Context

As I walk down the hallway of Gus Harrison Correctional Facility for my visual arts workshop, a familiar face meets my eye: an incarcerated man in the theater arts workshop who I had met a few days prior. Surrounding us is a metal detector, a ‘bathroom’ with a profound lack of privacy, cold white tiles, dry air, and a familiar lack of ease as I feel a correctional officer’s eye survey our interaction. I say, “Nice to see you,” a habitual politeness I purposefully employ in prison, an affirmation and intimacy that is so rare in this space. His response was remarkably profound. He replied, “It’s nice to be seen.” In a prison environment, incarcerated folks are constantly watched, but never truly seen. Our mutual connection to art reinforced his humanity: he was able to be seen for more than his incarceration. Art offers a means of restoration, exploration, and autonomy, reinforcing one’s humanity behind bars. 

In an environment dedicated to punishment and dehumanization, incarcerated artists utilize creative expression as a means of resistance. Artists draw, write, paint, and build as not only a form of escapism, but as a means of fighting oppression. This project explores how incarcerated communities in Michigan resist ongoing oppression through artmaking as a social practice, utilizing time, space, and connection to contrast carceral norms. 

Incarceration is a failed attempt at regulating safety in the United States. In her book Until We Reckon: Violence, Mass Incarceration, and a Road to Repair, author Danielle Sered states, “If incarceration worked to secure safety, we would be the safest nation in all of human history” (Sered, 7). Incarceration lacks efficacy in its effort to maintain so-called ‘safety.’ The United States holds 5 percent of the world’s population and nearly 25 percent of its incarcerated population, with 2.3 million Americans behind bars. The US relies excessively on incarceration as a solution to violence. Our punitive system treats violence as an issue rooted in dangerous individuals rather than critically examining the structures of inequality and systems of oppression that result in crime as a means of survival. There is a narrative of “good versus evil” within punitivity. The US justice system evaluates one’s character with a rigid sense of morality, using these judgements as the basis for whether individuals are to be treated humanely. If the state’s verdict declares someone guilty, they are stripped of their humanity. Incarcerated people are likely to endure violence, incredible mental distress, and trauma inside prison. Inside, prison facilities are overpopulated and understaffed, and human needs are not met within prison walls. There is inadequate shelter, food, clothing, and water, with little to no medical care. Prisons are void of human connection, forbidding any kind of relationship or intimacy with ‘overfamiliarity’ regulations. Interactions with correctional officers are demeaning, enforcing institutional power through emotional and physical abuse. 

Despite these obstacles, incarcerated folks utilize artmaking inside as a means of resistance, using art as a means of communication, critique, and restored humanity. In Marking Time: Art in the Age of Mass Incarceration, abolitionist author Nicole Fleetwood explores how artists in prison disrupt institutionalization. Fleetwood analyzes how art works as a mechanism for self expression and social change in prisons. In her introduction, she states, “Prison art practices resist the isolation, exploitation, and dehumanization of carceral facilities” (Fleetwood, 3). Prison works as a means of social control. Within an institution that polices one’s access to resources, including art supplies, any attempt to create art inherently opposes penal norms (Fleetwood, 58). Surrounded by violence and bleak interiors, artists persist, continuing to create in incredibly harsh conditions. Art in prison is an act of survival. It is a way to break up the mundanity of prison life, to distract from one’s reality, to reflect inwardly, to express oneself, and to connect with others. This project examines how artists reclaim time, space, and social connection in prison as a means of resistance. 

In a punitive environment that seizes time as a means of punishment, incarcerated artists utilize their sentence in prison to create art. Time is what constitutes one’s prison sentence, determining how long you are subjected to isolation and dehumanizing treatment. Imprisonment inherently changes the definition of time (Fleetwood, 39). In the outside world, time is a construct that tracks societal milestones such as age, anniversaries, or promotions; it can measure how long until the next weather season, or the amount of days until the end of the week. Time takes a completely different meaning in prison: it measures how long until you can go home, if ever. Each day measures how long you’ve been away from your family, friends, and community. Incarcerated artists view this time differently: They reclaim time, intended as an instrument of punishment, to explore their creativity. 

Artists in prison utilize penal spaces for artmaking. Penal space refers to more than simply the prison itself; it encompasses the architecture of prison spaces, the restriction of mobility, the monitored geographic, material, and social environment (Fleetwood, 38). Penal space refers to the ways in which prisons regulate contact and intimacy. Penal space extends beyond physical confinement, referring to how prison defines incarcerated individuals’ life outcomes, specifically poor people of color who are most impacted and targeted by the criminal justice system (Fleetwood, 38). In the context of artmaking, Fleetwood reconstructs penal space as, “sites in prisons where incarcerated people create, such as structured workshops, hobby crafts rooms, recreational areas, and sometimes alone in isolation cells” (Fleetwood, 38). Artists transform penal spaces into places of creation, challenging the restrictions and regulations of prison. 

Art works as a means of connection within prison, cultivating community and fostering inside-outside communication. Art creates community inside: with limited access to programming, artists often engage in mutual learning and mentorship. Artmaking works as a social practice, with artists working collaboratively, resisting oppression and prison regulations through artistic networks inside. The prison system strictly forbids connection in prison; incarcerated individuals are not allowed any sort of intimacy, with facilities severing ties by even sending friends to separate facilities. Yet, artmaking unites artists in an incredibly isolating environment, resisting carceral norms. Art also preserves inside-outside communication. Art works as a tool to maintain bonds between incarcerated people and their loved ones. Artists are able to show affection towards their loved ones through artmaking, sending portraits and greeting cards home. Artists also express notions of longing, creating images of memories, those of the past and those that have been missed. Artmaking as a social practice promotes connection and community both within and outside of confinement. 

My interest in the role of artmaking in carceral spaces began over a year ago within the Prison Creative Arts Project. The Prison Creative Arts Project (PCAP) is an organization within the University of Michigan dedicated to the empowerment of those impacted by the criminal justice system through artistic expression and collaboration. PCAP offers programs including collaborative courses and workshops, a literary review, and an annual exhibition. Each year, the organization hosts the Annual Exhibition of Artists in Michigan Prisons, featuring art from all 26 prison facilities in Michigan. For the past two years, I participated in the curation process: This required visits to each prison to meet with artists, discuss their work, and select pieces for the show. In 2024 and 2025, I traveled across Michigan, from the Upper Peninsula to Muskegon, discussing artmaking with incarcerated folks. 

Punitivity leaks into every orifice of the facility, including the process of entering prisons as an outside organization. The selection trip process could be strenuous. After hours of driving, we would arrive at the prison facility. I often mix the locations up in my head; many of the facilities are built the same way , mimicking one another’s lobby, yard, and buildings. The sterile aesthetic envelops you: white walls, dry air, cable TV, a sweet stale smell, and signs strewn about regarding the dignity, honor, and courage of those who work in the facility. We wait, for minutes or hours, to be let in to the prison gates. Inside ‘the bubble’, the gated space between the prison and the lobby, we are examined, our bodies meticulously inspected by a correctional officer. We are patted down, our mouths and feet checked, socks, shoes, and jackets touched and prodded. When we are deemed safe to enter, the gate opens. We are given PPDs: personal protection devices, a black rectangle with a red button ‘for emergencies’, of which I’ve never seen used. We are escorted across the prison yard; the cold Michigan winter air hits our faces as we walk through dilapidated grass and possibly see a few trees. 

After several locks, keys, and gates, we finally arrive at the room of artists, usually in a classroom or gym. They stand patiently, nervously waiting with their art presented on the tables in front of them. We meet each other’s eyes and together we feel a small sense of ease in a completely uneasy environment. For the next hour we connect. We talk about process, medium, time, community, creativity, confinement, isolation, and much more in between. We imagine futures outside of this oppressive space. For a moment, it feels like we can provide some sort of escape, maybe even make this place feel less like prison. The curation group reconvenes, discussing which pieces to take for the show; we discuss which pieces are an artist’s strongest, which piece means the most to them, and which piece might work best in the exhibition. After some discussion, we tell the artists why we picked each piece. Whether it be a pencil sketch or a surrealist painting, we give feedback on their successes and urge them to continue creating. Our interaction starts and ends with a handshake: the one physical form of intimacy allowed in this environment. The artists are called back to their cells or their jobs, and it all ends so quickly. I hold on to every interaction for as long as I can. I want to represent their art and their story exactly how they would want. I carry their spirit with me, outside of the prison walls they are confined within. We leave just as we came in: with a series of examinations and signout sheets. We take the art back to the studio, and repeat this process until all artists across all facilities are seen.

In this project, I reflect on my work as a curator for PCAP, utilizing my conversations with artists and observations within prisons to provide insight into the ways in which incarcerated artists resist carceral norms. My project works as an exhibit. This exhibit hosts pieces from PCAP’s 29th Annual Exhibition, alongside my own pieces, to create an environment encompassing resistance and community. The exhibition includes visual analysis, creative processes, and information about the pieces. These pieces provide insight into how incarcerated artists reclaim time, space, and connection in prison as an act of resistance through artmaking.