Arts at Club Fed

    At the start of 2024 while toiling away on an elliptical, a 'New Year New You’ segment on NPR

piqued my sweaty ears. The pop psychologist interviewed advised switching from 'resolutions’

to 'intentions’. “Of course!! my enlightened, ego mused, "resolutions are so constraining and

procrustean…Intentions…now those will lead to a Me 2.0. I can explore, expand, and examine

if I start with an 'I intend’. Who needs a well-thought-out S.M.A.R.T. Goal, tinged with the stress

of accountability? A quaint, feel good verb, the type that people pencil on their living room wall,

is much more salubrious. I rolled infinitives around my head. One bumped up: To Create.

    Of course I had dabbled in 'creation’ before. As a theater director, I had to make props like a

papier-mâché spider egg sac for Charlottes Web. And a seagull carcass for Annie Get

Your Gun. The act of directing a play is a form of creation. You’re in charge of bringing life to a

playwright’s words, crafting a singular interpretation. Even while incarcerated, developing

nascent thoughts into fully formed blog posts have been an act of creation. Still, 2 1/2 years into

my sentence and in the cold dark of the post solstice, I needed a spark to light up my malaise.

I’ve told outsiders before that life at Fed Med often feels like an extended summer camp. We

sleep in bunks, wear khaki uniforms, eat in a mess hall, write letters home, and have

counselors, albeit ones with handcuffs and mace. Every federal prison also has an arts and

crafts program. With intentional verb in hand and mind, I embarked on a journey.

    One benefit of a yearly intention over a resolution is being able to slack off for a while, and not

feel the guilt. For the first couple months, I contemplated and mulled around the idea of

producing something. I could justify my stagnation, thinking, "I’m waiting for MY moment; I am

not procrastinating..” My moment occurred in March when I saw a post on the Trulincs message

board advertising Introduction to Crochet. A decade prior I had tried my hand at it. A friend

gifted me some hooks, yarn, and patterns. A parent of one of my students assured me it was

like riding a bicycle, once you got into a rhythm. After watching a few YouTube videos, and a

few attempts of making a chain of loops, I felt like a kitten entangled in the labyrinth of strings.

The bag of supplies collected dust in a bedroom closet. My 40 something self was ready to get

on the bike again.

    Our class met in the far back room of indoor recreation on a Wednesday. One of our instructors

Keith, who also goes by the moniker Bone Crusher, took attendance. Bone Crusher, an affable

50 something, spoke in his Kentucky lilt as he called out names, shuffling around the tables, and

handed out formulaic pre-tests, part of any B.O.P. recreation class. After stabbing in the dark

on questions on stitch types, hook widths, and yarn varieties, Bone Crusher had us

promptly flip over the paper and gave us the answers for the post- test. As a former educator, I

know this was assessment heresy, but for the B.O.P.; it’s just a data piece to show 'learning’ is

happening for some audit team. Paperwork done, Bone Crusher and his co-instructor Troy Dock

handed out small packages of crochet hooks of various widths and had us select a preferred

skein of yarn. I chose 'green’-not forest, not Kelly, not lime, just ‘green’.

       Bone Crusher gave us a demonstration, with us leaning in, of how to hold the hook in one hand

and the yarn in the other. He then explained how to fasten the first loop and how to wrap the

thread around the hook and thread through the loop, and Voila!.. have a new loop. When you

repeat this tango, you end up with a chain- the foundation of a scarf, shawl, or sweater. I had

flashbacks of my maladroit hands a decade prior trying to make loops at sloth speed;

meanwhile, Bone Crusher and Troy Dock had the dexterity and speed of Bangladeshi garment

workers. Looking around, some of the other 'student students’ clearly had handled a hook

before. One admitted he was just taking the class for free supplies. Others were like me and

looked like 60-something white guys trying to eat Ramen with chopsticks.

    Bone Crusher and Troy Dock made their rounds giving feedback like "try to keep your loop

smaller” or "hold your string tauter”. By the end of class, I had managed to make a chain of 20 loops.

Bone Crusher ended the class announcing that our class project would be a teddy bear and

handed out a pattern. A frickin bear!?!? I thought I may be able to crank out a few potholders,

or maybe a tea cozy in a couple months, not this anthropomorphic ursine. Then I fell back into

intention mindset.  "I intend to create. This isn’t a mandate. I can throw in the towel (definitely

not crocheted by me) at any time.”

    Bone Crusher advised that we could come to the back room on non-class days to work on our

bear. He clearly knew some of us would need the extra time. I came in during afternoon the

following Sunday just to work on my technique. I moved from building chains to rows, all single

stitches. All of this was still at a slow pace. Even a set of potholders seemed ambitious.

The next class, we dove into our build a bear project. Bone Crusher explained that each

component of the doll, body, appendages, ears, nose – would involve building rows that spiraled

out and up from a central loop. He demonstrated how to construct the first row of loops, all

linked to this central nexus, creating a six petalled florette. It seemed like a facile first step. 20

minutes and five attempts later, I still had a small clump of knotted yarn. All knitting and crochet

are technically a bunch of knots, but ordered chaos. Mine was just a hot mess. Sensing my

exasperation, Troy Dock offered to make an anchor spiral for me; it took him 30 seconds. I

thanked him profusely, yet my inner ego wanted the bear entirely my creation. The coming

weekend, I got out my yarn and and hooks and unraveled the rows that Troy Dock had made. I

started again, determined. After a couple attempts, my rosette looked semi-coherent and

symmetrical. Slowly, the row spiraled out. I started to become fluent in the lingo of the crochet

pattern. Bone Crusher had stressed the importance of counting loops in each row to keep the

projects balance. The multi tasking of keeping the count, while following the steps of rap, hook,

and pull started to become a cadence. As a long distance runner, my 1st mile is always slower

and more laborious. As my breathing and muscles acclimate, usually the second or 3rd mile,

legs, breath, and posture sync up; the pace increases. I hit my crocheting stride as the shape of

the bear’s body formed, widening, and going upward with each row.

    Wanting to continue my momentum, I stowed my yarn and hooks in my mesh bag to smuggle

back to my dorm. 'I was hooked’ that evening. Hours merged together as I entered a flow state

with crocheting… I focus solely on repetition of movement and loop count. No judgment, no

rumination. Zen Buddhism has the mantra 'chop wood, carry water’ any activity is an opportunity

to be fully present in the now. In Tibetan Buddhism, monks will spend ceaseless hours crafting

mandalas, center cut, geometries of spiritual realms, out of colored grains of sand. This art

creation is also a meditation at the end of completion, this artifice is wiped away, the

kaleidoscope of grains collected and stored. An embodiment of all things, beautiful and

torturous. With art, each stitch, stroke, note, word or movement feels underwhelming, yet

without it, the whole work lacks. All parts are interdependent. Art instructs in these ways.

Eventually I finish the bear‘s body and progressed to its arms, legs, ears, and snout. After a

slow start, I was ahead of the rest of the class when we next met. Bone Crusher said I was

ready to stuff my bear. Like the scarecrow’s spa in Emerald City, each body part gained shape

and anima as I packed the batting, wisp by wisp into its nooks.

It was then time to assemble my creature. Sutured together by yarn, my Frankenbear came

together. Did it match the cutesy plushness of the image on the pattern. No. Did it pass or a

teddy bear? Mostly, but slightly off kilter and ill proportioned. Troy Dock said. "it’s a K2 bear.” a

reference to the pervasive prison drug that causes a zombie walk and a vacant stare. I

chuckled. The bear was also missing eyes and a mouth, so Troy proferred me some black yarn

to improve its countenance. Using the needle, Troy loaned me, I sewed on a smile and pupils

into the green. It made Mr. Bear slightly less menacing. In a month, I went from struggling to

complete a chain of loops to finishing a foot tall project. With pride, I shipped the bear out to my

parents since my mom is an avid crocheter.

    With my venture into crocheting ending, I wanted to continue exploring my intention by picking

up a brush with Introduction to oil Painting. This class had enrollment cap of 10, each spot

highly coveted; therefore, when the sign-up sheet was posted on the bulletin board, a mad dash

ensued to secure a spot. I made sure to write my name in ink. Pencil can easily be erased by

sign up saboteurs. The class was held on Wednesday evenings in the art room. Until the Class,

my view of this room was through the large window wall, separating it from the gym. As I

perspired a quarter of my body weight on the stair stepper, I could watch artisans in their natural

habitat like Fauna in a zoo exhibit. There’s no.’ Do Not Tap on Glass sign, though guys often

do tap to get their friends attention and relay messages. The room is only unlocked by staff

during 10 minute moves at the top of each hour or for bathroom emergencies. Paint is the only

liquid you want to have to clean up, after all.

    The first night of class, I gained a closer look at this haven. It resembled many high school art

rooms I’ve been in. A row of easels prop up paintings coming to life. Several paint splotched

wooden tables encircled with stools serve as workshop area for classes. Edging three walls or

workstation counters with lockers and shelves below to store supplies and projects, a color

wheel, an art room staple, hangs above a deep two basined sink where brushes, palettes and

molds are purged of plaster and paints. Tucked in a far corner, the ceramics room houses two

cylindrical kilns and shelves of molds for cups, plates, vases, chess sets, and sundry

knickknacks. The locked cage for the mallets, awls, and shears used for leather work, reminds

you that this is still a federal prison. The same tools that turn out wallets, purses, and belts can

also aid and abet in blunt force, trauma, internal bleeding, and punctured organs.

As we entered the room, we were greeted by our instructor, Mike Rodenbeek, who has a

Bachelors in Fine Arts from the University of Kansas. I had long admired Mike’s work from afar.

    His subjects over his time here include planes, trains, and automobiles. He vividly captures their

shape, texture, place, and spirit through meticulous detail. One of his larger paintings of a

vintage plane hangs in a TWA themed hotel next to New York City’s JFK airport. The passion

Mike has for his art extends from canvas to conversation. His eyes widen, his smile expands,

and his arms gesticulate whether he’s explaining a technique he’s using or guiding a newbie

with his own project. We gathered around the table as Mike took attendance. We went through

the same pretest/post test paperwork as the crochet class. With that done, Mike had us grab a

plastic tote he had prepped for each of us. They included a small 12“ x 8“ canvas, a bundle of

brushes, a box of paint tubes, tracing paper, and a photocopied Batman logo. The logo came

from a coloring book, the type of meant to keep fidgety kids occupied on a long car trip Mike

explained we’re going to use the tracing paper to transfer the logos outline onto the canvas.

Knowing he was working with novices and they had only eight classes Mike had chosen a

simpler image. We didn’t have to freehand. This was art T-ball for adults. The training wheels

were on. I deluded myself thinking, "even Michelangelo stenciled the Sistine ceiling before he

frescoed God bringing Adam to life! My mini cartoon Batman is surely a step below the Divine."

After spending the rest of the hour tracing away, my confidence about making a semi

recognizable image increased.

    The following week, we commenced a slightly more advanced paint-by-number. Opening up the

box of paints ushered me back to a Bob Ross episode. Hues he dabbed on his canvas to make

happy little trees like titanium white, burnt sienna, and sage green were in the box. Mike gave a

mini lesson on shading, showing how to slowly merge lighter hues a blue and gray into darker

varieties to create contour. On my makeshift palette, a piece of wax paper, I squeezed dots of

paint. Mike made rounds with his small bottle of liniment, applying tiny pools to make the paints

malleable and blendable. I took a small tipped brush to join titanium white and midnight black in

marriage with slate as their first child. I made small, quick strokes, applying the mixture toward

the interior of the Caped Crusaders costume. I tried to stay within the lines, but even intention,

my technique leaned more impressionist with smudges straying beyond the lines. Moving from

slate, I added more of the titanium to create ash. I attempted a seamless transition from dark to

light over the hour. My fifty, ok more like five shades of gray, slowly developed, creating the

illusion of the Dark Knight emerging from the shadows. Mike made his rounds offering

encouragement. The hour closed, and that night’s C.O. entered, making with a mixture of

apathy, disdain and, alcoholism. He barked at us to clean up. We soaped up and washed our

brushes in the metal sink, stored our supplies in our totes, and headed out for the evening.

    Over the next few weeks, the realities of incarcerated life impact attendance, a couple of our

scheduled classes were nixed or cut in half because of closed quarters. What should have been

an eight session class winnowed down to six. One student went M.I.A. after being sent

to S.H.U. Teacher, Mike, acknowledging we wouldn’t complete our crime fighter, adjusted his

plans; instead he told us to focus the central features: the face, the mask, the logo, and the

clenched fist. Using the same techniques for the grays, I tried to blend tones of blues, yellows,

and whites. Comparison can be the thief of joy, but I still glanced over at others’ work; I was mid

tier. One guy. Sergio, could illustrate for DC comics; another man, David dabbed on paint with

the finesse of Koko, the gorilla. As our sessions came to an end, Mike, somewhat crestfallen

from our half finished canvases, encouraged us to do what we can. I add touchups and details

to Batman in the waning minutes. I wash my brushes one final time and thank Mike for teaching

with passion and patience. A week later, I mailed my canvas, fit snuggly in a legal envelope to

my sister Katie, since my nephew, Wes loves all manner of costumed brawny paladins. When I

called Katie a couple weeks later, she told me my niece Sabrina had finished the painting using

watercolor. I can’t wait to see what the collaboration looks like when I’m released.

    Buoyed by my experience in oil, I made a beeline to the bulletin board a month later, pen in

hand, to sign up for Introduction to Ceramics. Three decades prior, I dabbled

in pottery in a quarter long junior high art class my coil pot glazed in white with maroon flex, had

the symmetry and grace of Frankenstein; still, the misshapen vessel sat on the family coffee

table collecting change sometimes, dust mostly. My fear of crafting another clay monstrosity

was assuaged when I learned prior to the first class that the ceramicists used a plethora of

molds that shaped the clay. Even my maladroit hands could handle that. Our two ceramics

instructors went by C.J. and Popcorn. C.J., who didn’t have experience with ceramics pre-

incarceration, told me he spends 20 hours weekly in the hobby craft room. He fashions cups,

chess sets, plates, piggy banks, and other keepsakes, which he sends out to three sons, parents

and friends. These many projects made him, along with Popcorn, ideal teachers.

The first night of class, we gathered around the same table used for oil painting and took the

pretest. C.J. explained the 10 of us would make a cup for our Class project. Choosing the right

cup had less of a life and death stakes than Indiana Jones faced at the end of THE LAST

CRUSADE. Still, I pondered my options with style and size, instead of a large stein or deep

mug, I settled on a shallow basined thin brimmed, one-finger handled dwarf. It would be ideal

for an Italian espresso, a spot of tea, or a nip of something stronger after a stressful day.

Following instructions, I secured the mold’s two sides with a strap. C.J. made his way with a

bucket of clay slip and helped us pour the steely cake batter into our molds. As 15 minutes past,

I could see the liquid coalesce at the edges and cling to the plaster. I flipped the mold and set it

down on thin boards lying across the slip bucket. The remaining mixture dripped out, leaving

behind an eighth of an inch coating. It was an auspicious start as class ended. Someone might

actually recognize what I poured as a cup.

    The next day, we removed our molds from the drying rack. Released the straps embracing the

mold, and extracted our vessels with care. C.J. and Popcorn dispersed sponges and cups of

water, and explained how to smooth out the visible seams and excess clay left from the mold.

They also advise not to sponge away too much to avoid breakage. Similar to the flow state I had

when crocheting, I found simple bliss, smoothing down the clay with the wet sponge. I cleaned

up and set my cup with its larger kin in the class, bidding it adieu for the week.

    By next class, our projects had been fired in the cylindrical kiln. The damp, gray clay was now a

white baked ceramic, a canvas ready for paint. I first planned to draw a sunflower on one side,

then color it with yellow and brown hues, and contrast it on a green background. I eventually

curbed my ambitions, heeding the 'less is more' maxim. I settled on the same color scheme,

though. Attached to a side wall was a glaze color board, akin to what you would find at a paint

department at Lowe’s. Shiny half inch squares, featured a spectrum of tones like Canary,

Robin’s egg, jade, and mocha. I opted for avocado, buttercream, and chocolate as my

decorative recipe. Using an assortment of brush widths, I layered on the milk, thick glaze onto

the sides, rim, handle, and base several times over. Adding layers, assure that the color stands

out after the drying and firing. I will admit the hue scheme of a yellow rim, green sides, and

brown handle, probably wouldn’t be featured in.Martha Stewart’s Living. Still, it wasn’t a

complete aesthetic dumpster fire.

    The next class, I bathed the entire cup in a gloopy gloss with the tone and texture of a

McDonald’s shamrock shake. When fired though, it provided a clean sheen to the finished

product. My tea cup emerged from its chrysalis after a second trip to kiln ready for use.

Compared to my coil pot from adolescence, the end result looked much more chic. I shipped out

the cup to my friend Holly the next week. She had gone to a high tea on a trip to London that

year, so I thought she’d appreciate it’s daintiness.

    Along my year-long, creative journey, I learned more about the B.O.P. art programs and policies

as well as others experiences with the arts. After completing both the one-hour introduction to

hobby craft seminar and introductory class in a chosen medium, you’re allowed access to a

plastic tote to keep crochet, knitting, cross, stitch, or beading supplies. Those working with oil,

pastels, leather, or ceramics are given a workstation and locker in the secured art room for a six

month stent, which can be extended if no one new is waiting to enroll.

    One of the requirements, sometimes a hurdle to hobby craft involvement, is purchasing

supplies. Depending on the medium, start up cost vary. Fitz, a devoted cross stitcher, said the

most basic orders are between $100-$150. Ceramics instructor. C.J . said his start up costs

were around $300; he spends $20 every couple of months for additional ’slip’. Mike Rodenbeek,

the oil, painting, instructor, told me that for initial canvases, brushes, and paints, he paid a few

hundred dollars, then an additional hundred dollars every few months for more canvases. Vito

a talented pastel drawer, relayed that a case of high-quality pastels is $120-$130 with a 12

package of high end paper costing $80-$90. All art supplies come through licensed and

approved supply suppliers, like Dick Blick or Springfield Leather Company using a ‘Special

Purchase Order’. On top of the vendor price in the catalogue and shipping and handling, the

institution charges a 30% markup. This goes to pay for recreation, supplies and equipment,

including supplies for introductory classes for those with outside financial support, the cost

burden is not as onerous; however, some like Fritz paying for supplies solely from their work

salaries. In prior fiscal years, it could take months to save up for purchase orders. At the

beginning of fiscal year 2025, all inmate wages were halved. At Fed Med at least. This had a

slew of effects, including those in custody having to make cut back to hobby craft purchases.

    Artisans combat expenses by sharing supplies like paint, yarn, threads, and leather pieces. You

might have a color or texture someone else needs and can reciprocate on projects. Still, cost

remain a hurdle for many to be involved beyond the introductory courses. Fitz states, "I feel like

the B.O.P. as a whole should be making it financially easier to participate in crafts. Not only are

we being charged 30% more to purchase supplies, we also miss out on other available

discounts, i.e. Coupon codes and membership discounts. I don’t think they (B.O.P.) should help

us pay for things we want, but adding so much on top seems like a poor way to encourage us

into activities to keep us occupied and out of trouble.”

   While Creator types are grateful for the hobby craft program, they also commented on changes

they’d like to see. C.J. would like more open hours and updated equipment. Mike Rodenbeek

understands why they restrict who enters the art room but wishes we could easily show friends

the progress and fine details of his current painting.

    One change made by a prior warden was banning any hobby craft items from housing units. His

rationale was eliminating clutter. This more than urked drawers and crafters who kept their

supplies in their locker out of sight, when not working on projects. With a new warden, some

supplies like markers, colored pencils, paper, clipboards, and erasers have been approved

again for the unit. Still drawer, Steve Risk says, "everything that was once allowed on the unit

should be allowed again. I wasn’t causing a problem with excessive property.” Permitting

Cross-stitch, crochet, knitting, and bead work on the units might increase participation from

unit 'home bodies’ who rarely leave their floors. Fitz echoes others, stating "the number one

issue to me is lack of access to be able to actually spend time on your chosen hobby or craft… I

can get maybe 45 minutes an evening and maybe 3 to 4 hours a day on the weekends but if

we’re allowed to do (our projects) at our bunks again, I could easily spend 2 to 4 hours a day

doing something that makes me feel productive away from other issues going on around me.”

Living in close quarters to others who lack volume awareness, social cues, and boundaries can

be taxing daily, especially for introverts. Being engrossed in a project helps to block out the

noise.

    For many, hobby craft projects are a mental escape. Fitz who spends 10 to 12 hours a week

with his Cross-stitch reflected, "all of these things (hobby craft) are a form of travel; they make the

hours disappear and doing something productive provides a sense of purpose and that in some

way you’re not completely wasting your time here.” Mike Rodenbeek agrees, stating, "what I

love most is when I’ve got a brush in my hand, I’m lost in the art I’m working on. Time doesn’t

mean anything for that magical moment. I might start painting at noon and then I look up and

three hours have passed by.” C.J. commented, "(ceramics) keep my mind elsewhere, keeps me busy and 

out of trouble. I can spend more time in there (hobby craft) and away from this place.” As I mentioned 

earlier, I had the same experience when crocheting, the hours hurtling forward.

    While time-accelerating, an arts project also is time-marking. So much of incarcerated life as

prescriptive, and varying routine; census counts, manual, rotations, formulaic announcements

over the intercoms, and uniforms. You can feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Or Sisyphus

and his futile boulder workout. An art project is an art process. You have to select, prepare, plan,

evaluate, recalibrate, fine tune, display, and share. As work progresses; you see it grow and

evolve over days and weeks. Creation here gives agency and independence. So much of your

day is controlled while incarcerated; and contrast, you dictate the direction and pace, a scarf, a

purse, a vase, or portrait takes.

    Art can humanize in an often dehumanizing environment. Some staff treat all under their watch

with antipathy. Their tone shouts 'burden,' their sneers hiss 'reject,’ their body language

barks 'vermin,’ for some we are hazardous cargo. Those types of interactions over days, weeks,

and years can wear on the psyche. For many millennia, art has been our species way of giving

form to the intangible of our hearts and minds, our hopes and worries. The same happens here.

I’ve noticed when new staff or outside visitors are given tours of the institution, they take their

time walking around the hobby craft room. For some it might make them remember that even

the incarcerated possess the same need to be seen and understood.

    Every person coming into B.O.P. custody takes a Risk and Needs Assessment. This identifies skill 

deficiencies, such as parenting, finance, education, health, work, addiction, and trauma. To address these 

needs the B.O.P. offers classes, some meeting a few hours, others, extending for months. On first 

examination, arts programming might appear less efficacious than vocational training or drug rehab 

rehabilitation to reduce recidivism in the bureau of prison’s budget priorities. Recreation programs seem 

like a small expendable sliver in the age of DOGE much like in many school districts, the arts look like

low hanging fruit to prune for administrators; however, just like research, connecting arts and

involvement to higher test scores, arts programming can improve institutional morale and

reduce disciplinary issues on the compounds, but just as important, cultivate traits like planning,

patience, concentration, and self reflection for life post incarceration. Fed Med’s Mental Health

Unit has a recreation therapist who uses arts and crafts with patients to process prior traumas,

calm current anxieties, and reinforce cognitive and behavioral skills from therapy. For men with

cognitive impairments or language deficiencies, drawing or painting may be their preferred

outlet. Psychologist Howard Gardner argued that all people possess a type of intelligence,

including visual-spatial. Some men here who struggled with the mathematical and linguistic

emphasis of school, either dropped out or eked by. Once incarcerated with time to pass, they

discover they have a natural acuity in the arts.

    Artists spend their time, effort, and money to develop and nurture themselves, but also to

maintain and strengthen ties with family and friends over the long months and years of a

sentence. Mike Rodenbeek commented, "I know my family loves getting my painting sent to

them. It’s such a good way for them to see I’m doing something good and productive while I’m

here." Fitz reflected, "being able to send something you’ve made by hand to a loved one outside

is a huge thing. It gives them something real to see and remember you by instead of only

memories and pictures that are years old. Something that shows that life goes on, and we are

able to still be productive, not simply sitting behind bars.”

    In December 2024, Fed Med hosted it an annual Family Day, an event for dads to spend quality

time with their kids. The theme was The Polar Express. A few of the hobby crafty guys who

are also dads created a locomotive out of painted cardboard and lids as a backdrop for a photo

shoot. C.J. made ceramic Christmas light shaped ornaments for every kid to take home. A

keepsake to put up for future Christmases.

    For some, their art is a hustle. My neighbor Woody stays busy crafting hand-drawn cards for

all occasions: birthdays, holidays, graduations, anniversaries, and deaths. A one-stop Hallmark,

he keeps a portfolio of designs for his clients to choose from, Disney characters to sports logos

to flowers. While the commissary does sell packs of generic cards, forking over some stamps

for a customized one is worth it for someone wanting to maintain outside ties or patch over

some fractured ones.

    Some of the most talented crocheters, ceramicists, leather workers, and painters also make

pieces to ship out to others 'people.’ This is a black market; B.O.P. policy states you can’t operate

a business while incarcerated. Still, guys find ways to circumvent the rule. Completed project

shipped to people on an artisan’s visiting list. They then ship the package to the intended giftee.

The artisans are paid through commissary items or stamps, directly, or money, exchanging

accounts on the outside before being deposited in their TruLinks account. These profits help

some artists pay for new supplies for future projects.

Some works stay inside the institution; leather workers make cases for tablets that guys can

fasten To their back or hip to listen to music while working out.

    Crocheters fashion koozies for water bottles. Rosaries, bracelets, and necklaces made from

painted pencil sections and plastics accessorize the khakis and grays of clothing. All of the

above is contraband that staff can confiscate at any time; buyer beware. Despite the rules,

some staff reach out to artisans to commission pieces. Mike Rodenbeek’s talent has caught the

eye of a few staff members who request paintings. Recently, he composed a work of two black

horses rearing on their hind legs with "STALLIONS” positioned boldly in red in the background; this

was for two uber-masculine C.O’s who wanted a sign of their virility to display in their office. I

joked that Mike should paint the ponies castrated secretly.

    The one type of art that staff can’t confiscate are tattoos. At my orientation meeting, a health

staff member pleaded with us to not get a prison tattoo. She relayed the gory details of MRSA

outbreaks for guys after being inked. The possibility of flesh eating microbes doesn’t dissuade

the determined, though. One man in my room came into prison, two years ago, a blank canvas;

now his back is a mural in progress. His Diego Rivera, a guy in our room named Angel, has a

steady stream of clients. His bunk a makeshift parlor, he uses his gun to embed ink from pens

under his clients.’ skin with precision. It’s a collaboration with guys bringing drawn-up designs

with Angel making suggestions and alterations. Some 'tats’ take several evenings to come

together; others materialize over a couple hours, a redness at the edges, a sign of newness.

Angel does follow up on his work to check for healing and to advise to apply more lotion. Not all

prison tattoos have the same quality. I’ve seen some that fade and blur overtime. One man’s

arm looks like a four year old took a crayon to a wall. Some images reflecting a hard and fast life

feel out of place on men in their 70’s, relying on catheters, oxygen tanks, and the electric

wheelchairs.

    Some artisans use the mundane and the discarded as their medium. A few years ago, one man

spent hours sitting by his bunk, cutting up the colored potions of used snack packages folding

and twisting them into strands and weaving those into intricate and sturdy purses he shipped

out. They might’ve had a Etsy page. Currently a group of men is adding ‘bling’ to banal Bic

Pens. Using a similar system, indigenous people employ to transform plant fibers and wool into

thread, they spin and stretch trash bags into long strands. They color some of these with marker

and weave them into the pens shafts.

Regardless of motivations, or medium, those who create insideFED MED find purpose through

their crafts. Some will continue with their art after incarceration; others will not as the

responsibilities of 'adulting’ fill their hours and days. For me, my journey into creativity has

been fulfilling. It’s helped to practice concentration, attention to detail, and being in the moment.

It’s been a way to connect with family and friends. I’ve been able to see different sides of men

I’ve lived side-by-side with for years. As I think about life after incarceration, I can see myself

taking up crocheting as a hobby. In retrospect, I wasted lots of time on social media and

streaming channels as a way to avoid confronting unpleasant ruminations. Taking up crafting is

a much more rewarding way to soothe the spirit, to connect with others. Long after my knees

give out, I’ll still be able to use my hands to fashion, hopefully less deformed bears, from

skeins of yarn.