Caution: Wet Paint

Issue 86

Dearest Friends, I hope this newlsetter finds you exceedingly well. Tonight was a semi-rough parenting night—they happen. I hate to be flippant, but it’s time for tonight’s topic…

Sometime in 2018, my mom bought a painting at the San Quentin hobby shop, where they sold art and tchotchkes made by death row inmates.

The small store was just outside the main prison gates, across from the post office, inside what looked like a small bus station—its hours seemed to be based upon nothing, not even the weather. You were lucky if you found it open. Today, you won’t. Pandemic.

The painting hung in my mom’s office. I hadn’t given it much attention until recently when my stepdad asked if I wanted to take it home. I wouldn’t have chosen it, though I love what it stands for—some part of my mom—and from whom it came—an inmate named John.

I live 10 minutes from San Quentin, the luckiest-located prison in the world—maximum security with roughly 3,000 inmates, situated on a coveted, water-front bluff in Marin County. The land, purchased for $10,000 in the 1800s, would be worth millions per parcel today—if there were parcels—and believe me, some people wish there were. 

Last week, upon becoming the painting’s owner, I noticed a piece of paper taped to the back with the date, $100 price tag, artist’s name, and CDCR number (California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation).

Without hesitation, I pulled out my pen pal supplies.

The painting.

Before writing, I researched John’s crime. In 1992, he robbed an office supply store, shot and murdered three employees, set the place on fire, and left with $1,000. After a month on the run, he was captured, confessed, and sentenced to death. That’s the short version. I know there’s a long version.

In writing to him, I figured he’d want to know what happened to his painting, where it hung, and how it got on my wall—so I told him—among other things, about my mom’s passing, where I lived, and what propelled me to write.

I hesitated to share my address, but I couldn’t bear writing without offering a way to respond. Five days later, a return letter from John showed up in my mailbox. Today, I sent one back. I suspect, this will go on for a long time.

John’s note to me, written in hard-to-read, classic cursive. This is not a man who has lost his handwriting to computers, like I have.

John’s 74, the age my mom would be this year on her birthday. He was a couple of years younger than me when he committed his crime. He fought in Vietnam, and his brother from the war has been with him (in support from the outside) for the 30 years he’s been on the inside. I wonder whether PTSD played a role in his murders. At 74, most of his family is no longer alive.

I referred to his painting by, what I thought was, its name. On the front, it reads Still Waters. On the back, it says High Society. John didn’t recall the painting and asked if I would send a photo to jog his memory. (A photo in the mail? Is this guy stuck in 1992!)

In 30 years, he’s painted over 200 paintings. At this point, he’s lost track. Then, the arts program at San Quentin went down two years ago with COVID, and getting supplies is hard. Large format, 18x24” canvases like the one I have aren’t feasible, so he’s been sticking with smaller pieces he can send with stamps.

Currently, he’s studying Pollock, after Monet, Van Gogh, Picasso, and the like. He asked if there was an artist I liked. I told him I like Pollock but that I’m a writer for my profession, and I love graphic design and typography more than the classics. I felt sheepish admitting this to him and again admitting it to you.

I told him I tried my hand at painting after my mom passed. I was inspired by something she said when she was sick, “I think I have a painting in me. ”Upon her passing, I broke out the acrylics and began to see if I, too, had a painting in me. Turns out, not really. The results were meh. I enjoyed myself, though. I told him all that, too.

In the envelope, I included a half-assed black-and-white printout of a photo of his painting, which ran out of ink halfway through its printing. I sent the folded-up paper anyway. I told him I’d work on a better photo, but I hoped this one would jog his memory in the meantime.

I found the second letter harder to write than the first. In the first, I acquainted him with the owner of his painting. The second was to continue a relationship I’d started. Tell me, what does one say to a 74-year-old man who has lived three decades on death row? What would you say?

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Pod Squad

There was a time when I hated hearing the words: “I just listened to this podcast…” I’d think, but wouldn’t say, “I don’t want your podcast reco.” Today, I’ll take your recommendations and dish out a few of my own.

What changed? I guess, I did. It’s possible, folks. We can change.

Ear Hustle has been on my radar, though not loud enough until letters to my pen pal began. It’s a podcast about the daily realities of life inside prison shared by those living it, and stories from the outside, post-incarceration. It began inside San Quentin, with a few inmates, and a visual artist on the outside. If they can make something like this happen, behind bars, surely we can move mountains from the freedom of where we sit, no?

PS: An ear hustler is slang for a gossiper or eavesdropper.

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Regale-a

I told you I’d regale you with photos from last week’s gala. This is your regale.

Father/daughter selfie.

Mother/son (with what appears to be a corsage, but isn’t, in our prom-pose pic).

Mother/daughter twirl.

Thank you, Drew Altizer Photography. Yes, I screenshotted these, and yes, I’m going to prison.

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You’ve reached the end, my friends. With gratitude for your time and attention, until next week…