An Excavation of Seeing

About the guest blogger: Treacy Ziegler is a regular contributor to the PAC blog, and has been an exhibiting artist for the past 23 years. She studied painting and printmaking for four years at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.  Before studying art,  Ziegler received a Master in Social Work from the University of Pennsylvania. In 2009, Ziegler began exhibiting her work in prisons and created An Open Window, a project within the project of Prisoner Express in the Center For Transformative Action affiliated with Cornell University.  In this voluntary project she donates her artwork to prisons, develops in-prison art workshops, and creates through-the-mail-art curricula with a network of 3,500 prisoners throughout the United States.

I am in the housing unit of a men’s maximum-security prison looking at drawings of a prisoner the others call Columbia.

Most of Columbia’s drawings are cartoons – typical of drawings I see in prison. Among his assortments, I see Sponge Bob, Mickey Mouse, and Bugs, but then I see a drawing of a deer.  It is still in the cartoon style but there is something about the drawing making it different and giving it more resonance.

In this mental health unit where individual prison cells line one side of the large room, I go to Columbia’s cell asking about the deer drawing.

Columbia describes how he was a deer hunter and while hunting came upon a deer in the woods; not particularly unusual for deer hunting.  But while he placed his scope upon the deer, he was struck by the deer’s returning gaze upon him and in this look, Columbia said, I could see all the perspectives of the deer at once. It was the impact of the deer looking back at him that Columbia attempted to convey in the drawing.

While some may dismiss the magic of deer’s return look as crazy talk – after all, we are in this prison mental health unit – I think otherwise.  Instead I think of a statement made by the nineteenth century French painter Cezanne on drawing landscape.  Cezanne said, the landscape speaks to me.

As a visual dialogue with landscape, Cezanne does not see a thing-with-facts, but rather experiences a relationship. Cezanne knows not to impose his intention on this dialogue; neither his preconceptions nor what he thinks he should draw into the creative process.

In the flash of the deer’s gaze, Columbia had a Cezanne-moment where preconceived knowledge is abandoned enabling him to draw the deer in all its perspectives and making photographic or geometric logic irrelevant.

In another prison in another state, Nathan draws in the designated corner. I don’t know how long he has been in this prison or for how long he will be here. His is a crime that, I’ve concluded in my years of going to prisons, everyone is capable of committing in the perfect storm of any life.

Mostly, I leave Nathan to his drawings and constructions. Although Nathan draws what he sees from life, he quickly turns his focus upon the drawing paper.  While some may suggest that he works from imagination, this doesn’t really describe the process.  Nathan is still in conversation but it is now with the marks on his paper pulling him into the world; thus preventing him from falling into the solipsism and visual redundancy that often happens when the artist feels imagination and self-oriented intention reign. Marks and materials have voices of their own and listening to them leads Nathan to new territories in this corner of the prison.

Nathan Riggs, charcoal drawing, triptych, courtesy of the artist
Nathan Riggs, charcoal drawing, triptych, courtesy of the artist

That prison is a closed system makes for reshuffling materials; tattoo becomes drawings, magazines are copies and rarely is the immediate surrounding world – the one that is necessary for dialogue – used as a source for creating art.  The world is seen through a mirror darkly and then profusely copied.

Rarely do I see drawings where the prisoner-artist is looking directly at the world without the filters of another’s eyes through photographs. Prison drawings departing from copying photographs are often misunderstood and dismissed by other prisoners and prison staff in the demand for rendering photo-realism.

Perhaps, equating good art with the ability to copy a photograph may not be peculiar to prison. Public opinion as reflected on Instagram suggests the general population also regards ability to copy a photograph as great art.

When the prisoner Daniel in another prison shows me a portfolio of drawings that looks like any other sheet of tattoo drawing, I ask the class, how does a tattoo get authority as art?  Daniel suggests skill, someone else suggests ink, and another says design.

None of the above, I say, the tattoo gets authority from the body – from the arm, leg, neck, or whatever body part upon which it exists.  Take the tattoo off the body and it becomes a sorry deflated balloon.

Somewhat miffed that I didn’t praise his tattoo drawings, Daniel agrees saying, I’ve been sitting in my cell for 11 years wondering why I couldn’t get the same affect as an actual tattoo.

The artist cannot demand that a medium do what he or she wants the medium to do. As I tell the prisoner-artists, If you ever been in a flood, you know that water does what water wants, and the water in a watercolor is no different; falling and spreading upon the paper as it will.  Some of the students have been in floods and all have known falling.

If the artist is but one voice in a larger choir consisting of materials, mediums, color physics, so on, and whose voices are as important as the artist’s, what happens to self-expression?

When I ask my class if there is self-expression, because, after all, each one of them is the sum total of everyone they ever met, quoting some post-modern philosopher I forgotten, Samuel retorts, if I am the sum total of everyone I ever met, then why ain’t that sum total in here with me?!  A good question.

However, the question is not whether there is a self, but whether there is individual expression?

If I were intent on expressing myself it is likely my delivery would be more propaganda than expression, more thinking than experience, more hope than feelings; consisting of a visual running commentary of expectations from both myself and others. In other words, it is hard to discern what is truly my individual expression. This becomes particularly true in prison where individual expression may make or break a parole hearing.

Instead of self-expression, drawing becomes an act of listening in which there is no imposed agenda upon what is seen and thus allowing the visual dialogue to emerge. Translating this to the class, I ask them to forget meaning, forget expressing themselves and embark on a descriptive exploration of the world.

The prisoner Kaey takes issue with this. He believes that in order for his art to be significant, he must create meaning in it.

I hear both prisoner and non-prisoner artists say; I want to make something meaningful in my art – not realizing that meaning cannot be created or manufactured; that the construction of meaning leads to something contrived like an insincere Hallmark card.

Meaning is a funny thing.   If we are lucky meaning shows itself; meaning that is always there, meaning that is always already, meaning that is always everywhere; meaning that is larger than we, and meaning that we can never reach because meaning continuously extends.

But how is meaning revealed?  This was my question when I created the project Dear Self/Dear Other for the prisoners in the through-the-mail art curriculum.

It is my belief that meaning is revealed in the everyday images that make up our lives; personal images not created, not copied but excavated. And when the artist relinquishes control over meaning, these forgotten or ignored images surfaces – not necessarily to be understood but to be experienced.

In my own art, there is a primitive house on stilts that emerges in various forms throughout my paintings, sculpture and monoprints. I accepted its presence without knowing why until a viewer asked about its meaning at an exhibition.

Looking at the painting, I suddenly realized it was an image from when I was six years. This was a time when my family of five lived over a brothel in Little Havana, Miami after my father lost our Philadelphia upper-middle class house in a series of poker games, my baby sister was born dead, and my mom went temporarily crazy.

But on a fun family daytrip to Key West beating the heat of Miami, I discovered a house on stilts that appears seemingly planted over the water.  And while the ocean rushed beneath the house creating a sense of magic, I imagined us living in that house above the surf where my mother would be happy. Looking back to the viewer’s face at the exhibition, I realized; oops too much information.

An Island, oil on panel, courtesy of author
An Island, oil on panel, courtesy of author

Had I considered the connection myself while painting it, the information would have been too much for me interfering with the process of painting.  Free of my awareness, the painting emerged with its own voice allowing it to exist independently of what it meant to me and whatever message I might have imparted to it.  Knowing the history of my haphazard child is not a vital factor in experiencing my art.

Knowing that what is seen in the past continues to impact upon the present, I asked the participants in the Dear Self project to draw what they saw at six years of age.  But the waters of childhood are dangerous and, often, there is no house on stilts.

Nicholas writes that when he began drawing what he saw at 6 years old, nightmares from the past started to torment me, so I had to stop.

Reggie sends me a drawing of a lynching apparently occurring when he was 6 years old in 1959 in Philadelphia.  I am not sure if he saw the lynching or heard about it.  In either respect, I cannot help but wonder to what extent this early image of a lynching had upon Reggie whose life subsequently became one of violence; a history including his own violence towards others and, as he reports, being raped by the guards at Eastern State Penitentiary at 17 years old when he was first incarcerated.

Reginald McFadden, courtesy of the artist
Reginald McFadden, courtesy of the artist

Another prisoner writes of beatings he endured by his mother. The many stories from prisoners of being abused and neglected as children make it understandable why copying celebrity photographs may be preferable as the form of art in prison and why Kaey wants to invent meaning rather than to discover it.

But, art is not an escape from living; it is an entry into it; art not as therapy but art as breathing – taking everything in and out, good and bad for the creative gristmill.

When I leave Columbia’s prison, it is night and I drive the mile prison driveway to the main road through the white deer sanctuary that surrounds the prison.  I don’t know why the prison is built here although I later learn that the white deer is the symbol of redemption for Native Americans.

I did ask on my initial meeting with the Deputy Superintendent what would happen if I felt compelled to walk the beautiful paths through the high surrounding scrubs. She answers, you will be shot, making me think the vocabulary of redemption does not exist in this prison and the white deer are irrelevant to their programming.

But on this evening’s drive out, the moon is full and when I see its light reflected on the white deer in the scrubs, I see them as shooting stars. And as these deer appearing like stars turn to look at me, I think of Columbia.

Later, I paint a white deer.  At the bottom of the painting, I add the following words for Columbia knowing he may never walk the beautiful paths.

At night,
when others sleep
and the officers are playing cards,
I become the white deer blinded
in the headlight of the moon,
And I am.

Treacy Ziegler

Arnot Art Museum Installation, Landscapes of Confinement. The white deer.
Arnot Art Museum Installation, Landscapes of Confinement. The white deer.


I Wanted To Remind Us We Were People

by Elana Pritchard

About the guest blogger: Elana Pritchard is a cartoonist in Los Angeles.  Before she landed in jail she worked as an animator on Ralph Bakshi’s film, Last Days of Coney Island.  She is currently doing a Kickstarter to finish her animated cartoon, The Circus:

It’s been about a week since the comics I did inside the LA County jail system were first published in the LA Weekly, and I couldn’t be more pleased with the response.  People from all over the world have written to me expressing their support for what I have done and their contempt for inhumane practices for incarcerated peoples everywhere.  I have been in communication with the LA County Sheriff’s department and they have told me that due to these comics they have issued a new policy that all inmates must be given showers within 24 hours of entering the jail.  We are scheduled to meet next week to discuss further improvements.  And throughout all of this it seems the original, humble message of these comics is sticking: that we were people.  Even though we had a barcode on our wrist with a number and were called “bodies” by the staff, we were still people.

Many people in jail are still on trial and haven’t even been found guilty or innocent yet.  Many people made mistakes that you or I have made before in private, only they got caught.  There were mothers in there that missed their children.  There were kind people in there that cared about the arts and cared about each other.  I drew these comics to make us all laugh and remind us that even though there was a whole group of of people with badges and better clothes than we had telling us we didn’t matter… we DID matter and we WERE PEOPLE.

In that the comics were successful, and for that I am proud.

Elana Pritchard

All images were first published in the LA Weekly, 2015











An Intricate Part of the Whole

This article on Black History Month by Judith Tannenbaum was originally posted on on 2/4/11

Say how ya doing
Outside world?
Do you remember me?
I’m that intricate part
Missing from the whole
The one y’all decided to forget …

Coties Perry wrote these words 25 years ago at San Quentin. For more than three decades, I’ve shared poetry in public schools and state prisons, and because the youngsters and prisoners I’ve worked with are most often unheard and excluded, I cherish Coties’ poem.

Who do we (those of us with some power) forget when we talk about history, public policy and what it means to be human? Which children do we nurture? Which do we shun?

These questions led me to say yes when Spoon Jackson — like Coties, my student at San Quentin long ago — suggested that we write a two-person memoir.

Spoon grew up in the 1960s in a cement shack in Barstow, Calif. The second youngest of 15 boys, he was beaten both at home and at school, by white teachers and black teachers. As he writes in By Heart: Poetry, Prison, and Two Lives,” the book that we wrote on his suggestion, “It was equal opportunity paddling on me back in those days of the Civil Rights Movement.”

I grew up 10 years before Spoon, in a large, extended Jewish family. Los Angeles isn’t that far from Barstow, but we were worlds apart. Our mothers both loved us, and we were both children with lots of curiosity and imagination. But my life was filled with opportunity, whereas Spoon’s elementary school principal pulled the little boy aside to tell him, “Boy, you will never graduate from high school.”

The adults around me talked all the time — stories, questions, musings, opinions — and they wanted to hear what I had to say.

Spoon, on the other hand, writes, “Pre-prison, my life had never been one of words. I could barely read, and I spoke as my father did to me, in one-word sentences, shrugs or by nodding my head.” 

But then:

During the months I was on trial, I sat stunned by all the words the DA used. I had no idea what these words meant, and I told myself then that I would not let unknown words trap me. I started studying the dictionary in the county jail and reading all I could. I began to awaken the sleeping student inside me and took my first steps on my journey.

Spoon’s journey forced him to “wake up”:

I checked out all the books I could get from the prison library and education department. In one notebook I wrote down definitions. I used my favorite words in sentences in another notebook. I became enraptured with words and reading. I said certain words aloud many times and pondered a word in the way I thought of the garden in front of the prison chapel, or a sparrow singing in the tree by the captain’s porch.

As Spoon says, “All rehabilitation is self-rehabilitation.” But self-rehabilitation is nourished, as Spoon’s was back when our prisons offered a wide range of programming, by opportunities like the ones I was given as a child. Opportunities all children deserve; opportunities that would certainly lead to fewer people in prison.

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Black History Month honors the forces and flows that shape a people and our nation. Coties Perry and Spoon Jackson — along with Elmo Chattman, Smokey Norvell and so many more former students — are part of black history. Not only as representatives of statistics about black men in prison, but also as individuals with particular human experience — the child each was, the adult he’s become.

Each man: an intricate part of the whole.

Judith Tannenbaum has been a community artist for 40 years, sharing poetry in a wide variety of settings from primary school classrooms to maximum security prisons. She has written widely about this work, most prominently in the memoirs “Disguised as a Poem: My Years Teaching Poetry at San Quentin” and, with Spoon Jackson, “By Heart: Poetry, Prison, and Two Lives.” She serves as training coordinator for San Francisco WritersCorps. Read her blog on Red Room.

Art and Incarceration Series from

We are excited to announce that several of the organizations connected to the Prison Arts Coalition including Judy Dworin Performance Project, Inc., Shakespeare Behind Bars, Stephen Hartnett of The Prison Communication, Activism, Research, and Education Collective have been reviewed by Wendy Jason on We are grateful to Wendy for helping to get the word out about our important work and for her other articles on important criminal justice reform issues.

Some Day I Won’t Be Alone: Building Bridges with Children of Incarcerated Parents

This article was originally posted on November 29, 2010.

There are over two million people incarcerated in U.S. prisons and jails. Most people never think about these men and women. Some of us do, often considering their plights and advocating for a more humane and equitable criminal justice system. But even the most impassioned activists often forget the other lives involved in prisoners’ stories — that the effects of incarceration reach far beyond the razor wire. In fact, some of those most impacted are the children who wait for the return of their imprisoned parent. According to a study by The Sentencing Project, in 2007 more than 1.7 million children in the U.S. had a parent in prison or jail.

Judy Dworin and a team of teaching artists at the Hartford, CT-based Judy Dworin Performance Project, Inc. (JDPP) are utilizing the arts to provide members of this oft-ignored group with a forum for self-expression, trust-building and restored family connection. While providing collaborative arts residencies for women incarcerated at York Correctional Institution (YCI), Dworin began to understand how traumatic the forced separation of parent and child is for all involved.

Wanting to create a space for incarcerated parents and their children to explore their feelings and nurture their relationships, JDPP collaborated with Families in Crisis (FIC) and the Institute for Municipal and Regional Policy at Central CT State University (IMRP) to lead a pilot project consisting of a series of eight simultaneous workshops in which mothers at YCI and their children in Hartford communicated through dance, song, poetry and visual arts.

At the end of the series, the children and their caregivers were brought to the prison to share in a memorable day of collaborative arts engagement with their mothers. After the final session, the children expressed a strong desire to continue the process and to involve more children in it. They wanted others to experience the sense of belonging and acceptance that came with their participation in the JDPP collaborative, as they were all too familiar with the silence and loneliness that often sets in when one’s parent disappears behind bars.

The children that JDPP engages are part of a hidden population that Dworin believes has been “overlooked and under-represented.” The criminal justice system pays little mind to the familial needs of those it incarcerates, and the fear of stigma prevents both parents and children from telling their stories. A National Resource Center on Children and Families of the Incarcerated fact sheet shows that as a result, children often internalize the feelings of guilt, shame, fear, anger and sadness that result from a parent being locked up, and in turn can experience anxiety, depression, isolation and attention problems. Many have difficulty controlling aggressive, self-destructive and disruptive behaviors that are deeply rooted in their pain.

There is a very strong chance that these children will follow their parent’s footsteps right into the criminal justice system. However, the Annie E. Casey Foundation has found that interventions that strengthen family ties can have a positive impact on incarcerated parents and their children. When parents return home with strengthened relationships the chance of recidivism declines, and children who have the support they need in order to cope with their parent’s incarceration are more likely to succeed in school and undergo healthy child and adolescent development.

Understanding the unique needs of incarcerated parents and their children, and having experienced the power that involvement in arts-based initiatives has in fulfilling these needs, JDPP and its partners sought funding for a three-year program that would allow them to continue the work that began with the pilot project. Last year, they were awarded a grant from the Hartford Foundation for Public Giving, providing a partial base of support from which they developed a comprehensive program involving after-school workshops for youth ages 7 – 19, and in-school workshops for elementary and high school students. After these 8-week sessions, seven of the younger children and four high school assistants took part in an intensive one-week camp in which a performance piece was created and performed for caregivers and friends. Additionally, a group of incarcerated mothers came together with their children for a special arts-based weekend retreat.

Dworin has found that “there is an enormous silence that exists” among those directly impacted by incarceration, and “an enormous need for this silence to be opened up.” The arts, she believes, “is a special vehicle for them to find trust and tell their stories.” By engaging children with incarcerated parents, JDPP and its partner organizations have begun to address some of their most pressing needs.

Please support their efforts by sharing this story and visiting the JDPP website to see how you can get involved. And sign the attached petition to encourage your legislators to acknowledge the needs and rights of children with incarcerated parents. By maintaining a criminal justice system that disregards fragile family ties, our society has enforced the kind of separation that has lasting negative impacts. “What responsibility,” Dworin asks, “do we then have to restore connection?”

A Chance for Prisoners to Act Like Human Beings

This article was originally posted on December 6th, 2010.

Now in its 16th season, Shakespeare Behind Bars (SBB) has produced 16 plays within the confines of Kentucky’s Luther Luckett Correctional Complex. William Shakespeare, says SBB Founder and Producing Director Curt Tofteland, was “all about this journey of what it means to be human.”

Shakespeare never shied away from expressing every dimension of human emotion through his stories. Though there isn’t much space or tolerance for the expression of feelings other than anger in prison, SBB actors get the rare opportunity to fully embody raw emotion by taking on the roles of Shakespeare’s characters. Quickly the line between acting and reality begins to blur.

Tofteland sees the work of SBB as being “fundamentally about transformation and change of the human heart, soul and psyche.” Like all of us, incarcerated folks have stories to tell – ones of happiness, suffering and survival. For most of those behind bars, these stories remain locked away, suffocated by silence. “The moment an individual enters the correctional system they begin the journey as the voiceless other,” laments Tofteland.

But through their participation in SBB, prisoners begin to find their voices. SBB was founded on values that affirm the humanity and inherent goodness of those who engage in the program. When a prisoner joins SBB, they enter a realm in which it is safe to be completely honest, sincere and vulnerable. They are challenged to look deeply within themselves to take responsibility for who they have been, who they are and who they wish to become. It is because SBB acknowledges that those who are incarcerated have the power to recreate themselves that Tofteland sees, time and time again, participants “enter the cocoon of SBB and come out as butterflies.”

SBB actors spend nearly 500 hours in workshops and rehearsals during the nine months it takes to produce a play. They do not receive any “good time” (time taken off a sentence as a reward for engagement in educational, therapeutic, or other programs), and nobody is mandated to take part. When participants opt in, they do so with full knowledge that they are making a huge time commitment, and are going to be expected to maintain SBB’s values. They also know that they are entering a space in which their humanity will be acknowledged and they will be treated with respect and care.

It is in such a space that true transformation can occur, and Tofteland has the experience and the data to back it up. Indeed, while the recidivism rate across the county is a dismal 65 percent, the rate among SBB participants is 6 percent. In fact, in 16 years, just three men who have gone through his program and have later been released were locked up again. “You cannot take someone who has done an inhuman act and put [him or her] in an inhumane environment,” says Tofteland. “You have to put them in an environment that exudes everything you want them to be.”

Check out the trailer for Shakespeare Behind Bars — and ask educators in your area to consider adding it to their curriculum:

Writing for Redemption

This article was originally posted on December 9th, 2010.

In his 20 years of work within prisons, Stephen Hartnett has learned that if we really want to know how to deal with crime, we need to start listening to prisoners. When we do, he says, “we find that they have stories to tell, and from these stories we can learn all we need to know about fighting crime and poverty.”

Hartnett, who is Chair of the University of Colorado Denver Communications Department and founding member of the Prison Communication, Arts, Research, and Education network (P-CARE), provides those behind bars with opportunities to tell their stories by facilitating writing workshops. He calls his work “community empowerment through the arts,” because by sharing their stories, incarcerated people can “engage with their communities like never before.”

For the last three years, Hartnett has been bringing students from his UC Denver Communications classes into the Denver Women’s Correctional Facility (DWCF), where they provide tutoring support to incarcerated learners. For the students, just as for the prisoners, this experience is always life changing.

According to Hartnett, virtually all of the women his team works with at DWCF have something in common – they “never had a shot at the American Dream.” They come from broken homes and have survived some form of abuse. Though they have a variety of backgrounds — African American, Chicano, Latino, American Indian and White — they all come from poverty, and all have experienced what it feels like to exist in the margins of American society. But Hartnett and his team are committed to empowering students to explore their own voices, and in doing so creating bridges between these women and the communities to which they will some day return.

Hartnett and his students offer prisoners three classes, each running for eight weeks. Along with two levels of composition classes, there is a public speaking class in which learners get to write speeches and practice useful skills such as creating resumes, as well as composing cover letters, memos and emails. All too often, Hartnett notes, the vocational training offered within prisons provides few truly marketable skills that enable those returning to the free world to find lasting, meaningful work. However, when those in prison are supported to develop their own voices, and acquire the ability to connect with others via the written and spoken word, they have a much greater chance of finding success when they return home.

At the end of each eight week session, Hartnett weaves the student’s writing and art, as well as submissions from other prison writing programs, into a Zine entitled “Captured Words/Free Thoughts.” There’s also a celebration in the prison, during which students can read what they have written in front of an audience of fellow prisoners and invited guests. Every couple of years Hartnett organizes a community event as well, where the incarcerated writers’ work is read aloud.

“It is both challenging and rewarding,” says Hartnett. All of the incarcerated learners he’s worked with are “super hard working, and super motivated,” and the classroom has “unbelievable energy — students understand that knowledge is power, and they want some of it.”  These are students who know in their hearts that they have hurt people, and they’re looking for redemption. “Here’s a generation of Americans we’re told are monsters. But with just a little love and guidance, they begin to blossom. It is an honor to share a classroom with those who want to reclaim their lives through education.”

There are resources that can help us to offer a little more guidance, and to nurture the energy that so many of our nation’s prisoners have to change their lives, their communities and our society. One easy step in that direction is to reinstate access to Pell Grants for prisoners, which would be a small step in the right direction — one toward empowering those most directly affected by the cracks in our society to be involved in their repair, and our restoration.

Unlocking Creativity Behind Bars

By Wendy Jason

This article was originally posted 11/23/10 on

Doh-Boy is over a foot taller than I am and easily 150 pounds heavier. Intricate tattoos peek out from beneath his bright orange jail skivvies, the most visible of which is a bar of music that embraces the honey-colored flesh of his massive neck.

Upon meeting Doh-Boy for the first time, I could have easily been intimidated by his physical stature, not to mention the fact that he, like the 12 other men in the creative writing group, was an inmate in a high-felony pod at Albuquerque’s county jail. But there is something in Doh-Boy’s eyes -– a gentle sparkle -– that immediately provides a sense of comfort and safety.

Doh-Boy, like many others in this jail, is an artist. Songwriting is an outlet for his fear and pain; he has no idea when he will next be in front of a judge, let alone when he will get to kiss his baby goodnight or help put food on his fiancé’s table.

While many people in jail spend hours writing poems, songs, letters, or even their life stories, others utilize any accessible material to create visual masterpieces. Quarter dollar-sized dream catchers and tiny crosses are carefully woven with threads pulled from bed sheets and jail-issued clothing. Origami-style roses are fashioned from toilet paper. Picture frames and miniature purses for daughters and girlfriends are made from intertwined strips of shiny snack food wrappers. Tattoo ink, always on demand, begins with lunch tray leftovers. Art supplies are generally considered contraband, so as a result incarcerated artists have to be resourceful. In doing so, they risk the possibility of harsh new charges, at worst, and deprivation of self-expression, at best.

There are numerous innovative programs that bring safe opportunities for creative expression into U.S. prisons and jails. For some of the men and women who participate in these programs, art simply offers a much-needed escape from the endless monotony of life behind bars. But for many others, like Doh-Boy, art is not only a form of therapy; it is also a tool for maintaining relationships.

By sending home carefully composed letters, or relentlessly slaved-over works of art, these men are seeking to let those who matter most to them know that they aren’t forgotten. Doing so eases the burden of guilt that they all seem to carry as a result of their belief that they have failed everyone they love. Of course, finding funding to sustain these efforts is always a challenge, as the general public, like the powers that be, still tends to view those behind bars as unworthy of compassion, and undeserving of charity. Despite a growing body of research that confirms that arts-based programs lower recidivism, many of them are being cut.

So consider supporting these programs. By doing so, you will contribute to not only the well-being of some of the over two million incarcerated men and women in the U.S., but also to the loved ones who await their return home.

Wendy Jason is a writer for and a passionate advocate for restorative justice who has worked on behalf of prisoners across the country.