Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  Suddenly I became aware my ears were cold and I stopped. The sky was becoming light, so I turned around, and at first I was taken by surprise. I was at least a mile out. I’d never swam that far and for a second I was scared I wouldn’t make it back. But I dismissed the thought. After all, I was Sinbad, a waterman, and the ocean was my home.

  I swam like a machine and my thoughts only came back to the present when I neared the pier and heard Go-Go’s voice above me. He was on the pier yelling and pointing at me, but I couldn’t make out what he said. My ears were numb. Halfway past the end of the pier, Sandman and Turtle were at my side on their boards and I picked up my pace. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart in my chest. Nearing the shore, I body surfed a wave in and emerged from the water. Brody, Silver, and Matt met me there.

  “What were you doing, brah? When we got here we saw you go in and do your swim, but as we set up our shit and watched you keep going, we didn’t know what to think,” said Brody.

  By then the rest of them were listening.

  “I was just feeling it, so I pushed on,” I said.

  “Brah, I went to the end of the pier to watch you, and when I lost sight of you I freaked. I thought you were dust,” Go-Go said.

  “You scared all of us. We lost one of ours when Bomber went down. We don’t want to feel that again.”

  Sandman said, “It’s the last week of summer. We know you won’t be here every day because of school, but know this: in our hearts you’ll be here. We’ll surf and your spot among us will remain, because you’re one of us. The Pack never leaves or forgets one of our own.”

  Then I noticed Turtle held a new black and blue wetsuit. He handed it to me. “We all pitched in to buy it. Try it on.”

  I took mine off. It was old, cracked, and much too small. I put on the new one. It fit perfectly. “Damn, you almost look as good as I do,” laughed Go-Go.

  “You’re one of us. You’re Pack,” said Brody.

  One by one we picked up our boards and paddled out. Brody and Sandman were on each side of me, and as we neared our spot, Sandman said, “I was right about you. You are Sinbad.”

  Chapter 19

  San Quentin Death Row, 1988

  I settled down to read a new book—my third in the seven days after Domino slit Silent’s throat. Everyone on Yard-1 would remain on lock-down for ten days with no yard program. After that we’d go back to normal schedule. In the meantime, I busied myself reading, and drawing all manner of compositions. In East Block I could order books from a larger part of the library than I could when I was in the AC. It seemed like no one had any interest in the books I ordered since they were often dusty and moldy. Most of the men in prison are not interested in art or its history and movements. Instead, they concentrate on racial, cultural, and religious study, then they use their knowledge as proof of their intelligence, and ultimately as a weapon to argue their superiority over other races, cultures, or religions. This is a complete waste of time—like a dog chasing its tail.

  The new books I discovered on the writings of Motherwell, Kline, de Kooning, and Rothko were a wonder to me and I couldn’t stop reading them. In them I found a language I understood and could relate to. Ideas such as, “A consummated experience between picture and viewer,” and, “The point is to end this stillness and loneliness and to be able to breathe and stretch one’s arms again,” were a revelation and excited me beyond all else.

  Reading the words of Rothko, a man I had never met but felt I knew intimately through his words and work, was a very moving experience for me. I also found Friedrich Nietzsche’s writings extremely meaningful, and his belief that music is the true language of emotions was like water to the lips of a thirsty man.

  “Mr. Noguera? Excuse me, Mr. Noguera?”

  I looked up. “I’m sorry. I was reading. How may I help you?” I said.

  I had not heard the woman approach my cell. I’m temporarily in my own world while I read and I rarely notice my surroundings.

  “I’m the handicraft manager and Warden Vasquez asked me to stop by and offer you a place in the program. I brought the latest catalog so you can order materials if you need anything.”

  She handed me the catalog and a membership application through the crack at the top of the cell door.

  “Fill the application out and pick a medium you’d like to work in. I’ll collect it tomorrow, along with your order sheet so your materials can be processed. Usually approval for orders takes a few weeks, then they arrive a few months after that. It’s best to order in bulk so you don’t run out.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate you coming by. I’d like to get started as soon as possible. I’ll have the application and order ready for you tomorrow.”

  “The warden tells me you’re extremely talented. Do you have anything I can look at?”

  Normally I don’t like anyone seeing my work until I’ve had time to digest the feelings associated with what I consider a very personal experience, but it wasn’t the time to be difficult. I turned and picked up a small folder I had made from cardboard, where I kept my drawings and compositions. I handed it to her. She opened the folder and examined the contents for a couple of minutes.

  “These are very good—and at the same time very disturbing. There’s a rawness to your work. If you’re interested in selling your work in the gift shop, you may consider landscapes or flowers. They seem to sell the best.”

  Her suggestion annoyed me. Landscapes? Flowers? Was she kidding?

  Apparently not. She handed my folder back and then reached for a large portfolio she had brought.

  “The warden asked if I had any art materials available so you could get started, so I brought you a few things. A prisoner who paroled last week left these materials.”

  “I appreciate it. I’ll use whatever I can.”

  “There’s a list of items you can order inside the portfolio, and the rules for the program. I only come into the unit once a month to pass out orders, pick up art for mail-outs, or to place pieces in the gift shop. I put three contracts inside the portfolio in case a staff member orders something from you. He signs the contract and then it’s approved by the warden. That’s about it. Any questions?”

  “Not that I can think of, but thank you for coming in today and bringing me these materials.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome. I’m Katharine, and I can be reached by institutional mail if you need anything.”

  She left and I looked out the large window directly in front of my cell. Wind surfers passed by in the bay, and a part of me was sad. Having a window in front of my cell is a huge bonus, but it’s also hard to deal with. The other men in here only see the wind surfers and bay as beauty and a form of entertainment. For me, however, it’s a form of torture because I know what it’s like to ride a wave and feel the spray of the ocean on my face—to feel its power and harness it. To have had it then lost it is much worse than never having had it at all. A man who has never experienced something can’t long for it. This is why I believe prison was made for men like me. I am tortured and punished by being here. Most men here have never had anything, so prison serves no purpose except to warehouse them.

  The sound of keys brought my attention back from the wind surfers. I had already learned to distinguish each bull by the sound the keys on his belt made as he walked. It sounded like Stevenson. He had finished releasing the remaining inmates for showers and was coming for me so I could clean the showers.

  “Ready to go, Noguera?”

  “Give me a moment to get my things. Could you put that portfolio in my cell when I go clean the showers? The art manager left it for me.”

  “Not a problem. I see you’re getting settled in. I look forward to seeing what you can do with the right materials.”

  So am I, I thought, so am I.

  “I’m ready to go.”

  I turned around and he placed cuffs on my wrists through the food port then opened my door. I backed out and went to the showers. This was the best and worst p
art of my day. Worst because no matter how good a job I did cleaning them, the next day they were back to a state of filth. The men who used the showers each day seemed to forget they were human for the time they spent in there. Some spit, others urinated, and some even masturbated. The stench was overwhelming and the first twenty minutes or so were terrible while I poured bleach and scrubbed the walls and floor. After they were clean I showered as long as I wanted. I usually brought all of my dirty clothes to wash each day instead of sending them to the prison laundry service. I’d seen men who sent their laundry out end up with rashes that they always seemed to be scratching. I avoided all that whenever possible.

  After I finished cleaning and washing, I turned the hot water on, showered, and allowed it to relax me. Much of that time I spent daydreaming I was somewhere else.

  I turned off the water and put on my shorts. I wondered what was in the portfolio. I still wasn’t sure what I’d need to order and how much it would cost. After five years of incarceration, my savings were nearly gone and I had no means to support myself. They didn’t allow death row prisoners to work jobs for money. I wasn’t like the rest of the men here who asked their families for money, or convinced some woman to support them. I would find a way to support myself.

  “Hey Noguera, you done?”

  “Yeah, boss, but I need some more bleach to clean these showers.”

  “I’m way ahead of you. I put a gallon in your cell, and a bag of extra fruit I got from the kitchen.”

  “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

  After I returned to my cell, I put away the bleach and hung up my clothes to dry. I looked in the bag Stevenson had brought me. There were four grapefruits, six oranges, five bananas, and ten apples. I put them in a plastic bag, then filled up a five-gallon bucket of cool water and placed them there. Getting the shower job had been a huge plus for me since I didn’t eat any prison food that was cooked or opened. The kitchen workers often did things to the food going to death row because they knew a lot of the men there are rapists, child molesters, and child killers who deserved what they got.

  As shower cleaner, I received enough extra food so I could pick only the things that were still sealed and avoid problems. It also allowed me to save the remaining funds for things I really needed until I figured out a way to support myself.

  Of course, in prison there are always ways for a convict to make money and I had the required tools for all that. Dealing drugs was lucrative, and so was gambling and extortion. But I was done with that life. I would rather starve.

  Finally, I looked at the portfolio. It was twenty-six by thirty-six inches, made of black plastic. As I picked it up to set it on my bunk I noticed it was a lot heavier than I expected. It had a large zipper along three sides that, when opened, folded out like a book. Inside, I found ten sheets of illustration board, each twenty by thirty inches and twenty-ply. They were professional grade materials, far superior to the low grade materials I’d grown used to. There was an eighteen-inch ruler, erasers, graphite, pencils, pens, brushes, ink bottles, and a specialized set of pens for drafting. It was exactly what I needed to get started.

  I sat back and thought about what I’d do first. I didn’t want to waste any of the boards because everything had to count.

  The next day the handicraft manager came and picked up my application. She approved it on the spot and took my order sheet. By that time I knew what I had to do. It was obvious to me there was a market here for art. A lot of prisoners did cards and small drawings, and some even painted. But from what I could see, most of their work seemed more like a hobby than art. I guess that’s what the prison had in mind when the program opened. For almost all the prisoners, art was nothing more than a cell hobby. They did landscapes, seascapes, Southwestern cowboy or Indian scenes. Others did prison art that included unique combinations of gun towers, cell bars, and Chicano and gang motifs.

  I started to work on a strategy to sell my art to the staff members at the prison and to the public. To do this, I needed to create art unique to me—art so powerful they wouldn’t be able to look away.

  I sat down on the other five-gallon bucket and rolled back my mattress. I placed a sheet of illustration board on the steel bunk frame and just stared at it for the next few hours. I only stopped to get my dinner, which I didn’t eat.

  I allowed my mind to wander, using my imagination, and I opened it to the possibilities that lay there.

  Sometime during the night I must have gone to bed, but as soon as I woke up I was back on that bucket, staring at the board. I did this for the next two days until the hand that held the graphite pencil began to move across the board. Once set in motion, my mind, vision, and hand became one. I worked in a frenzy for the next three weeks. I developed a routine designed to satisfy all my needs. I woke at 5 a.m., ate breakfast, read, went to yard at 6:30 a.m., returned at 1 p.m., cleaned the showers, worked from 2 p.m. until 11 p.m., read until 11:45 p.m., and slept from 12 a.m. to 5 a.m.

  After nearly three weeks I finished my first piece showcasing my talent and skill as a realist. It was a scene of everyday life—a father and two boys playing in the front yard of their home. They had smiles on their faces as they played. I paid close attention to the detail of the house, their faces, landscapes, and the reaction generated by the interaction between the father and his sons.

  I was satisfied I had accomplished what I set out to do. It was a piece anyone could relate to. It was appealing, yet contained every ounce of my talent and my skill to convey powerful emotion. I placed it at the back of my cell, facing the front for all to see.

  During the next yard release, when dozens of bulls passed my cell, I made sure all of my lights were turned on so anyone who walked by and happened to look in would see it. I arranged my cell in a way to emphasize how clean I was and the discipline I lived by. The added PR element would help me sell pieces. I wanted to leave an impression on any bull who looked in my cell and spoke to me. I also wanted them to see my work for what it was—real art, not a cell hobby project.

  “You going to yard today?” asked a bull I had never seen before named Tucker. He was an African American with white hair and a jumpsuit uniform instead of the regular pants and shirt.

  “Yes, boss.”

  I began to strip, but he stopped me.

  “Just hand me your shoes. You got any knives or swords I should know about?”

  I laughed. “No, not today.”

  “Get dressed. I’m sure if you had anything I wouldn’t find it. In my twenty-seven years here I’ve learned an important lesson. No matter how hard I look, I’ll never find anything on a convict, even if he has something. An inmate is a different story. They’re stupid and easy to catch. You don’t strike me as an inmate so let’s get you outside.”

  He seemed very easy-going with a confident manner, as if he knew what he was doing. He wasn’t lazy. He was studying me and through our exchange had learned much more than if he had gone through all of my things and had me strip.

  I decided to try something. I had been rehearsing in my mind to engage a potential buyer for my work. I knew just being an artist wouldn’t be enough. I had to be my own dealer, PR person, and a likable individual to generate interest. Most of all, people had to remember me. I had to set myself apart from everyone else and earn their respect.

  “That’s interesting that you can read someone so quickly and distinguish between a convict and an inmate. That says a lot about your skills as an observer,” I said.

  “After so many years of this, believe me, I know.”

  “I believe you. Do you mind if I step back and put my work to the side? I don’t want someone to see it and decide to take it.”

  “You did that?”

  “Yes. It’s a form of Hyperrealism in graphite.” I picked up my work and brought it over for him to see close up.

  “That’s excellent work. I’ve never seen anything that detailed outside of a gallery. You go to art school?”

  “I learned from my
parents and on my own.”

  “Do you sell your work through the gift shop?”

  “No. If I create a piece for a client it’s through a contract approved by the warden’s office.”

  “How does that work?”

  “The warden has given me contracts to enter into with staff. It’s like any business contract where we agree on a service and a price for that service.”

  “Do you have these contracts?”

  “Sure.”

  “How much would you charge me for one of your pieces?”

  “The price depends on the difficulty and size of the work.” This was it. I had the conversation going and he seemed interested. But many deals are never completed because the seller doesn’t know how to finish. I needed to finish. I pressed on.

  “Do you do portraits?” he asked.

  “I can take any idea you have and create it for you, including portraits. The materials I use are all professional grade and the piece will last for many generations. My work is guaranteed. If you take it to any established gallery and they don’t appraise it for double what I charge you, I’ll return your money and you keep my work. You will learn that my word is good, and that no one can do what I do.”

  I was taking a huge risk. If he didn’t like my work, he could easily demand his money back and I would be out my time, work, and money with the guarantee I had given him.

  “Depending on how much you charge, I’d like two pieces. One would be similar to the one you have there, except with African American people. For the second one, I’d like a portrait of Martin Luther King, Jr.”

  “Two pieces of that type and detail will take five and six weeks to finish, approximately one hundred twenty-five to one hundred fifty hours apiece. And my price is one hundred seventy-five dollars per piece, three hundred fifty dollars total, plus tax. I will need a signed contract before I start because another officer will be coming this afternoon, so the first one to sign a contract will be the one I start first.”