–99) his links to the monarchy led to his incarceration by the French Republic from 1793 to 1794. While imprisoned, he continued to make work, and following his release became curator of the Louvre Museum.—IK

Honoré Daumier 1808, Marseille–1879, Valmondois

Below Chimère de L’imagination (Chimera of the imagination), published in La Caricature no. 118, February 7, 1833, 1833 Opposite, top Misantropie (The Misanthropist), from L'imagination, published in Le Charivari, February 10, 1833, 1833 Opposite, bottom Le Charivari, December 1, 1832–May 31, 1833, 1832–33

Honoré Daumier was a painter and a sculptor as well as one of the major caricaturists of nineteenth-century France, known for his witty and politically pointed lithographs that depicted the daily experiences of the great and the good of Paris under the July Monarchy (1830–48). He contributed to a number of satirical political publications during his long career, most

notably La Caricature and Le Charivari. In 1832, Daumier’s critical and unflattering lithograph, Gargantua (1831), showing King Louis-Philippe as a behemoth literally gobbling up the taxes of the common people, was published in La Caricature. The image led to Daumier’s six-month imprisonment for sedition in Sainte-Pélagie prison in late 1832.—IK

Gustave Courbet 1819, Ornans, France–1877, La Tour-de-Peilz, Switzerland

Les Fédérés à la Conciergerie (Young communards in prison), 1871

French Realist painter Gustave Courbet revolutionized French painting by creating grand, narrative paintings using contemporary subject matter executed in an unidealized, accurate manner. Courbet‘s large-scale canvases featuring figures inspired by the provincial residents of his hometown of Ornans, and later by the radical artistic community of midcentury Paris, overturned nineteenth-century French academic standards that privileged the painting of historical themes, shocking the art public and garnering him fame and notoriety. Courbet participated in the short-lived socialist government of the Commune de Paris, which wrested

the capital from monarchic rule from March 18 to May 28, 1871. During the Commune, Courbet served as President of the Federation of Artists that in April of 1871 voted to dismantle the Vendôme Column, a symbol of the Napoleonic empire. For his part in the destruction of the monument, Courbet was arrested on June 7, 1871, following the defeat of the Commune by the French Army, and subsequently imprisoned for six months. Held responsible for funding the restoration of the column after his release, Courbet fled into exile in Switzerland in 1873.—IK

Richard Dadd 1817, Chatham, England–1886, Berkshire, England

Portrait of Mr. George Bailey, 1855

Richard Dadd studied art from an early age, attending the Royal Academy of Arts in London in 1834. In the summer of 1843, he cut short a study tour through Europe and the Middle East due to what he recognized as his declining mental health. Back in Kent without effective medical treatment, Dadd’s condition, retroactively identified as schizophrenia, worsened. On August 28, 1843, he killed his father, Robert Dadd, who he believed to be possessed by demons. He was subsequently tried and found guilty of murder, which led to his incarceration for the next twenty years in the

Bethlem Royal Hospital (known as Bedlam), followed by a transfer to Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum (now Broadmoor Hospital) in 1864. As he continued to paint and draw during his incarceration, Dadd gained a reputation for his orientalist and fairy scenes. He is best known for The Fairy Feller’s Master Stroke (1855–64), a painting now in the collection of Tate Britain. The work pictured here, one of a series of portraits of hospital workers with whom Dadd came into contact, depicts George Bailey, an employee at Bethlem.—IK

Howling Wolf (Ho-na-nist-to) 1849–1927

Top Untitled ledger drawing, c. 1875 Bottom Untitled ledger drawing (”Osage and Cheyenne Chiefs, Having Been Long at War Making Friends“), c. 1875–78

Howling Wolf (Ho-na-nist-to) was a Southern Cheyenne artist known for the colorful, detailed ledger drawings he produced while incarcerated in the US military’s Fort Marion in St. Augustine, Florida. A genre of artwork created by Southern Plains artists in the nineteenth century, ledger drawing is named for the support—ledger books acquired in trade or by gift from white traders and military officers—on which these artists drew scenes from personal and cultural histories that, by the late nineteenth century, were threatened under the strains of US government policies of land seizure, displacement, cultural erasure, and genocide. As a leader of the Bowstring Society, a Southern Cheyenne military organization, Howling Wolf fought against the United States in the Red River War (1874–75), a campaign waged by the US government to displace

Southern Plains nations in the area that is now Oklahoma and Texas, then known as Kiowa Territory and Oklahoma Territory. In 1875, following the end of that war, which the coalition of Southern Cheyenne, Kiowa, Arapaho, and Comanche lost, Howling Wolf and other leaders who had refused to cede their land were captured by the US Army and incarcerated in Fort Sill (in present-day Oklahoma) before being transferred to Fort Marion for a three-year sentence. At Fort Marion, approximately one-third of the seventy-two incarcerated Southern Plains leaders created ledger drawings. While Howling Wolf was taken to Fort Marion, the rest of the Southern Cheyenne population was forced onto reservations in the area that is now Oklahoma.—IK

Bear’s Heart (Nokkoist) 1851–1882

Recto and verso of untitled ledger drawing, c. 1875–78

Like fellow ledger drawing artists Howling Wolf and Etahdleuh Doanmoe, Southern Cheyenne artist Bear’s Heart (Nokkoist) was captured by the US Army following the end of the Red River War (1874–75) and taken to Fort Marion in St. Augustine, Florida. At Fort Marion, Bear’s Heart drew images recounting the journey southeast to Florida, many including boats and trains as shown here. Twenty-four years of age when he was

taken to Fort Marion, after his release Bear’s Heart went to Hampton Institute, a school in Virginia founded to provide education to former slaves. In 1881, he left Hampton Institute, returning to what had become the Cheyenne-Arapaho Agency, a reservation established at the end of the Red River War in the territory that is now Oklahoma. Nokkoist died from tuberculosis at the age of thirty-one.—IK

Etahdleuh Doanmoe 1856, Kiowa Reservation–1888, Indian Territory

Untitled ledger drawing (“The Indians Coming From Fort Marion St. Augustine Florida, To Hampton, VA April 1878”), c. 1875–78

Etahdleuh Doanmoe was a member of the Kiowa nation who was arrested for resisting white buffalo poachers in Southern Plains territory, now roughly the area where Oklahoma and Texas are located. Taken first to Fort Sill, in present day Oklahoma, Doanmoe was transferred to the US Army’s Fort Marion in St. Augustine, Florida. Imprisoned along with seventy-one other leaders from Southern Plains nations who refused to cede their people’s land to the United States, Doanmoe was kept in Fort Marion for three years. During this time, he began to draw, producing over sixty drawings on ledger paper bartered from his captors. Doanmoe’s drawings incorporate scenes

from his time as a fighter and as a prisoner in US Army forts. After he was released from Fort Marion, Doanmoe became one of the first students at Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Carlisle, PA, one of many institutions of forced assimilation designed to simultaneously teach European-American beliefs and to erase Native American cultural identities. Carlisle was created for Native Americans with the stated goal, in the words of founder Lt. Colonel Richard Henry Pratt, to “Kill the Indian, Save the Man.” Doanmoe died of tuberculosis in 1888, one of hundreds of Carlisle students who perished as a result of disease and poor conditions at the school.—IK

Marc Chauchard (Paul Cochard)

Mazas en dessins (Mazas drawn), c. 1890

Marc Chauchard, sometimes known as Paul Cochard, was incarcerated in Mazas Prison, a building in Paris designed by architect Emile Gilbert with a radiating floor plan based on Jeremy Bentham’s panoptic theory to facilitate the surveillance and isolation of prisoners. According to Bentham, the combination of surveillance and isolation would recondition habitually criminal prisoners, transforming them into law-abiding citizens. Penal codes for commonlaw sentencing after the establishment of a parliamentary

monarchy in France in 1871 dictated that inmates must perform occupational work according to their individual capabilities, most often manufacturing goods for government departments. Chauchard, apparently demonstrating a talent for calligraphy and bookbinding, was tasked with maintaining the prison’s library, where he produced a series of eleven colored drawings illustrating Mazas’s internal structure and detailing the roles and daily lives of his fellow inmates.—DT

Maximilien Luce 1858, Paris–1941, Paris

Self-portrait in Mazas Prison, 1894

A prolific neo-impressionist, the French painter Maximilien Luce exhibited frequently in Paris to significant critical acclaim. Throughout his long career, Luce openly aligned himself with socialist and anarchist publications. On July 8, 1894, he was arrested on suspicion of involvement in the assassination of

French President Marie François Sadie Carnot, which led to his incarceration in Mazas Prison in Paris. Upon his acquittal, Luce published Mazas, a series of lithographs documenting his experience based on sketches he had drawn while imprisoned, including the self-portrait presented here.—DT

Fanfan (Émile Simonet) 1911, France

Chez le Père Lunette (At the Père Lunette), 1930

Lifelong criminal and leader of the French street gang Les Kangourous du Bois Noir (Kangaroos of the Black Wood), Émile Simonet, known as Fanfan, was arrested in 1930 and detained at Saint-Joseph Prison in Lyon. Upon arrival, he met Dr. Jean Lacassagne, a prison doctor fascinated by Fanfan’s drawing talent. Encouraged to exercise his artistic impulses, Fanfan produced several series of illustrations and a written autobiography detailing his difficult childhood

and his corruption at the hands of society. Fanfan was ultimately transferred to French Guyana to finish his sentence, an outcome he anticipated with imaginative drawings depicting scenes from South American penal colonies. When the French government finally shuttered these facilities after World War II, Fanfan was allowed to return to France, where he found work as a newspaper draftsman.—DT

Migron

Malheur (Misfortune) from La Vie! (Life!), 1932

When Mazas prison was demolished in preparation for the 1900 Paris Exposition, inmate Migron was transferred to Saint-Joseph Prison in Lyon, France. At Saint-Joseph, he produced a group of drawings collectively entitled La Vie! (Life!). In a series of eight ink-and-colored-pencil panels

divided across four pages, Migron’s drawings tell the story of a happily married man turned murderous by rage over his wife’s infidelity. Each panel bears a dramatic header inscription describing the scene it depicts.—DT

Adolf Wölfli 1864, Bern–1930, Bern

The Kander Valley in the Bernese Oberland, 1926

Born in Bern, Switzerland, Adolf Wölfli grew up in extreme poverty. The youngest of seven children, Wölfli was only six years old when his father abandoned the family. Swiss authorities resettled Wölfli and his mother in the village of Schangnau and charged the local community with the family’s economic support on the condition that both mother and son perform farm labor. After his mother died in 1873, Wölfli was relegated to a series of foster homes where he experienced various forms of abuse. Beginning in 1890, Wölfli was arrested multiple times for the attempted sexual assault of minors. He was committed to Waldau Mental Asylum near Bern in 1899

where he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. At Waldau, Wölfli demonstrated a fascination with drawing. For the remainder of his life, Wölfli lived at Waldau, where he developed a vast and interconnected body of drawings, diagrams, musical scores, and semi-autobiographical books of fantasy and adventure that reimagined and reinvented his personal history. The drawing pictured here is a single-sheet work of “bread art,” or work that Wölfli intended to sell in order to support himself while at Waldau. It makes reference to the geography of the imagined universe in which the artist's alternate reality autobiography unfolds.—DT

Greeting Cards from the Soviet Gulag

Below Recto and verso of Открытка самодельная “Желаю младенцу...” (Homemade postcard “I wish the baby…”), 1950–53 Opposite, top Пасхальная открытка (Easter Card), 1949–54 Opposite, bottom Postcard from Gulag, 1950

The prison system colloquially called the Gulag, and named after its organizing body in the Soviet government, constituted a network of forced-labor camps primarily located in Siberia that were used to detain political opponents and suspected enemies of the USSR from the late 1920s to the early 1950s. Although there were precedents under the leadership of Vladimir Lenin, the Gulag first received public recognition on April 25, 1930, when it was incorporated into a government entity under the control of Joseph Stalin. Prisoners were sentenced without trial to perform grueling labor under brutal conditions of cold weather and starvation. Yearly death rates in these camps were as high as twenty percent. Though their official purpose was reeducation, the camps were designed primarily to facilitate massive construction projects such as transcontinental

roadways, and to facilitate a steady flow of raw materials from the furthest reaches of the Republic to the Soviet central government. The Gulag camps were not fully abolished until after 1950, by which point historians estimate that between two and six million people had been either killed or fatally overworked by the camp system. The anonymous cards shown here feature holiday greetings and were collected by a prisoner named Irina Ugrimova while she was detained at Minlag, a special labor camp for political prisoners within the Gulag system. These materials can now be found in the collection of the International Memorial Museum, the collecting branch of the Memorial Organization founded in Moscow in 1987 during perestroika, a period of economic and social reform in the USSR.—IK

Alexey Wangenheim 1881, Krapiwna, Imperial Russia–1937, Sandarmoch, USSR

Below, top to bottom Recto and verso of Полное солнечное затмение (Total solar eclipse), c. 1934–37 / Recto and verso of Полярное сияние (Polar lights), c. 1934–37 / Recto and verso of Полярное сияние 23 фераля 1936 г (Polar lights February 23, 1936), 1936 Opposite, top to bottom Recto and verso of Начало солнечного затмения (The beginning of a solar eclipse), 1936 / Recto and verso of Момент полного солнечного затмения (Moment of total solar eclipse), 1936 / Recto and verso of Наибольшее покрытие луной солнца 19 июня 1936 года в Москве (The greatest coverage of the moon over the sun June 19, 1936, in Moscow), 1936

Born to a noble family, Alexey Wangenheim was a universityeducated meteorologist and natural scientist from Chernihiv Province in modern-day Ukraine who joined the Communist Party as director of the USSR Hydrometeorological Department. Though surviving correspondence indicates his steadfast loyalty to Stalin‘s regime, Wangenheim was accused of treasonous subterfuge in falsifying weather reports and imprisoned in the Gulag’s first “rehabilitation center,”

in this case a converted fifteenth-century monastery in the Solovetsky Islands. While incarcerated, Wangenheim wrote and illustrated numerous educational postcards to his daughter, Eleonora, including depictions of local flora and fauna, views of the White Sea, and even the aurora borealis. Wangenheim was killed by the Soviet government in a 1937 mass execution of prisoners.—DT

Józef Czapski 1896, Prague–1993, Maisons-Laffitte, France

Pages from Lectures on Proust, c. 1940–41

Born into an aristocratic Polish family, Józef Czapski grew up in a partitioned Poland ruled by the Russian Empire. After the Russian Revolution, the USSR seized his family’s assets. In the 1920s, Czapski moved to Paris to pursue a career as a painter. Returning to Poland as an army officer at the dawn of World War II, Czapski was captured by Nazi soldiers and transferred to Gryazovets, a Soviet prison, where he miraculously avoided the fate of 22,000 other Polish military officers executed on Stalin’s orders in what came to be known as the Katyn Forest Massacre. While incarcerated, Czapski participated in a lecture series designed to stave off demoralization among his fellow prisoners. He delivered a series of talks on Marcel Proust’s seven-part novel À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), which he plotted beforehand in exuberant,

schematic drawings meant to inform his unscripted lectures. Pictured here are reproductions of the schematic drawings Czapski used to develop his lectures on Proust. The texts of the transcribed lectures were originally written in French, but were translated into Polish in 1949 when published for the first time. In 1987, Czapski‘s Proust lectures and accompanying drawings were published in the original French. Photos were then taken of the drawings; the originals have been missing ever since. The following pages show a double-sided sketch of a sleeping man from a notebook Czapski kept while imprisoned. The lower right of one side bears the inscription ”Gryazovets Prison, 1941.“ Scholars have identified the subject of the portrait as Czapski‘s fellow prisoner and lecturer, Adam Moszynski.—DT

Recto and verso of Griazowiec, Sleeping Man, 1941

Marcus Behmer 1879, Weimar, Imperial Germany–1958, West Berlin

Below Apokalypse 9, 1937 Opposite, top Untitled (Study for Gefährliche Meerfahrt hinter Schloss und Riegel [Dangerous sea journey past lock and bars]), 1936 Opposite, bottom Hirschen-Salome, 1937

Born in the city of Weimar, Germany, Marcus Behmer began painting at an early age under the guidance of his father, who was also a painter. He worked primarily as a book illustrator and graphic designer, first achieving success in 1903 for illustrating Oscar Wilde’s Salome. That same year, Behmer joined the first known gay rights organization in the world, the ScientificHumanitarian Committee, in Berlin. Thirty-four years later, in

1937, under the Nazi regime, he was sentenced to two years in prison in southern Germany for the crime of homosexuality. Despite being banned from drawing, exhibiting, and publishing by the Reichskunstkammer (the Third Reich’s Ministry for Arts), Behmer was recognized for his talent by a prison warden, who allowed him to continue drawing during the two years he was incarcerated.—RG

Hans Bellmer 1902, Katowice, Imperial Germany–1975, Paris

Below Untitled, 1940 Opposite Les Milles, 1939

Born in Katowice, then part of the German Empire, Hans Bellmer worked as a draftsman for his own advertising company in Berlin. Sometime after 1926, Bellmer renounced this occupation and began to explore an artistic vision centered on photographs of sculptural dolls posed in eroticized and uncanny tableaus. Whether in protest of fascist ideologies, or catalyzed by deeply psychological personal events, the visceral photographic practice Bellmer developed with his dolls in Berlin won him acclaim among Parisian surrealists. Unfortunately, Bellmer’s work was rejected by publishers in his native Germany, and

the Third Reich later labeled him a “degenerate artist.” Bellmer fled to France, where soon after his arrival, at the outset of French combat with Germany, authorities detained him as a suspected German sympathizer. Bellmer was then incarcerated in the Camp des Milles in Aix-en-Provence from 1939–1940 alongside other notable German artists like Wols and Max Ernst. Bellmer’s incarceration loomed large in the iconography of the drawings he made at the Camp des Milles, particularly in his motif of bricks, referencing the Camp des Milles‘ former identity as a brick factory.—DT

Wols (Alfred Otto Wolfgang Schulze) 1913, Berlin–1951, Paris

Untitled, c. 1940–41

Alfred Otto Wolfgang Schulze, known professionally as Wols, was the son of an affluent civil servant and patron of the arts and grew up in Berlin and Dresden surrounded by members of German high society. Wols’s artistic career began when he enrolled as a photography student at the Reimann School of Art and Design, but it quickly derailed when he left home on an extended sojourn through the Spanish Mediterranean. In 1936, Wols sought permission

to settle in France as a registered German army deserter, and for several years exhibited his paintings in prestigious Parisian galleries. At the outset of World War II, Wols was interned in the Camp des Milles in Aix-en-Provence alongside Max Ernst and Hans Bellmer, among others. Wols managed to escape in 1940, living in hiding near Marseilles for the remainder of the war.—DT

Halina Olomucki 1919, Warsaw–2007, Ashkelon, Israel

Below, left Back to Life, c. 1939–42 Below, right The Chimney, c. 1939–42 Opposite, top The Prayer, c. 1939–42 Opposite, bottom The Woman and the Agony, c. 1939–42

During the Second World War, over half of the Jewish population of Europe—six million individuals from across the continent— fell victim to a genocide committed by Nazi Germany and its collaborators. Starting in 1933, shortly after the election of Adolf Hitler as Chancellor, the Nazi government established segregated ghettos and facilities called Konzentrationslager (concentration camps) for the detention, forced labor, torture, and killing of political prisoners and cultural and ethnic minorities. This period of incarceration and murder ended only with the German surrender to Allied forces in May of 1945. Halina Olomucki was born in Warsaw to non-observant Jewish parents who ran a newspaper distribution service. When Nazi forces invaded Poland in 1939, Olomucki and her family were captured and incarcerated in the Warsaw Ghetto, where they were enlisted in forced labor programs. Olomucki

continued to sketch scenes of daily life in the ghetto, viewing herself as a vital chronicler of her community’s suffering. By dropping bundles of drawings along the way to her labor assignments, Olomucki was able to smuggle her work out of the ghetto to her friends in the rest of the city. Authorities eventually deported Olomucki to Majdanek, an extermination camp in German-occupied Poland, where she survived four consecutive selections of prisoners to be executed. When a guard discovered her talent for drawing, Olomucki was tasked with the job of painting slogans around the camp. During this period, Olomucki covertly produced images for her fellow prisoners, hiding them around the barracks. As Soviet forces advanced, Olomucki survived a series of death marches and was finally liberated by Allied troops at Neustadt-Glewe on May 2, 1945.—DT

Alexander Bogen 1916, Tartu, Imperial Russia–2010, Tel Aviv

Below Sadness, 1944 Opposite, top Rescue, 1943 Opposite, bottom Expulsion, 1943

Alexander Bogen was born to a Polish-Jewish family in Estonia and grew up in Vilnius, Lithuania. As a young man, he studied painting and sculpture at Stefan Batory University, also known as Vilnius University, but his education came to an end in 1941 when Germany occupied Lithuania. Fleeing east, Bogen and his wife were captured in Minsk and imprisoned in the Svintsyan Ghetto—one of many segregated, unsanitary, and walled-off city districts where Jews were forced to live by the Nazi Regime and its collaborators—before being transferred to the Vilnius Ghetto (also referred to as the Vilna Ghetto). During his time

in the ghettos, Bogen continued to create art, producing portraits and scenes drawn from his surroundings. Following his escape from the Vilnius Ghetto as part of the resistance, Bogen drew while serving as a partisan in Narotz forest, documenting his fellow fighters. In 1943 he broke back into the Vilnius Ghetto and facilitated the escape of 150 members of the Jewish resistance, including his wife and mother-in-law. The works pictured here come from Bogen’s time in the ghetto, where he was driven by an internal compulsion to document, resist, and survive.—IK

Felix Nussbaum 1904, Osnabrück, Imperial Germany–1944, Auschwitz, Nazi-occupied Poland

Below Study of Skeleton Playing a Clarinet for the Painting "Death Triumphant", c. 1944 Opposite Study of Skeleton Playing a Clarinet for the Painting "Death Triumphant", c. 1944

Felix Nussbaum was born in 1904 to middle-class Jewish parents in Osnabrück, Germany. A painter from an early age, Nussbaum studied as an artist in the 1920s and 1930s; in 1932, he traveled on a scholarship to Rome with the Berlin Academy of Arts. As antisemitism became stronger and more widespread in German society, Nussbaum lost his scholarship and left Rome, traveling to Switzerland, France, and finally to Belgium. There he lived in exile until May 10, 1940, when he was arrested by the Belgian authorities following the German

invasion of Belgium on May 8. He was incarcerated at St. Cyprien concentration camp in France, where he painted work that referenced isolation, restriction, and encroaching death. Escaping from St. Cyprien later the same year, Nussbaum took refuge in Brussels, hidden by Belgian friends. On June 20, 1944, Nussbaum and his wife, Felka Platek, were again arrested by Nazi troops and deported to Auschwitz extermination camp, where they were murdered on August 9, 1944.—IK

Henry Fukuhara 1913, Fruitland, CA–2010, Yorba Linda, CA

Top Untitled (Dam), 1942 Bottom Untitled (Architectural Drawing of Barracks), 1943

Watercolorist Henry Fukuhara was born in Fruitland, California, and grew up outside of Santa Monica. Before the Great Depression made it impossible for him to continue his education, Fukuhara trained as an artist at Otis Art Institute in Los Angeles. On February 19, 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, allowing the United States Federal Government to designate areas where Japanese Americans were not permitted to reside—the majority of the West Coast, excluding Hawaii—and areas from which, once moved by the US Government, they would not be able to leave without the permission of the Secretary of War. Approximately 120,000 Japanese Americans, two-thirds of whom were United States citizens like Fukuhara, were forced to abandon their homes, jobs, and the majority of their belongings for US Army-

run “Assembly Centers,” from which they were then transferred to ten concentration camps (alternately called internment camps, evacuation centers, and relocation centers by the US government), throughout the southern and midwestern United States. Fukuhara was forced to move, with his family, to Manzanar, a concentration camp in Inyo County, California, where he sketched the experiences of life in the camp. He also produced a series of architectural drawings depicting aspirational buildings that for the most part would never be constructed at the camps, including a massive hydroelectric dam. In 1943, Fukuhara and his family were able to move to Long Island, where they ran a floral business for the next forty years. He returned to painting and drawing in 1972.—IK

Toshiki (Dick) Hamaoka c. 1918, Los Angeles

Toshiki (Dick) Hamaoka was twenty-five when he was incarcerated by the US government at Tule Lake, California, having already been forced from his home in Los Angeles and brought to the Santa Anita Racetrack and then to Granada War Relocation Center. Hamaoka, an artist and photographer, was hired by Marvin Opler, War Relocation Authority anthropologist and outspoken critic of Japanese American internment, to record life at Tule Lake concentration camp.

Boy’s Festival in May, c. 1942–44

In a show of defiant cultural pride in the face of racially motivated incarceration, Hamaoka made watercolors of events including the Boy’s Day (now called Kodomo no Hi, or Children’s Day) festival complete with fluttering carp streamers hoisted over the barracks. Executive Order 9066, which allowed for the creation of the camps, was revoked in 1944, and in 1945, Hamaoka repatriated to Japan.—IK

Miné Okubo 1912, Riverside, CA–2001, New York City

Below Untitled (Single Figure with Arms Raised), c. 1942–44 Opposite Untitled (Mother Bending over Child), c. 1942–44

Before the outbreak of World War II, Miné Okubo was an accomplished artist and curator with a BFA from UC-Berkeley who had contributed to several Works Progress Administration murals, and who had curated two exhibitions at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. In 1942, she was forced by the US government to move first to the horse stable cells of Tanforan Racetrack near San Francisco, and then to

Topaz internment camp in Utah. While incarcerated in both locations, Okubo founded in-camp art schools and produced illustrations for publications, including the literary magazine Trek, for which she served as art editor. Okubo’s incarceration ended in 1944, when, having seen her work in Trek, Fortune magazine hired her as an illustrator, enabling her to move to New York.—IK

Ruth Asawa 1926, Norwalk, CAâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;2013, San Francisco

Below Sumo Wrestlers, 1943 Opposite On the Bayou, 1943

Ruth Asawa became known for her biomorphically abstract woven wire sculptures in the 1950s after attending Black Mountain College, where she studied with Josef Albers, Merce Cunningham, and Buckminster Fuller. A decade earlier, at the age of sixteen, Asawa was incarcerated alongside her mother and five siblings, first at the Santa Anita Racetrack, and later at the Rohwer Relocation Center in Rohwer, Arkansas, as

part of the mass internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. During her seventeen month incarceration from April 1942 to August 1943, Asawa studied with Walt Disney Studios animators who were interned alongside her, and developed her drawing and painting skills, even serving as art editor for her high school yearbook.â&#x20AC;&#x201D;IK

Martín Ramírez 1885, Jalisco–1963, Auburn, CA

Untitled (Train), 1953

With the hope of supporting his wife and children, Martín Ramírez left Mexico for the United States in 1925 to work on railroad and mining crews in California. In 1931, following time as a drifter during the Great Depression, he was arrested for reasons that remain obscure. Once arrested, Ramírez was diagnosed with manic-depression and later catatonic schizophrenia, diagnoses that have been challenged following his death (persistent myths

that Ramírez did not or could not speak were recently disproven). He was transferred between a number of psychiatric facilities before ending up in DeWitt State Hospital in Auburn, CA, in 1948, where he began to draw, creating composite paper surfaces on which he explored what appear to be memories of his former home in Mexico as well as experiences from his time spent as a railroad and mine worker.—IK

Purvis Young 1943, Miami–2010, Miami

Below Untitled, 1964 Opposite, top Untitled, 1964 Opposite, bottom Untitled, 1964

As a teenager, Purvis Young was arrested for breaking and entering, serving a two-year sentence at North Florida‘s Raiford State Penitentiary from 1961–64. While incarcerated, Young began to draw, relying on art history textbooks from the prison library for guidance. Soon after his release, Young moved to the historic Overtown district of Miami, a formerly segregated and predominantly black neighborhood that had been economically and socially cut off by the construction of the I-95 freeway. In Overtown, Young continued to draw and paint, using found materials and developing a characteristic, semiabstract figurative style. When asked about his work, Young

professed a desire to spread “peace in the world,” viewing his output as a visceral response to Overtown’s elevated rate of violent crime. A public art project in Overtown’s notorious Goodbread Alley from 1971 to 1974 brought broader attention to Young’s work and subsequent gallery and museum shows established his reputation as a significant figure in postwar American art. The works pictured here represent some of Young's earliest output and demonstrate the origins of his signature techniques like overdrawing, and motifs like cityscapes and landscapes populated by partially disembodied figures.—DT

Frank Jones 1900, Clarksville, TX–1969, Huntsville, TX

Born with a caul over his left eye, Frank Jones saw supernatural visions, beginning in childhood, which he identified as “haints” or “devils.” These figures would populate the drawings that he made toward the end of his life. Jones began his drawing practice in 1964, four years into his third incarceration at Huntsville State Prison in Texas. Using discarded accountant’s pencils that he collected from the prison recreation office, Jones drew his

Devil House, c. 1964–69

supernatural scenes using red to represent fire and blue to represent smoke. Filled with spiked horns, clocks, and devils trapped inside their own prisons, Jones’s drawings were included in a group exhibition of prison art in 1964 and in a solo exhibition shortly afterward, events that increased Jones’s access to art supplies and encouraged his production. Jones died from liver disease in February of 1969, five years into his artistic career.—IK

Inez Nathaniel-Walker 1911, Sumter, SC–1990, Willard, NY

Below Untitled, c. 1971–72 Opposite Untitled (Woman with High Hairdo), c. 1972

Born Inez Stedman in Sumter, South Carolina, Inez NathanielWalker was orphaned at a young age and grew up in poverty as a farm laborer. After marrying at age sixteen and having four children, Nathaniel-Walker participated in the Great Migration of the 1930s, traveling to Philadelphia to escape the difficulties of living in the rural Jim Crow South. During the late 1960s, a fatal altercation with a male abuser resulted in Nathaniel-Walker’s

conviction for negligent homicide, a crime for which she served a two-year sentence in the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility in New York from 1971 to 1972. While incarcerated, Nathaniel-Walker began to draw, her talents encouraged by a prison educator. Upon her release, Nathaniel-Walker remarried, and settled into a long career as an artist in the Finger Lakes region of New York State.—DT

Below Untitled, c. 1971â&#x20AC;&#x201C;72 Opposite Untitled (Bob Hope Brother Lee. Hope), c. 1971â&#x20AC;&#x201C;72

Sérgio Sister 1948, São Paulo

Below Chuáaa, 1970 Opposite, top How about running away from jail, 1970 Opposite, bottom Impress your feelings with your fingerprint, 1970

Artist and journalist Sérgio Sister was nineteen years old when he joined the Brazilian Revolutionary Communist Party. On January 17, 1970, he was arrested by forces of the Brazilian military dictatorship and detained for six months in São Paulo, where he was tortured during violent interrogation sessions. He was later transferred to Tiradentes prison, where he was held until August 1971. In prison, Sister drew every day both

as a way to record what was happening and to maintain his sanity. Abundantly colorful, his drawings from prison are reminiscent of a political form of the genre of Pop Art that was popular in Brazil at the time. Sister never gave up his activism— after his release he worked for the Union of Journalists, and in 1979 he co-founded PT (Partido dos Trabalhadores), the Brazilian Workers’ Party.—RG

Lily Ester Rivas Labbé 1935, Cañete, Chile–

Below Untitled, c. 1973–74 Opposite Untitled, 1973

In 1973, Chile’s military overthrew the democratically elected government of President Salvador Allende, instating General Augusto Pinochet at the helm of a military junta. On September 11, 1973, professor of geography and history Lily Ester Rivas Labbé was detained in her home by police forces of the Pinochet regime, and driven to the city’s stadium for her participation in the Revolutionary Left Movement. After brief transfers to the navy base in Talcacuaho in the Biobío Region of Chile, and later to Quiriquina Island in the bay of Concepción, Rivas was finally transferred to the Estadio Regional (the regional stadium) in Concepción where she found her calling as an artist. At Estadio Regional, which operated as a prison camp from 1973 to 1974, prisoners were allowed controlled

communication with their families, and were allowed to receive wrapped packages with food and clothes. Using the reverse of the wrapping paper as a surface, Rivas sketched her surroundings in the camp, including figures lounging at the soccer field visible from the Estadio Regional. On January 20, 1974, Rivas was transferred to the city’s public jail, and at the end of April of the same year, to the Cárcel de Mujeres del Buen Pastor (the women’s jail), also in Concepción, where she was held until September 11, 1974, when she was transferred to the Tres Alamos prison camp in Santiago. On June 8, 1975, Rivas was exiled from the country, traveling directly from Tres Alamos to Sweden. Her exile revoked, she returned to Chile on December 26, 1978.—RG

Miguel Lawner Steiman 1928, Santiago, Chile–

Below Nada Puede Separarnos (Nothing can separate us), 1974 Opposite Navidad en Ritoque (Christmas in Ritoque), 1974

Miguel Lawner Steiman joined the Communist Party in 1945 at age seventeen, a year before enrolling in the School of Architecture at the University of Chile, from which he graduated in 1954. When detained on September 12, 1973, Lawner Steiman was Executive Director of the Urban Improvement Corporation (CORMU), an organization in charge of urban regeneration programs and of public housing projects for army officers. Lawner was one of tens of thousands of

Chilean citizens suspected of political opposition who were detained and tortured by military agents of the Pinochet dictatorship. Eventually, Lawner was confined to the Compingim concentration camp, located on Dawson Island in the extreme south of Chile, where the work pictured was created. An already talented draftsperson, Lawner drew copiously at Compingim, both as a therapeutic practice and, in his own words, “with the purpose to give testimony of what had happened there.”—RG

Adam Policzer 1938, Miskolc, Hungary–

Caliche, 1974

Born in Hungary to Jewish parents at the dawn of World War II, Adam Policzer survived the Holocaust by hiding among his aunt’s Christian neighbors. After the end of the war, he was reunited with his father, who had fled to Chile in 1939. Living in Santiago, Policzer studied architecture at the University of Chile and developed a strong affinity with leftist political ideals. When Salvador Allende won the election of 1970, Policzer joined the Socialist Party and became a member of the government‘s Urban Improvement Corporation (CORMU). Following the 1973 military coup, Policzer was forced to

resign from his post, and soon after was detained. Incarcerated in various Chilean prisons over the course of a single year— including Estadio Chile, Chacabuco, Ritoque, and Tres Alamos—Policzer began drawing at Estadio Chile in early 1974, when his wife was allowed to visit and brought him drawing supplies. The drawing shown here features “Caliche,” a quiet and friendly midsize mongrel dog that lived on his block and who would sit without moving long enough that he could draw the animal‘s portrait. After his release, Policzer went into exile in Canada with his wife and children.—IK

Rodrigo Silva Vial 1954, Valparaíso–

Untitled, 1975

At the age of eighteen Rodrigo Silva Vial was detained by General Augusto Pinochet’s military agents and subjected to long sessions of torture, harassment, and interrogation in Santiago. Later, he was transferred to the prison camp on Isla Riesco which would become known as Tres Equis, where he and other prisoners endured forced labor. Courtesy of the Red Cross, prisoners at Tres Equis were allowed limited correspondence with their families. As a result, Vial received a small supply of drawing materials. Vial was freed in 1973 after having been forced to sign a document that he wasn’t allowed

to read. The text on the upper corner of the drawing pictured here reads: “This is the view from the door of my little cabin. Nice, right?” As in other violent, repressive dictatorships during the twentieth century, those citizens extrajudicially detained and murdered under General Augusto Pinochet’s regime came to be known as “the disappeared.” Pinochet held power until 1988, when, under mounting national and international pressure, he allowed political parties to reemerge, and Chile’s population voted to end his term.—RG

Fatima Meer 1928, Durban, South Africa–2010, Durban

Below, left Favourite Pastime, 1976 Below, right Detainees’ Cells (2), 1976 Opposite, top to bottom Morning in the Prison Yard, 1976 / The Prisoners, 1976 / Winnie Mandela in Prison, 1976

South African apartheid (Afrikaans for “Apartness”) was a legal policy of segregation implemented by the Afrikaner Nationalist Party government beginning in 1948 and was an extension of preexisting discriminatory South African policies and behaviors. This period was defined by laws that physically restricted Black South Africans’ access to public spaces and services, and that rendered black South Africans, people of mixed heritage, and Asian South Africans non-citizens. The laws put in place to uphold apartheid were repealed in 1990, though the economic and social effects of this prolonged period of racial segregation persist to this day. South African writer, academic, and anti-apartheid leader Fatima Meer became an anti-apartheid activist at an early age when she joined a Trotskyist group while attending the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg. Meer helped lead the Women’s March against apartheid in 1956 and founded numerous anti-apartheid organizations, including the Student Passive Resistance Committee, the Durban District Women‘s League, and the Federation of South African Women. In 1952,

Meer received her first “banning,” a term denoting South African government censorship. During the 1970s, she was “banned” again, and in 1976, she was detained in solitary confinement in the Women’s Jail at Constitution Hill along with ten members of the Black Women’s Federation. Meer’s drawings, accomplished using whatever materials she had at hand—recycled paper, old books and maps, felt-tip pens, paint—depict the quotidian struggles and private moments of women who were detained and imprisoned by the South African government during the liberation struggle in South Africa. After the collapse of apartheid as a result of peaceful protest, in the mid 1990s South Africa’s first Constitutional Court established the Old Fort prison complex at Constitution Hill as the new court building, an acknowledgment of the site’s historical significance. In 2004, along with the renovated court building, Constitution Hill opened as a living museum to the history of apartheid resistance and the growth of democracy in South Africa. Meer’s drawings appear in a permanent exhibition at Constitution Hill.—RG, DT

Below and opposite Recto and verso of My Cell (1), 1976

Ibrahim El-Salahi 1930, Omdurman, Sudan–

Pages from Prison Notebook, 1976

Sudanese artist Ibrahim El-Salahi is known as a founder of the Khartoum School, a movement that utilized motifs pulled from a dual African and Islamic heritage alongside abstracted Arabic calligraphy to create an aesthetic known as hurufiyya. In 1975, El-Salahi, then working at the Sudanese Department of Culture, was wrongfully accused of anti-governmental activities and incarcerated in Cooper Prison without trial for a period of six months. During his imprisonment, fearing solitary confinement, El-Salahi developed a method of working only on very small, easily hidden sections of a work at a time, which he called “embryos

of an idea.” The notebook pictured here was produced during the period of house arrest that followed his time in prison, and uses the same small-scale drawing, as well as writing, to document El-Salahi’s experience of imprisonment. When his incarceration ended, El-Salahi went into exile, eventually landing in the United Kingdom. Today he lives and works in Oxford, England. The original notebook is currently on view at The Museum of Modern Art, New York, and a digitization of the work is shown at The Drawing Center with the permission of The Museum of Modern Art and the Prince Claus Fund.—IK

Pages from Prison Notebook, 1976

Ángel Delgado 1965, Havana–

Serie Papeles del Tanque (Papers from the Tank Series), 1990 Below 41 Opposite, clockwise from top left 07, 14, 32, 23

In 1990, Ángel Delgado executed an unexpected performance piece during the opening of the exhibition El objeto esculturado (The sculpted object) at El Centro de Desarrollo de Artes Visuales in Havana. Positioned in the middle of one of the galleries, Delgado defecated onto pages from the newspaper Granma, the official publication of the Cuban Communist Party. As a result, he was sentenced to six months in prison. While

incarcerated, Delgado developed a symbolically charged drawing practice around two personal hieroglyphic systems, one pictographic and one ideographic. Though Delgado does not share the key to decipher his hieroglyphs, these drawings explore the realities of Delgado’s prison experiences, addressing interactions with guards, unhygienic conditions, forced work, and sexual deprivation.—IK

Welmon Sharlhorne 1952, Houma, LA–

Below The Eight Ball Company, c. 1996 Opposite The Demon Coming Out of the House, c. 1996

Welmon Sharlhorne grew up in Houma, Louisiana—the fourth of seventeen children. At age fourteen, a robbery conviction led to a four-year stint in juvenile detention. Upon his release, Sharlhorne sought to support himself by mowing lawns in affluent suburbs of New Orleans, but soon found himself again facing criminal charges. Rejecting a plea bargain, Sharlhorne attempted to represent himself in court. The judge, aware of Sharlhorne’s juvenile record (for reasons that remain obscure), sentenced him to twenty-two years in the Louisiana State Penitentiary—or Angola Prison, as it is known—for one count of extortion. In Angola Prison, Sharlhorne felt inspired to draw,

citing his lost time as motivation. As he put it, “When you are doing time, you have the time to realize how art can keep you free.” After his initial requests for drawing materials were denied, Sharlhorne asked prison staff to supply him instead with writing materials so that he could contact a fictitious lawyer. With these supplies, including pens, manila folders, and tongue depressors, which he used as straight edges, Sharlhorne drew elaborate, exactingly-drafted scenes from his imagination, developing a recognizable style. Sharlhorne was released from prison in 1996, and continues to make work.—DT

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Paños Chicanos

Below, clockwise from top left Scout, Indian Royal Couple, 1993 / Leonard Peña, 39, 1997 / Anonymous, Emiliano Zapata, n.d. / Raymond Parra, La Vida Loca, 1996 Opposite, clockwise from top left El Roller, Just a Dream, 1996 / Beek, Sexy Thangs, n.d. / Anonymous, Old School, n.d. / Frank Bautista, Nuestra Vida, 1995

Invented in the prisons of Texas, California, and New Mexico by pachucos (young male members of the Chicano zoot suitwearing subculture of the 1940s), paños chicanos belong to an ongoing genre of prison drawing executed on prison-issue handkerchiefs and other small pieces of fabric (paños). A number of common tropes recur in these works, including

la vida loca (the crazy life) associated with drugs and crime; viajes (fantasies, dreams, and drug trips); religion; family; and romance. Imagery is drawn from Mexican and Mexican-American culture, tattoos, low-rider detailing, prison life, comic books, and pornographic magazines.—IK

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Envelope Drawings

Below, top to bottom Rosendo Aguilar, Especially for You, Mom, 1996 / Jose Angel Guevara, Thinking of You, Jeanette, 1994 Opposite, top to bottom Rosendo Aguilar, Thinking of You, 1995 / David Huron, Untitled, 1995 / B.C.D.C., Elvis, 1994 / Mel Castillo, Untitled, 1995

Among the most readily accessible drawing materials in many US prisons, letter envelopes have provided many twentieth- and twenty-first-century American inmates the opportunity to produce artwork intended for audiences both inside and outside prison walls. Although their use and distribution are sometimes monitored and regulated by prison staff, envelope drawings have been used variously

as items for sale or trade, sources of information, and opportunities for self-expression. In some cases, prisoners barter with their envelope drawings, exchanging art for commodities. In other cases, inmates draw on envelopes intended for receipt by loved ones, sending personalized compositions and visual messages to their communities on the outside.â&#x20AC;&#x201D;DT

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Below CarlosÂ Conde, Untitled, 1995 Opposite, clockwise from top left Mel Castillo, Untitled, 1995 / Carlos Conde, Puro Amor, Mi Vida, 1994 / B.C.D.C., Thinking of you, Rosie, Missing you, 1994 / B.C.D.C., Untitled, 1994

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Postcards From Prison

Below Thomas Dufield, Untitled, 2014 Opposite, clockwise from top left Alfred Espinoza, Untitled, 2014 / M. Vargas, Untitled, 2016 / Dell Konieczko, Untitled, 2016 / Anonymous, Untitled, 2016 / Anonymous, Untitled, 2016 / Anonymous, Untitled, 2014 / Anonymous, Untitled, 2014 / Nicholas Gross, Untitled, 2014

Beginning in 2014 as part of a project by artist Mark Strandquist, founder of the art advocacy project Windows From Prison, thousands of individuals incarcerated in the US prison system received postcards inserted into issues of Prison Health News, a publication designed to help incarcerated people communicate and resolve issues related to their well-being. The

postcards were blank but for a single sentence that read: “If you could create a window in the prison walls, what would you want the world to see?” Hundreds of prisoners responded, drawing and writing their responses. The project is ongoing, and Strandquist continues to collect and preserve these works.—DT

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Zhang Yue 1985, Jinan, Shandong Province, People‘s Republic of China–

Below Untitled, c. 2003–07 Opposite, left Untitled, c. 2003–07 Opposite, right Untitled, c. 2003–07

On May 14, 2003, Zhang Yue was given a seven-year sentence for intentional injury and was sent to prison in Jinan, in Shandong Province. In the wake of the international uproar sparked by the release of US military detainee abuse photos from Iraq and Afghanistan, China abolished most instruments of torture in its prisons. However, Chinese prisons continue to function in a quasi-military manner. For instance,

most Chinese government prisons use the communal punishment system, whereby “weaker” inmates are beaten into obedience by “stronger” ones upon a guard‘s orders. Zhang Yue has explained that his portraits of fellow inmates protected them from being beaten, as they provided evidence that his subjects had the discipline to sit quietly for long periods of time. Zhang Yue was released on April 27, 2007.—RG

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Jose Alvarez (D.O.P.A.) 1961, Venezuela–

Clockwise from top left David H., 2012 / Roberto Q., 2012 / Brahima, 2012 / Julio “The Brazilian”, 2012

Jose Alvarez (D.O.P.A.), born Devyi Orangel Pena Arteaga, immigrated to the United States in 1984, fleeing homophobic violence at the hands of the Venezuelan police and national guard. In 2012, Alvarez was detained for a period of two months at Krome Detention Center in Miami for immigration violations. Four days into this two-month period, one of Alvarez’s fellow detainees, an undocumented immigrant named Julio, encouraged him to start drawing to stave off symptoms

of depression. Julio became the subject of Alvarez’s first portrait at Krome. In the following months, Alvarez made over thirty drawings of undocumented immigrants held by US immigration officials at Krome, using pen refills and legal pads record their likenesses and to write, for all but four, a short biography of each subject on accompanying sheets of paper. The practice of drawing his fellow detainees became, for Alvarez, a method of survival.—IK

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Herman Wallace 1941, New Orleans–2013, New Orleans

Letter to jackie sumell dated 10/26/02, 2002

In 1971, Herman Wallace was convicted of armed robbery and remanded to Louisiana State Penitentiary, known as Angola. Alongside fellow prisoner Albert Woodfox, Wallace established the Angola chapter of the Black Panther Party, organizing hunger strikes to protest inhumane prison conditions and inmate segregation. In 1972, despite an absence of physical evidence, Wallace and Woodfox were convicted of stabbing of an Angola prison guard. By 1974, Wallace, Woodfox, and Robert King, a third prisoner convicted of murder, were removed from Angola’s general population and placed in permanent solitary confinement, a remarkably severe sentence for which they came to be known to prison reform activists, and subsequently to a broader public as the “Angola Three.” Serving twenty-nine, forty-two, and forty-three years respectively in solitary confinement, the plights of King, Wallace, and Woodfox

sparked a broader national discussion about politically and racially motivated incarceration. In 2003, artist jackie sumell initiated a written correspondence with Wallace, and asked him to describe his dream home. Wallace’s responses formed the basis for an art project called The House That Herman Built, a travelling exhibition of renderings and models of Herman’s dream house accompanied by a film and a book reproducing the correspondence between the two. Wallace was ultimately released from prison in 2013, after a federal judge finally overturned his conviction, but he died only days later, succumbing to advanced liver cancer. Supported by numerous activist organizations, including Amnesty International, the other two members of the Angola Three were also eventually released—King in 2001 and Woodfox in 2016.—DT

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Valentino Dixon 1969, Buffalo–

Untitled, n.d.

In August of 1991, a street fight in Buffalo, New York, resulted in the death of Torriano Jackson. An anonymous tip led police to arrest Valentino Dixon for the murder. Detectives and prosecutors pursued testimonies placing Dixon at the scene, even as a different man publicly confessed to the crime, and despite the fact that several of the witnesses recanted their accounts, citing police pressure. Dixon received a sentence of thirty-eight-and-a-half years to life. Adapting to life in prison, Dixon began to draw. When a warden asked him to draw hole twelve at the Augusta National Golf Club, Dixon was inspired to begin drawing golf courses

in vibrant, color pencil. These works attracted the attention of the golf community, and a story ran in Golf Digest highlighting the circumstances around his conviction. In 2018, a group of Georgetown University undergraduates took up Dixon’s case, and caused it to be reopened. Evidence collected by the students in combination with an investigation by the Erie County District Attorney’s Conviction Integrity Office vacated Dixon’s conviction, and he was released twenty-seven years after his initial incarceration. Today, Dixon is a practicing artist and an advocate for sentencing reform.—DT

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Djamel Ameziane 1967, Algeria–

Untitled, 2010

Following the terrorist attacks on the United States of September 11, 2001, President George W. Bush’s administration established a military-run detention facility within a naval base at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba (GTMO, or more colloquially, GITMO) for the interrogation, detainment, and prosecution of terrorism suspects in military courts. In the years since the Guantánamo Bay detention facility’s founding, nearly eight hundred men and boys have passed through the prison, most of whom were captured in Afghanistan and Pakistan by their own countrymen in response to large bounties offered by the US government. The overwhelming majority of Guantánamo prisoners have never been charged with a crime. In 1992, Djamel Ameziane fled as a refugee during the Algerian Civil War (1991–2002) and moved to Austria to work as

a chef. After his work permit expired, Ameziane applied for but was denied political asylum in Canada after living there for five years. With few options, he eventually moved to Afghanistan in 2000. A year later, when US troops invaded Afghanistan, Ameziane again attempted to flee his violent surroundings, but was captured and turned over to Pakistani authorities, who then reportedly sold him for a bounty to US forces. Ameziane was sent to Guantánamo in 2002 and, despite being cleared for release in 2008, remained imprisoned there until he was repatriated to Algeria in 2013. Regarding his drawings, Ameziane has stated that “artwork represented a form of expression during my prison time: expression of my feelings about the unclear future; things we were deprived of; things that I dreamed of.”—DT

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Mansoor Adayfi, Abdualmalik Abud, Saeed, and Khalid Qasim

Below Yemen Milk & Honey Farms Limited Feasibility Report 2013 (version 1), 2013 Opposite, top Yemen Milk & Honey Farms Limited Feasibility Report 2013 (version 2), 2013 Opposite, bottom Yemen Milk & Honey Farms Limited Feasibility Report 2014, 2014

Between 2013 and 2014, GuantĂĄnamo detainees Mansoor Adayfi, Abdualmalik Abud, Saeed, and Khalid Qasim organized a class in business, under the instruction of a fellow detainee with business experience. They created their own classroom using cardboard and other found materials, and their final project was a series of handwritten documents that detailed plans for a future business venture called Yemen Milk & Honey Farms Limited. The detainees envisioned a sheep-farming

venture in Yemen with a system of enclosed pens engineered to maximize the productivity and efficiency of a 5,000-animal flock. The detainees produced multiple copies of the report, which included schematic diagrams of facilities and written sections that addressed the various challenges and opportunities presented by sheep farming.â&#x20AC;&#x201D;RG, DT

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Abdualmalik Abud Yemen

Walled City, 2015

Abdualmalik Abud was detained at Guantánamo for almost fifteen years and released to the country of Montenegro in 2016. Under the Bush (2000–08) and Obama (2008–16) administrations hundreds of former detainees at the detention facility at Guantánamo Bay were released and either sent home or resettled in third countries. During the last few years

of his incarceration, Abud began to draw. Memories of his wife and daughter motivated him to imagine life outside prison. Many of Abud’s drawings depict Sana’a (Yemen’s capital), and include cityscapes crowded with sprawling and complex architectural forms.—DT

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Ahmed Rabbani c. 1970, Pakistan–

Untitled (Binoculars Pointing at the Moon), 2016

Ahmed Rabbani, a citizen of Pakistan, has been detained at Guantánamo for over twelve years, having previously been detained by the CIA for two years. During that time he has created numerous drawings that make reference to the interrogation sessions he underwent at both locations, but authorities have prohibited him from sharing these drawings outside of Guantánamo. The drawings that Rabbani has been permitted to release to his lawyer typically depict buildings, monuments, and villages composed from his imagination

or inspired by snippets of television news broadcasts he is permitted to watch. In response to questions from his lawyers, Rabbani added a caption in Arabic to the reverse of the drawing pictured here. Translated, it reads: “Huge Moon. Everyone in meteorology anticipated and followed this event. And I, infatuated, passionately anticipated seeing this strange event where the moon was at its closest point to the Earth since seventy years ago.”—DT

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Timothy Curtis 1982, Philadelphia–

Below Sharper Than A Lifer’s State Brown Creases No. 2, 2013 Opposite, top Sharper Than A Lifer’s State Brown Creases No. 1, 2013 Opposite, bottom Sharper Than A Lifer’s State Brown Creases No. 4, 2013

Timothy Curtis was incarcerated in the US prison system from 2008 to 2015. While there he recalls that art provided him with a sense of freedom and self-assurance. He acquired materials from the commissary and from friends outside and read for hours every day about other artists and art history. For Curtis, artmaking in prison was an entrepreneurial endeavor as well as a personal pursuit, as he could sell or trade artwork for commodities like cigarettes and coffee. Working with other

inmates, Curtis also supported the development of a new prison mural program, creating large-scale projects throughout the prison campus. The creases in the works shown here result from Curtis’s method for storing his drawings: folded and placed under his own mattress and the mattresses of fellow inmates. On November 11, 2015, Curtis was paroled. He now lives and works in New York City.—RG

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Azza Abo Rebieh 1980, Hama, Syriaâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;

Below, left Rama, 2016 Below, right Fares, 2015 Opposite Nayfeh, 2016

Azza Abo Rebieh graduated in 2002 from the art school at Damascus University with a printmaking degree. Following the beginning of the Syrian revolution in 2011, Rebieh channeled her artistic training into activism, creating images and graffiti in opposition to the authoritarian government of Bashar al-Assad. She became involved in human rights campaigns in Syria, specifically in helping to smuggle food and medicine to displaced families in Damascus. In September of 2015, Rebieh was arrested by Syrian government forces and

incarcerated for seventy days at a facility called Military Security Branch 215. She was then transferred for sixty-five days to Adra Central Prison in Damascus. While incarcerated, Rebiah served as an advocate for, and drew portraits of, her fellow prisoners, as well as of their family members. She also created art workshops inside the prison using olive seeds and thread as materials. Upon her release in 2016, Rebiahâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s case was still open. She went into exile in Lebanon, where she remains.â&#x20AC;&#x201D;IK

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C. McLaurin, Still from the The Long Term, 2017–18

Beginning in the 1970s, a policy shift surrounding sentencing and parole led to a dramatic increase in the proportion of the US population imprisoned, a trend now known as mass incarceration. Over the past forty years, the number of prisoners per 100,000 people in the United States has increased from 150 in the mid-1970s to 707 individuals in 2012. Mass incarceration in the United States disproportionately impacts people of color, a trend based on a history of inequity,

violence, and white nationalist policies in the United States. The Long Term is a film generated from hand-drawn animations made by twelve artists serving life or long-term sentences. Artists Sarah Ross and Damon Locks edited together the drawings to create a narrative describing the scale and impact of long-term imprisonment on the artists and their families.—RG

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Gil Batle 1962, San Francisco–

Clockwise from top left 8 Sword Swallower, 2017 / 3 Owl OG, 2017 / Ace of Spades, 2017 / A Knight, 2017 / Ace of Clubs, 2017 / 5 Eyeball, Barbed wire, 2017

Gil Batle grew up in San Francisco, California, the son of Filipino immigrants. Batle’s gift for drawing was apparent by age six, and beginning when he was a young teenager, he relied on his artistic talent to support himself by producing skillful bank check forgeries worthy of a master artisan. First incarcerated at age fourteen, Batle entered into a cycle of repeat prison sentences, cumulatively serving twenty years in various California prisons. His art served as a tradable

commodity, securing him a position of safety and respect within the crucible of prison gang society. In 2008, after walking free, Batle relocated to a small island in the Philippines, where he developed a deeply personal artistic practice carving elaborately detailed narratives and allegories fueled by his prison recollections onto ostrich eggs. Batle also infuses the imagery of his memories into sets of hand-drawn playing cards like the ones frequently found in US prisons today.—DT

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Kontonhuang 1978, Guangdong Province, People’s Republic of China–

Below, top 马太福音之耶稣显灵 (Gospel of Matthew, Transfiguration of Jesus), 2017 Below, bottom 马太福音3:16 (Gospel of Matthew 3:16), 2017 Opposite, top 马太福音4:8-9 (Gospel of Matthew 4:8-9), 2017 Opposite, bottom 马太福音3: 1-3 (Gospel of Matthew 3:1-3), 2017

In 2016, Guangzhou officials detained Kontonhuang for writing graffiti on public property. After an arrest and sentencing process that lasted four months, Kontonhuang was committed to a “detention house” for three additional months. When he first arrived at the detention house, he volunteered to draw portraits of family members for the inmate leaders, or “big bosses,” as a means of securing his own safety. Eventually he grew bored of drawing portraits and attempted to draw scenes depicting

his surroundings. Detention house officials confiscated those drawings that included information about the structure of the facility’s interior. In response, Kontonhuang asked his family to print and mail him the entire text of the New Testament. Kontonhuang then selected his favorite Gospel passages, reinterpreting the narrative to reflect scenarios he imagined Jesus might encounter as a missionary in modern China. —DT, RG

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Mahmoud Mohamed Abd El Aziz (Yassin Mohamed) 1994, Egypt–

Below A Plea to God, 2018 Opposite, clockwise from top left Uncle Hesham, 2018 / The Flowers that Bloomed in the Prisons of Egypt, 2017 / Cell Chess, 2018

In 2013, Mahmoud Mohamed Abd El Aziz (Yassin Mohamed) was detained by Egyptian police after attending a protest against the government of Abdel Fattah el-Sisi. Egypt’s military had recently overthrown democratically elected President Mohamed Morsi of the Islamist Muslim Brotherhood and installed el-Sisi, who initiated an aggressive policy of crackdowns on public dissent, banning organized gatherings and specifically targeting supporters of Islamist and prodemocracy leftist parties. For the next five years, Yassin was repeatedly arrested and transferred from prison to prison

for the crime of participation in anti-government demonstrations. Overcrowded group cells precluded any chance for privacy, and Yassin felt compelled to remain completely withdrawn in order to avoid harassment by fellow prisoners affiliated with religious extremist groups. Drawing, according to Yassin, offered him solace, and he depicted his surroundings as filled with hopeful symbols like flowers, which he included as substitutes for the worst aspects of prison life. According to Yassin, “In prison, plants and flowers are like life in the midst of death.” —DT

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Zehra Doğan 1989, Diyarbakır, Turkey–

Below Fistan (Dress), 2018 Opposite, top to bottom Back and front views of Nalin, 2019 / Ayşe‘nin Elbisesi (Ayşe‘s dress), 2019 / İncile, 2016

Kurdish artist and journalist Zehra Doğan studied art at Dicle University in Diyarbakır before moving into a career in journalism. In 2012 she helped establish Turkey’s first all-female news agency, Jin Haber Ajansi (JINHA), where she worked until the agency was shut down by government decree under the state of emergency that followed an attempted coup against the government led by increasingly authoritarian leader Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. During her time with JINHA, Doğan reported on conflicts in Kurdish towns between armed groups and state forces, and created paintings reflecting her experience in these war zones. From July to

December of 2016, Doğan was incarcerated in a prison in Mardin, a city in Southeastern Turkey. In March of 2017, the Turkish judiciary ruled that one of her news reports and one of her paintings, featuring the destruction of the Kurdish town of Nusaybin, were “over the limits of criticism.” She was sentenced to two years, nine months, and twentytwo days in prison, and incarcerated in Diyarbakır Prison, also in south-eastern Turkey, from June 2017 to October 2018. In October 2018, Doğan was moved again to a prison in Tarsus in south-central Turkey. She was released on February 24, 2019.—IK

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Works in the Exhibition

Hubert Robert An Inmate of Saint-Lazare Prison, 1794 Ink and graphite on paper 10 1/4 x 13 inches (26 x 33 cm) Private collection Photography by Kevin Noble Honoré Daumier, Charles-Joseph Traviès Le Charivari, December 1, 1832–May 31, 1833, 1832–33 Lithographs and wood engravings 13 1/8 x 10 x 2 3/8 inches (33.3 x 25.4 x 6 cm) Lent by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of Arthur Sachs, 1923 (23.92.1) Image courtesy of Art Resource, NY © The Metropolitan Museum of Art Honoré Daumier Chimère de l’imagination (Chimera of the imagination), published in La Caricature no. 118, February 7, 1833, 1833 Lithograph; first state of two (Printed by Delteil) 13 1/2 x 10 1/2 inches (34.3 x 26.6 cm) Lent by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Bequest of Edwin De T. Bechtel, 1957 (57.650.461) Image courtesy of Art Resource, NY © The Metropolitan Museum of Art Honoré Daumier Misantropie (The Misanthropist), from L‘imagination, published in Le Charivari, February 10, 1833, 1833 Lithograph; second state of two (Printed by Hazard & Delteil) 12 5/8 x 9 3/8 inches (32.2 x 24 cm) Lent by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of Arthur Sachs, 1923 (23.92.1(71)) Image courtesy of Art Resource, NY © The Metropolitan Museum of Art

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Gustave Courbet Les Fédérés à la Conciergerie (Young communards in prison), 1871 Black chalk (rubbed) on wove paper 10 1/4 x 6 1/2 inches (25.9 x 16.6 cm) Lent by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of Guy Wildenstein, 1999 (1999.251) Image courtesy of Art Resource, NY © The Metropolitan Museum of Art Richard Dadd Portrait of Mr. George Bailey, 1855 Watercolor 10 x 6 7/8 inches (25.5 x 17.5 cm) Lent by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Purchase, Brooke Russel Astor Bequest, 2013 (2013.74) Image courtesy of Art Resource, NY © The Metropolitan Museum of Art Attributed to Howling Wolf (Ho-na-nist-to) Untitled ledger drawing, c. 1875 Graphite and color pencil on lined paper 5 5/8 × 7 inches (14.3 x 17.8 cm) Courtesy of Donald Ellis Gallery, New York, Vancouver Photograph by Martin Parsekian Attributed to Howling Wolf (Ho-na-nist-to) Untitled ledger drawing (“Osage and Cheyenne Chiefs, Having Been Long at War Making Friends”), c. 1875–78 Ink, color pencil, and paster on paper 12 1/2 × 15 3/4 inches (31.7 x 40 cm) Courtesy of Donald Ellis Gallery, New York, Vancouver Photograph by Martin Parsekian

Attributed to Bear‘s Heart (Nokkoist) Untitled ledger drawing, c. 1875–78 Watercolor, graphite, and color pencil on paper 8 5/8 × 11 1/4 inches (21.9 x 28.6 cm) Courtesy of Donald Ellis Gallery, New York, Vancouver Photograph by Martin Parsekian Attributed to Etahdleuh Doanmoe Untitled ledger drawing (“The Indians Coming From Fort Marion St. Augustine Florida, To Hampton, VA April 1878”), c. 1875–78 Pencil, ink, and watercolor on paper 13 × 17 inches (33 x 43.1 cm) Courtesy of Donald Ellis Gallery, New York, Vancouver Photograph by Martin Parsekian Marc Chauchard (Paul Cochard) Mazas en dessins (Mazas drawn), c. 1890 Crayon, ink, pencil, and watercolor on paper in bound book 8 x 10 1/4 inches (20.4 x 26 cm) Bibliothèque historique de la Ville de Paris Maximilien Luce Self-portrait in Mazas Prison, 1894 Lithograph 14 3/4 x 12 1/4 inches (37.5 x 31.1 cm) Princeton University Art Museum, Gift of Eric G. Carlson in honor of Calvin Brown Image courtesy of Princeton University Art Museum Fanfan (Émile Simonet) Chez le Père Lunette (At the Père Lunette), 1930 Color pencil on paper 7 5/8 x 9 inches (19.5 x 23 cm) Collection of Damien Voutay, Lyon, France

Fanfan (Émile Simonet) A l‘ombre de la Croix (In the shadow of the cross), 1930 Color pencil on paper 12 1/4 x 9 1/2 inches (31 x 24 cm) Collection of Damien Voutay, Lyon, France (Not pictured) Fanfan (Émile Simonet) Deux gousses (Two lesbians), 1930 Color pencil on paper 10 1/4 x 8 1/4 inches (26 x 21 cm) Collection of Damien Voutay, Lyon, France (Not pictured) Fanfan (Émile Simonet) Graciés, ils s‘en allèrent un jour (Pardoned, they went away one day), 1930 Color pencil on paper 12 1/4 x 9 1/4 inches (31 x 23.5 cm) Collection of Damien Voutay, Lyon, France (Not pictured) Fanfan (Émile Simonet) Vol à la rose (Flight to the rose), 1930–33 Color pencil on paper 12 3/8 x 9 5/8 inches (31.5 x 24.5 cm) Collection of Damien Voutay, Lyon, France (Not pictured) Migron Malheur (Misfortune) from La Vie! (Life!), 1932 Crayon on paper 9 1/2 x 12 3/8 inches (24 x 31.5 cm) Collection of Jean Bloch, Saint-Didier-au-Mont-d‘Or, France Adolf Wölfli The Kander Valley in the Bernese Oberland, 1926 Pencil and color pencil on paper 18 1/2 x 24 3/8 inches (47 x 61.9 cm) American Folk Art Museum, Blanchard-Hill Collection, Gift of M. Anne Hill and Edward V. Blanchard, Jr. Photograph by Gavin Ashworth, Image courtesy of American Folk Art Museum / Art Resource, NY

Unknown artist Открытка самодельная “Желаю младенцу...” (Homemade postcard “I wish the baby…”), 1950–53 Watercolor, paper Closed: 5 1/4 x 4 1/4 inches (13.2 x 10.8 cm), Open: 5 1/4 x 8 3/8 inches (13.2 x 21.3 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow Unknown artist Пасхальная открытка (Easter Card), 1949–54 Watercolor and white paint on paper 3 5/8 x 5 1/2 inches (9.2 x 14 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow Unknown artist Postcard from Gulag, 1950 Birch bark, gouache, varnish, ink, manuscript 2 x 4 inches (5.3 x 10 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow Unknown artist Поздравительная открытка “С новым годом!” на латышском (Greeting card reading “Happy New Year!” in Latvian), 1952–53 Watercolor and white paint on paper 4 x 5 1/4 inches (10 x 13.4 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow (Not pictured) Unknown artist Открытка “Христос воскрес!” (Postcard reading “Christ is risen!”), 1949–54 Color pencil on paper 3 3/4 x 5 3/4 inches (9.5 x 14.5 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow (Not pictured) Alexey Wangenheim Полное солнечное затмение (Total solar eclipse), c. 1934–37 Ink, color pencil, watercolor, and graphite pencil on paper 3 x 4 inches (7.7 x 10.2 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow Alexey Wangenheim Полярное сияние (Polar lights), c. 1934–37 Pastel and watercolor on paper 4 x 5 1/4 inches (10.1 x 13.3 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow

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Alexey Wangenheim Полярное сияние 23 февраля 1936 г (Polar lights February 23, 1936), 1936 Pastel, watercolor, and pencil on paper 4 x 5 1/4 inches (10.3 x 13.4 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow Alexey Wangenheim Начало солнечного затмения (The beginning of a solar eclipse), 1936 Watercolor on paper 3 x 4 inches (7.8 x 10.4 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow Alexey Wangenheim Момент полного солнечного затмения (Moment of total solar eclipse), 1936 Gouache, color pencil, and pencil on paper 3 x 4 inches (7.7 x 10.1 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow Alexey Wangenheim Наибольшее покрытие луной солнца 19 июня 1936 года в Москве (The greatest coverage of the moon over the sun June 19, 1936 in Moscow), 1936 Pencil on bound notebook pages 3 x 4 inches (7.7 x 10.3 cm) International Memorial Museum, Moscow Józef Czapski Lectures on Proust, c. 1940–41 Photographic reproduction of original ink and watercolor on paper works 6 sheets, each 8 x 10 inches (20.3 x 25.4 cm) Courtesy of Weronika Orkisz Józef Czapski Griazowiec, Sleeping Man, 1941 Pencil on paper 6 3/8 x 8 1/8 inches (16.2 x 20.6 cm) Private collection Marcus Behmer Untitled (Study for Gefährliche Meerfahrt hinter Schloss und Riegel [Dangerous sea journey past lock and bars]), 1936 Ink and crayon on paper 13 x 9 1/8 inches (32.8 x 23.2 cm) Collection Daniel Buchholz & Christopher Müller, Cologne

Marcus Behmer Hirschen-Salome, 1937 Ink and crayon on paper 11 5/8 x 8 1/4 inches (29.4 x 21 cm) Collection Daniel Buchholz & Christopher Müller, Cologne Marcus Behmer Apokalypse 9, 1937 Ink on paper 9 x 7 1/4 inches (23 x 18.4 cm) Collection Daniel Buchholz & Christopher Müller, Cologne Hans Bellmer Les Milles, 1939 Pencil on paper 10 3/4 x 7 3/8 inches (27.3 x 18.7 cm) Ubu Gallery, New York © 2019 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris Hans Bellmer Untitled, 1940 Pencil on paper 13 3/4 x 9 7/8 inches (35 x 25 cm) Ubu Gallery, New York © 2019 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris Wols (Alfred Otto Wolfgang Schulze) Untitled, c. 1940–41 Watercolor and ink on paper, mounted on paper 9 1/2 x 12 1/4 inches (24.1 x 31.1 cm) Lent by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Muriel Kallis Steinberg Newman Collection, Gift of Muriel Kallis Newman, 2006 (2006.32.65) Image courtesy of Art Resource, NY © The Metropolitan Museum of Art © 2019 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris Halina Olomucki Back to Life, c. 1939–42 Mixed media and wash on cardboard and paper 11 1/8 x 8 3/8 inches (28.2 x 21.3 cm) United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Collection Halina Olomucki The Chimney, c. 1939–42 Mixed media, wash, and paint on cardboard and paper 11 1/8 x 8 3/8 inches (28.2 x 21.3 cm) United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Collection

Halina Olomucki The Woman and the Agony, c. 1939–42 Graphite and color pencil on paper 6 x 9 3/4 inches (15.4 x 24.8 cm) United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Collection Halina Olomucki The Prayer, c. 1939–42 Graphite on paper 8 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches (20.8 x 13.7 cm) United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Collection Alexander Bogen Expulsion, 1943 Sanguine on paper 7 x 9 5/8 inches (17.9 x 24.4 cm) United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Collection, The Abraham and Ruth Goldfarb Family Acquisition Fund © Estate of Alexander Bogen Alexander Bogen Rescue, 1943 Ink on paper 13 3/8 x 9 3/4 inches (33.8 x 24.9 cm) United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Collection, The Abraham and Ruth Goldfarb Family Acquisition Fund © Estate of Alexander Bogen Alexander Bogen Sadness, 1944 Pencil on paper 11 3/4 x 8 inches (29.8 x 20.3 cm) United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Collection, The Abraham and Ruth Goldfarb Family Acquisition Fund © Estate of Alexander Bogen Felix Nussbaum Study of Skeleton Playing a Clarinet for the Painting “Death Triumphant”, c. 1944 Pencil, gouache, and chalk on paper 10 7/8 × 8 7/8 inches (27.6 x 22.5 cm) Jewish Museum, New York, Purchase: Gift of Mildred and George Weissman Philanthropic Fund of the Jewish Communal Fund Photography by John Parnell, Image courtesy of Jewish Museum, New York / Art Resource, NY © 2019 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York

Felix Nussbaum Study of Skeleton Playing a Clarinet for the Painting “Death Triumphant”, c. 1944 Pencil, gouache, and chalk on paper 11 × 8 1/2 inches (27.9 x 21.6 cm) Jewish Museum, New York, Purchase: Gift of Mildred and George Weissman Philanthropic Fund of the Jewish Communal Fund Photography by John Parnell, Image courtesy of Jewish Museum, New York / Art Resource, NY © 2019 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York Henry Fukuhara Untitled (Dam), 1942 Watercolor and graphite on paper, mounted to paperboard 20 x 29 7/8 inches (50.8 x 75.9 cm) Japanese American National Museum (Gift of Henry Fukuhara, 2005.168.138) Henry Fukuhara Untitled (Architectural Drawing of Barracks), 1943 Watercolor 20 1/8 x 27 1/2 inches (51.1 x 69.9 cm) Japanese American National Museum (Gift of Henry Fukuhara, 2005.168.134) Toshiki (Dick) Hamaoka Boy’s Festival in May, c. 1942–44 Watercolor 12 x 18 inches (30.5 x 45.7 cm) Japanese American National Museum (Gift of Charlotte Opler Sagoff, 2002.142.2) Miné Okubo Untitled (Single Figure With Arms Raised), c. 1942–44 Rubbed charcoal on paper 13 3/4 x 20 inches (34.9 x 50.8 cm) Japanese American National Museum (Gift of Mine Okubo Estate, 2007.62.3) Miné Okubo Untitled (Mother Bending Over Child), c. 1942–44 Rubbed charcoal on paper 13 3/4 x 20 inches (34.9 x 50.8 cm) Japanese American National Museum (Gift of Mine Okubo Estate, 2007.62.1)

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Ruth Asawa Sumo Wrestlers, 1943 Watercolor on paper 10 1/2 x 14 1/2 inches (26.7 x 36.8 cm) Private collection, Artwork © Estate of Ruth Asawa, Courtesy David Zwirner Ruth Asawa On the Bayou, 1943 Watercolor on paper 12 x 9 inches (30.5 x 22.9 cm) Private collection Artwork © Estate of Ruth Asawa, Courtesy David Zwirner Martín Ramírez Untitled (Train), 1953 Pencil and crayon on pieced paper 22 1/2 x 47 inches (57.2 x 119.4 cm) American Folk Art Museum, gift of Herbert Waide Hemphill Jr., 1990.1.2 Photograph by Gavin Ashworth, Image courtesy of American Folk Art Museum / Art Resource, NY © Estate of Martín Ramírez Purvis Young Untitled, 1964 Ballpoint pen and crayon on paper 11 x 9 inches (27.9 x 22.9 cm) The Larry T Clemons Collection Photograph by Martin Parsekian Purvis Young Untitled, 1964 Ballpoint pen and crayon on reverse of advertisement 11 x 8 3/4 inches (27.9 x 22.2 cm) The Larry T Clemons Collection Photograph by Martin Parsekian Purvis Young Untitled, 1964 Ballpoint pen (recto) and ballpoint pen and crayon (verso) on paper 8 1/2 x 11 inches (21.6 x 27.9 cm) The Larry T Clemons Collection Photograph by Martin Parsekian

Frank Jones Devil House, c. 1964–69 Color pencil and pencil on paper 30 x 40 inches (76.2 x 101.6 cm) American Folk Art Museum, Gift of Chapman Kelley Photography by Gavin Ashworth, Image courtesy of American Folk Art Museum / Art Resource, NY Inez Nathaniel-Walker Untitled, late 1960s–72 Pencil, color pencil, and felt-tip pen on paper 14 x 8 1/2 inches (35.6 x 21.6 cm) American Folk Art Museum, Gift of Pat O‘Brien Parsons Photograph by Adam Reich, Image courtesy of American Folk Art Museum / Art Resource, NY Inez Nathaniel-Walker Untitled, n.d. Pencil and color pencil on paper 14 x 8 1/2 inches (35.6 x 21.6 cm) American Folk Art Museum, Gift of Pat O‘Brien Parsons Photograph by Adam Reich, Image courtesy of American Folk Art Museum / Art Resource, NY Inez Nathaniel-Walker Untitled (Bob Hope Brother Lee. Hope), c. 1973 Pencil and color pencil on reverse of typed newsletter 14 x 8 1/2 inches (35.6 x 21.6 cm) American Folk Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. William G. Webb Photograph by Adam Reich, Image courtesy of American Folk Art Museum / Art Resource, NY Inez Nathaniel-Walker Untitled (Woman with High Hairdo), c. 1972 Pencil and color pencil on reverse of mimeographed prison newsletter 14 x 8 1/2 inches (35.6 x 21.6 cm) American Folk Art Museum, Gift of Pat O‘Brien Parsons Photograph by Gavin Ashworth, Image courtesy of American Folk Art Museum / Art Resource, NY

Sérgio Sister Chuáaa, 1970 Econoline ink, oil pastel, and hydrographic pen on paper 17 1/2 x 12 5/8 inches (44.5 x 32 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Galeria Nara Roesler Sérgio Sister How about running away from jail, 1970 Oil pastel and hydrographic pen on paper 16 3/4 x 14 1/2 inches (42.5 x 37 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Galeria Nara Roesler Sérgio Sister Impress your feelings with your fingerprint, 1970 Econoline ink, oil pastel, and hydrographic pen on paper 17 3/8 x 17 inches (44 x 43 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Galeria Nara Roesler Lily Ester Rivas Labbé Untitled, 1973 Pencil on patterned wrapping paper 15 1/2 x 19 1/2 inches (39.3 x 49.5 cm) Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos Lily Ester Rivas Labbé Untitled, c. 1973–74 Pencil on paper 8 1/2 x 6 1/2 inches (21.7 x 16.4 cm) Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos Miguel Lawner Steiman Nada Puede Separarnos (Nothing can separate us), 1974 Ink on paper 15 x 10 5/8 inches (38 x 27 cm) Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos Miguel Lawner Steiman Navidad en Ritoque (Christmas in Ritoque), 1974 Ink on paper 10 5/8 x 7 1/2 inches (27 x 19.1 cm) Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos Adam Policzer Caliche, 1974 Pen and color pencil on paper 14 7/8 x 10 3/4 inches (37.8 x 27.3 cm) Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos

Rodrigo Silva Vial Untitled, 1975 Watercolor 5 3/8 x 8 1/4 inches (13.5 x 20.8 cm) Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos

Fatima Meer Ablution Shack, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured)

Fatima Meer Toil & Toilets, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured)

Fatima Meer Favourite Pastime, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa

Fatima Meer Detainees’ Cells (1), 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured)

Fatima Meer Wardress on Guard, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured)

Fatima Meer My Cell (2), 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured)

Ibrahim El-Salahi Prison Notebook, 1976 Notebook with 39 ink on paper drawings (digital reproduction) 11 1/4 × 6 3/4 inches (28.6 x 17.1 cm) The Museum of Modern Art, New York. Acquired through the generosity of Marlene Hess and James D. Zirin, Catie and Donald Marron, Alice and Tom Tisch (in honor of Christophe Cherix), Marnie Pillsbury and Committee on Drawings and Prints Fund, 2017 © 2019 Ibrahim El-Salahi / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / DACS, London

Fatima Meer Detainees’ Cells (2), 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa Fatima Meer Morning in the Prison Yard, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa Fatima Meer The Prisoners, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa Fatima Meer Winnie Mandela in Prison, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa Fatima Meer My Cell (1), 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa Fatima Meer Hair Plaiting, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured) Fatima Meer Hard Labour, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured) Fatima Meer Massacre at Soweto, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured)

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Fatima Meer Prison Walls, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured) Fatima Meer Prison Yard, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured) Fatima Meer The Card Players, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured) Fatima Meer The Cells, 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured) Fatima Meer The Outside (1), 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured) Fatima Meer The Outside (2), 1976 Digital reproduction Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa (Not pictured)

Ángel Delgado Serie Papeles del Tanque, 03 (Papers from the Tank Series, 03), 1990 Ink pen on paper 13 x 8 inches (33 x 20.3 cm) Courtesy of the artist (Not pictured) Ángel Delgado Serie Papeles del Tanque, 07 (Papers from the Tank Series, 07), 1990 Ink pen and color pencil on paper 13 x 8 inches (33 x 20.3 cm) Courtesy of the artist Ángel Delgado Serie Papeles del Tanque, 14 (Papers from the Tank Series, 14), 1990 Ink pen and color pencil on paper 13 x 8 inches (33 x 20.3 cm) Courtesy of the artist Ángel Delgado Serie Papeles del Tanque, 23 (Papers from the Tank Series, 23), 1990 Ink pen and color pencil on paper 13 x 8 inches (33 x 20.3 cm) Courtesy of the artist

Ángel Delgado Serie Papeles del Tanque, 32 (Papers from the Tank Series, 32), 1990 Ink pen and color pencil on paper 13 x 8 inches (33 x 20.3 cm) Courtesy of the artist Ángel Delgado Serie Papeles del Tanque, 41 (Papers from the Tank Series, 41), 1990 Ink pen and color pencil on paper 13 x 8 inches (33 x 20.3 cm) Courtesy of the artist Welmon Sharlhorne The Demon Coming Out of the House, c. 1996 Color Bic pens on file folder, signed lower right 19 3/4 x 12 1/4 inches (50.2 x 31.1 cm) Collection of Martha Henry Photograph by Martin Parsekian Welmon Sharlhorne The Eight Ball Company, c. 1996 Color Bic pens on file folder, signed lower right 12 1/4 x 19 3/4 inches (31.1 x 50.2 cm) Courtesy of Martha Henry Fine Art Photograph by Martin Parsekian Welmon Sharlhorne The Beast is Controlled by God, c. 1996 Color Bic pens on manila envelope, signed lower right 19 3/4 x 12 1/4 inches (50.2 x 31.1 cm) Courtesy of Martha Henry Fine Art Photograph by Martin Parsekian (Not pictured) Various Collection of paños chicanos,* c. 1990 Pen and color pencil on muslin cloth Approx. 15 x 15 inches each (38.1 x 38.1 cm) Collection of Martha Henry (*Final selection of artworks undetermined at time of publication.)

Various Collection of paños chicanos,* n.d. Pen and color pencil on muslin cloth Approx. 15 x 15 inches each (38.1 x 38.1 cm) Courtesy of Cavin-Morris Gallery, NYC (*Final selection of artworks undetermined at time of publication.) Various Collection of envelopes,* n.d. Pencil and color pencil on envelopes Dimensions various Collection of Martha Henry (*Final selection of artworks undetermined at time of publication.) Various Collection of envelopes,* c. 1995 Pencil and color pencil on envelopes Dimensions various Courtesy of Cavin-Morris Gallery, NYC (*Final selection of artworks undetermined at time of publication.) Various Collection of postcards,* n.d. Crayon, pencil, and pen on postcard 4 1/8 x 5 3/4 inches each (10.4 x 14.7 cm) Courtesy of the Postcards from Prison Project, organized by Mark Strandquist (*Final selection of artworks undetermined at time of publication.) Zhang Yue Untitled, c. 2003–07 Pencil on paper 10 3/4 x 15 1/2 inches (27.3 x 39.3 cm) Courtesy of the artist Zhang Yue Untitled, c. 2003–07 Pencil on paper 15 1/2 x 10 3/4 inches (39.3 x 27.3 cm) Courtesy of the artist Zhang Yue Untitled, c. 2003–07 Pencil on paper 15 1/2 x 10 3/4 inches (39.3 x 27.3 cm) Courtesy of the artist

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Jose Alvarez (D.O.P.A.) David H., 2012 Ballpoint pen on paper 14 x 8 1/2 inches (35.6 x 21.6 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Gavlak Gallery Los Angeles / Palm Beach Jose Alvarez (D.O.P.A.) Roberto Q., 2012 Ballpoint pen on paper 14 x 8 1/2 inches (35.6 x 21.6 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Gavlak Gallery Los Angeles / Palm Beach Jose Alvarez (D.O.P.A.) Brahima, 2012 Ballpoint pen on paper 14 x 8 1/2 inches (35.6 x 21.6 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Gavlak Gallery Los Angeles / Palm Beach Jose Alvarez (D.O.P.A.) Julio “The Brazilian”, 2012 Ballpoint pen on paper 11 x 8 1/2 inches (27.9 x 21.6 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Gavlak Gallery Los Angeles / Palm Beach Herman Wallace Letter to jackie sumell dated 10/26/02, 2002 Purple pen on lined paper 13 x 8 1/2 inches (33 x 21.6 cm) Collection of jackie sumell Photograph by Martin Parsekian Herman Wallace “J.A.C.K.I.E.E.E.E.E.E.E.E._ _ _” letter to jackie sumell dated 6/27/06, 2006 Pen on lined paper, two pages 13 x 8 1/2 inches (33 x 21.6 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace Cell with heart, 2005 Pen and marker on paper 13 1/4 x 8 1/2 inches (33.7 x 21.6 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace Letter to jackie sumell dated 11/28/02, 2002 Pen on paper 11 x 8 1/2 inches (27.9 x 21.6 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured)

Herman Wallace House Drawing (I), n.d. Pen on paper 8 1/2 x 11 inches (21.6 x 27.9 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace House Drawing (II), n.d. Graphite on paper 8 1/2 x 14 inches (21.6 x 35.6 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace “14” Cell Drawing, n.d. Pen on paper 14 x 8 1/2 inches (35.6 x 21.6 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace “1-R-2” Cell Drawing, n.d. Pen on paper 8 1/2 x 11 inches (21.6 x 27.9 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace “Hawk Face” letter, 2002 Pen on paper 8 1/2 x 11 inches (21.6 x 27.9 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace Envelope to jackie sumell dated 12 Nov. 2002, 2002 Pen on envelope 4 x 9 1/2 inches (10.2 x 24.1 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace Envelope to jackie sumell dated 30 Sept. 2002, 2002 Pen on envelope 4 x 8 3/4 inches (10.2 x 22.2 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace Envelope to jackie sumell dated 5 Aug. 2002, 2002 Pen on envelope 4 x 9 1/2 inches (10.2 x 24.1 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Herman Wallace Envelope to jackie sumell dated 30 Aug. 2007, 2007 Pen on envelope 4 x 9 1/2 inches (10.2 x 24.1 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured)

Herman Wallace Envelope to jackie sumell dated 31 July 2002 , 2002 Pen on envelope 4 x 9 1/4 inches (10.2 x 23.5 cm) Collection of jackie sumell (Not pictured) Valentino Dixon Untitled, n.d. Color pencil on paper Composite image of four drawings, 10 x 15 inches each, 40 x 60 inches total (101.6 x 152.4 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Andrew Edlin Gallery Djamel Ameziane Untitled, 2010 Watercolor on paper 14 x 16 7/8 inches (35.5 x 42.6 cm) Courtesy of the artist Image courtesy of the Center for Constitutional Rights Mansoor Adayfi, Abdualmalik Abud, Saeed, and Khalid Qasim Yemen Milk & Honey Farms Limited Feasibility Report 2013 (version 1), 2013 Hand-lettered and hand-illustrated manuscript 11 x 8 1/2 inches (27.9 x 21.6 cm) Courtesy of the artists Photograph by Martin Parsekian Mansoor Adayfi, Abdualmalik Abud, Saeed, and Khalid Qasim Yemen Milk & Honey Farms Limited Feasibility Report 2013 (version 2), 2013 Hand-lettered and hand-illustrated manuscript 11 x 8 1/2 inches (27.9 x 21.6 cm) Courtesy of the artists Photograph by Martin Parsekian Mansoor Adayfi, Abdualmalik Abud, Saeed, and Khalid Qasim Yemen Milk & Honey Farms Limited Feasibility Report 2014, 2014 Hand-lettered and handillustrated manuscript 11 x 8 1/2 inches (27.9 x 21.6 cm) Courtesy of the artists Photograph by Martin Parsekian

Abdualmalik Abud Walled City, 2015 Color pencil 14 x 17 inches (35.6 x 43.2 cm) Courtesy of the artist Photograph by Martin Parsekian Ahmed Rabbani Untitled (Binoculars Pointing at the Moon), 2016 Paint on paper 18 x 20 inches (45.7 x 50.8 cm) Courtesy of the artist Photograph by Martin Parsekian Timothy Curtis Sharper Than A Lifer’s State Brown Creases No. 1, 2013 Ink on paper 27 x 32 3/4 inches (68.6 x 83.2 cm) Collection of Nassia Curtis Photograph by Eugene McGrue Timothy Curtis Sharper Than A Lifer’s State Brown Creases No. 2, 2013 Ink on paper 27 x 32 3/4 inches (68.6 x 83.2 cm) Collection of Nassia Curtis Photograph by Eugene McGrue Timothy Curtis Sharper Than A Lifer’s State Brown Creases No. 4, 2013 Ink on paper 27 x 32 3/4 inches (68.6 x 83.2 cm) Collection of Nassia Curtis Photograph by Eugene McGrue Azza Abo Rebieh Fares, 2015 Pencil on paper 13 3/4 x 9 5/8 inches (35 x 24.5 cm) Courtesy of the artist Azza Abo Rebieh Nayfeh, 2016 Pencil on paper 13 3/4 x 9 5/8 inches (35 x 24.5 cm) Courtesy of the artist Azza Abo Rebieh Rama, 2016 Pencil and charcoal on paper 13 3/4 x 9 5/8 inches (35 x 24.5 cm) Courtesy of the artist

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Chester Brost, Devon Daniels, Joseph Dole, Francisco “Paco” Estrada, Darrell W. Fair, R Dot Nandez, Damon Locks, C. McLaurin, Flynard “Fly 1” Miller, Andrés Reyes, Sarah Ross, B.R. Shaw, Bring, Johnny Taylor The Long Term, 2017–18 Video animation 13:05 minutes Courtesy of the artists Image courtesy of C. McLaurin Gil Batle 8 Sword Swallower, 2017 Ink on watercolor paper 9 x 7 3/4 inches (22.9 x 19.7 cm) Courtesy of Ricco/Maresca Gallery Gil Batle 3 Owl OG, 2017 Ink on watercolor paper 9 x 7 3/4 inches (22.9 x 19.7 cm) Courtesy of Ricco/Maresca Gallery Gil Batle Ace of Spades, 2017 Ink on watercolor paper 9 x 7 3/4 inches (22.9 x 19.7 cm) Collection of Nicole Nunag Mellody Gil Batle 5 Eyeball, Barbed wire, 2017 Ink on watercolor paper 9 x 7 3/4 inches (22.9 x 19.7 cm) Courtesy of Ricco/Maresca Gallery Gil Batle Ace of Clubs, 2017 Ink on watercolor paper 9 x 7 3/4 inches (22.9 x 19.7 cm) Courtesy of Ricco/Maresca Gallery Gil Batle A Knight, 2017 Ink on watercolor paper 9 x 7 3/4 inches (22.9 x 19.7 cm) Courtesy of Ricco/Maresca Gallery

Kontonhuang 马太福音之耶稣显灵 (Gospel

of Matthew, Transfiguration of Jesus), 2017 Black ballpoint pen on A4 printer paper 8 1/4 x 11 3/8 inches (21 x 29 cm) Courtesy of Kontonhuang

广东黄

Kontonhuang 马太福音3:16 (Gospel of Matthew 3:16), 2017 Black ballpoint pen on A4 printer paper 8 1/4 x 11 3/8 inches (21 x 29 cm) Courtesy of Kontonhuang 广东黄

Kontonhuang 马太福音4:8-9 (Gospel of Matthew 4:8-9), 2017 Black ballpoint pen on A4 printer paper 8 1/4 x 11 3/8 inches (21 x 29 cm) Courtesy of Kontonhuang 广东黄

Kontonhuang 马太福音3: 1-3 (Gospel of Matthew 3:1-3), 2017 Black ballpoint pen on A4 printer paper 8 1/4 x 11 3/8 inches (21 x 29 cm) Courtesy of Kontonhuang 广东黄

Mahmoud Mohamed Abd El Aziz (Yassin Mohamed) The Flowers that Bloomed in the Prisons of Egypt, 2017 Pen ink and color pencil on paper 11 x 8 5/8 inches (27.9 x 22 cm) Courtesy of the artist Mahmoud Mohamed Abd El Aziz (Yassin Mohamed) Cell Chess, 2018 Green pen ink on paper 9 7/8 x 15 inches (24.9 x 38.1 cm) Courtesy of the artist Mahmoud Mohamed Abd El Aziz (Yassin Mohamed) Uncle Hesham, 2018 Pen ink and color pencil on paper 11 x 8 5/8 inches (27.9 x 22 cm) Courtesy of the artist

Mahmoud Mohamed Abd El Aziz (Yassin Mohamed) A Plea to God, 2018 Pen ink and color pencil on paper 11 x 8 5/8 inches (27.9 x 22 cm) Courtesy of the artist Zehra Doğan İncile, 2016 Ballpoint pen and embroidery on hand-sewn dress 64 1/6 x 70 inches (163 x 178 cm) Courtesy of the artist Photograph by Martin Parsekian Zehra Doğan Fistan (Dress), 2018 Marker pen on hand-sewn dress 38 5/8 x 94 1/2 inches (98 x 240 cm) Courtesy of the artist Photograph by Martin Parsekian Zehra Doğan Nalin, 2019 Ballpoint pen and red thread embroidery on hand-sewn dress 59 x 33 inches (150 x 84 cm) Courtesy of the artist Photograph by Martin Parsekian Zehra Doğan Ayşe‘nin Elbisesi (Ayşe‘s dress), 2019 Sweater thread and ballpoint pen on hand-sewn bed lining 25 5/8 x 25 5/8 inches (65 x 65 cm) Courtesy of the artist Photograph by Martin Parsekian

Lenders to the Exhibition

Contributors

Mahmoud Mohamed Abd El Aziz (Yassin Mohamed) Azza Abo Rebieh Abdualmalik Abud Mansoor Adayfi, Abdualmalik Abud, Saeed, and Khalid Qasim Jose Alvarez (D.O.P.A.) American Folk Art Museum Djamel Ameziane Andrew Edlin Gallery Bibliothèque historique de la Ville de Paris Jean Bloch, Saint-Didier-au-Mont-d‘Or, France Chester Brost, Devon Daniels, Joseph Dole, Francisco “Paco” Estrada, Darrell W. Fair, R Dot Nandez, Damon Locks, C. McLaurin, Flynard “Fly 1” Miller, Andrés Reyes, Sarah Ross, B.R. Shaw, Bring, Johnny Taylor Daniel Buchholz & Christopher Müller, Cologne Cavin-Morris Gallery, NYC Constitution Hill Museum Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa Timothy Curtis Ángel Delgado Valentino Dixon Zehra Doğan Donald Ellis Gallery, New York, Vancouver Galeria Nara Roesler Gavlak Gallery Los Angeles / Palm Beach Martha Henry International Memorial Museum (Музей Международного Мемориала), Moscow Japanese American National Museum Jewish Museum, New York Kontonhuang 广东黄 The Larry T Clemons Collection Martha Henry Fine Art The Metropolitan Museum of Art Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos The Museum of Modern Art, New York Nicole Nunag Mellody Weronika Orkisz Postcards from Prison Project, organized by Mark Strandquist Princeton University Art Museum Private collection Private collection Private collection Ahmed Rabbani Ricco/Maresca Gallery Sérgio Sister South African History Archive jackie sumell Ubu Gallery, New York United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Collection Damien Voutay, Lyon, France Zhang Yue

Courtenay Finn is Chief Curator at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Cleveland.

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Nicole R. Fleetwood is Professor of American Studies and Art History at Rutgers University, New Brunswick. She is the author of three books: Marking Time: Art in the Age of Mass Incarceration (2020), On Racial Icons: Blackness and the Public Imagination (2015), and Troubling Vision: Performance, Visuality, and Blackness (2011). Claire Gilman is Chief Curator at The Drawing Center. Rosario Güiraldes is Assistant Curator and Open Sessions Curator at The Drawing Center. Laura Hoptman is Executive Director of The Drawing Center. Isabella Kapur is Curatorial Assistant at The Drawing Center. Valérie Rousseau is Curator at the American Folk Art Museum. Duncan Tomlin is Curatorial Intern at The Drawing Center.

Published on the occasion of the exhibition The Pencil Is a Key: Drawings by Incarcerated Artists Curated by Claire Gilman, Rosario Güiraldes, Laura Hoptman, Isabella Kapur, and Duncan Tomlin The Drawing Center October 11, 2019–January 5, 2020 Museum of Contemporary Art Cleveland June 5, 2020–September 6, 2020 The Pencil Is a Key: Drawings by Incarcerated Artists is made possible by The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, Agnes Gund, Lonti Ebers, and the Director‘s Circle of The Drawing Center.

Additional support is provided by Allen Adler and Frances Beatty Adler; Burger Collection, Hong Kong; Svetlana Kuzmicheva-Uspenskaya; Dita Amory; Rashid Johnson and Sheree Hovsepian; Marco Perego-Saldana and Zoe Perego-Saldana; Fiona and Eric Rudin; and Anonymous. Support for the exhibition catalog is provided by Furthermore: a program of the J. M. Kaplan Fund.

Special thanks to albertz benda, Andrew Edlin Gallery, David Zwirner, Donald Ellis Gallery, Galerie Buchholz, Galeria Nara Roesler, Gavlak Gallery, and Ubu Gallery, New York.

This is number 140 of the Drawing Papers, a series of publications documenting The Drawing Center’s exhibitions and programs and providing a forum for the study of drawing.

Board of Directors

Noah Chasin, Executive Editor Joanna Ahlberg, Managing Editor

Treasurer Stacey Goergen

Secretary Dita Amory

About the Type This book is set in Plain Regular, Italic, and Bold. It was designed by François Rappo and released by Optimo Type Foundry in 2014.

Frances Beatty Adler Valentina Castellani Brad Cloepfil Harry Tappan Heher Steven Holl Rhiannon Kubicka Iris Marden Nancy Poses Eric Rudin Almine Ruiz-Picasso Jane Dresner Sadaka David Salle Joyce Siegel Galia Meiri Stawski Barbara Toll Jean-Edouard van Praet d’Amerloo Waqas Wajahat Isabel Stainow Wilcox

ISBN 978-0942324310 © 2019 The Drawing Center All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without written permission from The Drawing Center. Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyrighted material. The publisher apologizes for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of corrections that should be implemented in future editions of this book. Cover: Zhang Yue, Untitled, c. 2003–07

Co-Chairs Andrea Crane Amy Gold

Staff Laura Hoptman, Executive Director Olga Valle Tetkowski, Deputy Director Rebecca Brickman, Director of Development Aimee Good, Director of Education and Community Programs Allison Underwood, Director of Communications Claire Gilman, Chief Curator Lisa Sigal, Open Sessions Curator Rosario Güiraldes, Assistant Curator Isabella Kapur, Curatorial Assistant Kate Robinson, Registrar Dan Gillespie, Operations Coordinator Tiffany Shi, Development Associate Kara Nandin, Bookstore Manager/Special Programs Coordinator Nadia Parfait, Visitor Services Associate Lucia Zezza, Visitor Services Associate Joanna Ahlberg, Managing Editor Noah Chasin, Executive Editor

The Pencil Is a Key: Drawings by Incarcerated Artists

Claire Gilman Rosario Güiraldes Laura Hoptman Isabella Kapur Duncan Tomlin With essays by

Courtenay Finn Nicole R. Fleetwood Valérie Rousseau

ISBN 978-0942324310

9 7 8 0 9 42 3 2 4 3 1 0