Cellblock Visions First . Edition( Hardcover ) by Kornfeld, Phyllis published by Princeton University Press

by Phyllis Kornfeld

Filled with quotes from men and women prisoners and Kornfeld's own anecdotes, Cellblock Visions shows how these artists, most of them having no previous training, turn to their work for a sense of self-worth, an opportunity to vent rage, or a way to find peace. We see how the artists deal with the cramped space, limited light, and narrow vistas of their prison studios, and how the security bans on many art supplies lead them to ingenious resourcefulness, as in extracting color from shampoo and weaving with cigarette wrappers. Kornfeld covers the traditional prison arts, such as soap carving and tattoo, and devotes a major section to painting, where we see miniatures depicting themes of alienation and escape, idyllic landscapes framed by bars, portraits of women living in a fantasy world, large canvasses filled with erotic and religious symbolism and violent action. The brief, vivid biographies of each artist portray that individual's experience of crime, prison, and art itself.

Genres: Art

Unknown Binding

First published January 6, 1997

Reviews

[Emmkay · Rating 4 out of 5]

I was very fortunate to come across a copy of this fascinating book at a used bookstore (I think it may be out of print). The author writes of her experiences facilitating prison art programs, and presents art produced by American inmates from 1982-1995. The inmates' individual stories and the discussion of particular art pieces and mediums (sculpting from prison toilet paper, painting on sides of cracker boxes or decorating handkerchiefs) is really interesting. Sobering and humanizing, it reinforces the importance of art in providing a potential means of rehabilitation and a critical outlet for self-expression.

[Brenna · Rating 4 out of 5]

Casting aside the popular "romantic" visions of the American prison, artist/teacher Phyllis Kornfeld displays creative visions extracted from of the correctional system by its various inmates. Kornfeld makes it clear that art programs in prison are a rarity, as supplies are frequently stolen for use in forbidden tattooing (especially black pigments), and occasionally for other surreptitious uses: A spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen can be fashioned into a makeshift hypodermic syringe; Masking tape can form the handle of a shank; paint and paper itself can lead to the creation of a life-like "effigy," giving the appearance of a sleeping inmate when the real prisoner has vacated the cell.

Frequently, artwork thrives in a prison system only through conditions of extreme security, or from materials scrounged from the trash, or even recycled from common "supplies," such as the backs of envelopes, the inks on glossy magazine covers (tirelessly scraped away and applied to paper with a swabbed stick or pencil), or even the inmate's toilet paper (which has the roughened consistency of industrial paper towels).

As the vast majority of inmates have no formal learning or experience in the realm of art (with the biggest exception being tattoo art, of course), such creations are accepted as being "outsider art," or art brut - creations which come from an intrinsic need to express the otherwise inexpressible, regardless of the artist's technical knowledge of the craft.

The work featured in Cellblock Visions tantalizes. Far from being an exploitative glimpse inside the minds of violent criminals, Kornfeld often deliberately leaves out the most damaging biographical information when introducing a particular convict's work. Said visions range from the expected (views of prison from the inside, the daily torment of isolation and cockroaches against the backdrop of barred barren walls, for instance) to the downright surreal (angelic shadows emanating from the prone form of an inmate, or even a representation of the "Department of Corrections dump hell," wherein prisoners live - and die - within the very walls of their confinement). Self-portraiture is a rarity, but various examples of such is featured within this book, and give wrenching views into those whom society has all but discarded.

Regardless of one's political or moral views of how the American prison system is flawed, there is something heartbreaking about these featured works. Beyond the media's depiction of "animals" and "monsters," we see that basic human desire to be understood, to not be forgotten about, and to accept those incarcerated to be just as we, the free, are human beings. Any "demons" or "monsters" within the prison walls are depicted as living within the prison itself, or within the souls of the convicts. That is not to say that art alone can (or should) set them free - but the art plays a vital role in understanding these living, breathing individuals... as well as ourselves, to a vast extent.

And, perhaps, to realize that we're all the same regardless of our circumstances or backgrounds. Artistry gives rise to bigger questions than words alone could eloquate.

Cellblock Visions is a well-balanced cross-section of prisons, both male and female oriented, from the last forty years. One baffles at how many stories remain untold in our prisons today, and how many will never be acknowledged by any outside of the convict's personal web of affliction. This book presents humanity at one of its lowest points, and keeps the experience both welcoming and enthralling.