Jail break: High Desert State Prison's art therapy program provides inmates with a temporary reprieve

By Natalie Durante

Photos By Bill Hughes

The gate of the 20-foot-tall, electric, razor-wire-topped fence opens, and we enter High Desert State Prison's detention courtyard. Art therapist Mary Stewart is my guide. She leads the way through the mass of male inmates and politely responds to the occasional "Hey, Mary, how ya doing" and "Mary, I signed up for your class."

"Dr. Stewart!" another prisoner calls out, as we progress.

"Good to see you're out of the hole," says Stewart in a friendly tone. Laughter bubbles from the inmates. "Weren't you in the hole? Well, send me a kite if you want to get into the program." (A "kite" is a request to sign up for an art therapy class.)

"All right," says the inmate. And we keep walking.

Eventually, Stewart and I enter the building where the art therapy sessions take place. She introduces me to inmate William Bletcher. He's around 45 years old and, according to prison officials, in for second-degree murder. He shakes my hand firmly, with confidence.

Bletcher, whom Stewart asked to help with the art therapy program, pulls a 2-foot-by-3-foot painting from a stack propped against the wall. He holds up a realistically painted tropical ocean landscape and says: "One of the officers has special ordered one of these water pieces."

Stewart interjects: "This is work that he did in his free time; he went through the program and has some class work too."

Bletcher quickly places the small painting back in the stack and grabs an unrolled piece of paper. Drawn in the left corner of the page was a sad boy hunched over, with his hands supporting his head.

"Here is me as a troubled youth," says Bletcher.

On the center of the page is long-haired biker with a full beard and sunglasses, straddling a red motorcycle that looks ready to ride out of the picture. Bletcher says: "Then a troubled adult." The last image represents where he wants to be in the future: a couple, cheek-to-cheek, behind the wheel of a boat, cruising and enjoying life.

Stewart says, "You don't have to be a skilled artist to come into this class. It is about recognizing these areas of your life and putting some goals for the future."

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Four years ago, Stewart came to High Desert State Prison in Indian Springs and put art therapy into practice. She was working with the lower-functioning part of the prison population, and found that communicating through art was easier for those who were difficult to reach. The hand-created images allowed her patients to convey feelings and thoughts.

This idea of using art to help with therapy developed into three different programs at the prison. One is for mentally challenged inmates, another for the Spanish-speaking and the third the general population.

There are three different art therapy classes offered: substance abuse, victim empathy and anger management. In every class, Stewart starts the patients off with drawing a genogram. They document a history of their family with a focus on who was a positive influence and who was a negative influence. Then drawing assignments related to the issue at hand are assigned as homework.

Prisoners find out about the program from other inmates. Or Stewart will suggest to an inmate that the program could be beneficial. And occasionally the parole board will suggest taking the class.

The higher-ups at the medium-security prison fully support Stewart's efforts. Warden James Schomig believes prisons shouldn't be human warehouses, and wants to see productive inmates.

"If the program helps to make them productive, tax-paying citizens in the future, then I am all for it," he says.

Inmates involved in High Desert State Prison's art therapy program don't need any prior art training to participate and benefit. It is not about making aesthetically pleasing works of art; it's more about expressing visually what is difficult to express verbally. The overall goal is to allow the patient to grow on a personal level.

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Advanced anger management is the name of the art therapy class I attend. The participants are a diverse crowd of nonviolent and violent offenders. Some are serving five years -- and others have life sentences.

The session is expected to have 23 inmates. One by one people began to trickle in. All are in regulation prison clothing: bluejeans and blue or white button-down shirts. Some carry rolled pieces of paper; others were empty handed.

Stewart, who has shoulder-length dark hair and a compassionate face, gives a short lecture to start the session.

"This is a special group of real motivated men," she says. "They start out with the old them, where they were around the time of their crime; the new them, where they are right now; and what are their goals for the future.

"So many times I find that people do not put goals out there," Stewart continues. "When you put your goals down on a piece of paper you have a 300 percent likelihood of achieving your goals."

Roy, a man in his early 20s with a kind, relaxed face, unfolds his paper. The images are simple pencil line drawings. The first image is of a bird in a cage, which represents his childhood.

"I didn't have that male figure around to help me grow into a man," he explains. "My father was in prison at the time and my uncles ran the streets."

The center image is a bird flying. "I'm still that bird locked up in that cage. I am slowly and gradually setting my mind free in order to get the hell up out of here. That's why I am taking all these classes: to show me where I was wrong. I am slowly freeing my mind; that is where you see that bird flying away."

The bird is flying in the direction of the third image, a tree with a nest.

"I have a future out there waiting on me: my wife and my daughter," Roy continues. "That's why you see that bird flying to that tree; that's my wife and daughter waiting on me at home."

Roy's eyebrows rise and crease his forehead. "I failed as a father and husband, and now I know it is about seriousness and I can't fail no more. This is the lowest I could get in my life, so now I know I need to rise from here on. The future is very important, but I know it is what I make it."

Joe, an older man with dark glasses, shares a bit of wisdom: "An old white man told me once that opportunity is a bald man with a few strands of hair -- you don't get no more chances. If you don't grab onto those hairs, that woman of yours ain't going to wait on your ass."

Roy responds, a bit more emotionally than before.

"I know I failed as a father. My baby is dependent on me even while I'm in here. Now I know what I have to do, you know what I'm saying? I messed up once; I don't plan to do it again because they are still there for me. This is the worst point I have ever been in, and I'm gonna make damn sure I don't come back because this is hell to me."

Later in the session, a man named Rodney speaks. His mouth is hidden by his shaggy, salt-and-pepper mustache. He possesses a calmness about him, as he holds up a drawing of three trees. The first one is large with heavy branches, one of which is broken. Rodney doesn't talk much about his past; his focus is more on the present.

The middle tree, labeled "present," is a small sapling with roots. "This is me now as a little tree. It is rooted in and feeding on the therapy groups."

Rodney points to text-filled boxes drawn in the roots of the sapling, as he recites in a slow, monotone voice: "Changing my thinking processes, healthy interactions, continuing in education, addiction recovery, working on relationship skills."

His future tree has buds of healthy growth with strong, organized branches. "The clusters of leaves are showing the truth and practicing what I am learning. The future tree hopefully will bear fruit. I believe I am finding happiness, productive life patterns, healthy growth and recovery, friends, love, trust, peace of mind, serenity, open-mindedness and a willingness to learn. The future is a vision of hope."

James, a 20-something blond with intense eyes, unrolls his colored pencil drawing and shows it to the group. He took an abstract approach by drawing three different types of borders to represent the past, present and future. A zig-zag razor design represents the past, and the rage and anger he felt. He says he dealt with his problems with sex or violence.

"Through the program, I have learned I was really just afraid and that was what caused my anger," says James, with a hint of a country accent.

The present is illustrated by a chain border that connects the past to the future. Small cartoon-looking characters fill the space inside the borders. James points to a small pencil drawing of a horse pulling a wagon and says: "This little horse is my past, and he is burdened by it." Then pointing to a little book, he says: "Here is a Bible. It is what I am studying now and it is helping me to become redeemed." The next image was a comical Dumbo-type character. "This little elephant is making fun of himself -- that is myself now, don't take everything so serious," he explains. "I also drew this cat kicking back relaxing because not every situation needs to make you mad."

The border around the future image is an elaborate rose design. James believes his future will be brighter.

"The dragon represents the wisdom, which hopefully I will have."

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After class, Stewart stays around to talk to her assistant, a man called Country. She needs all the help she can get. While a paid staff therapist, she receives no outside funding for the art therapy program; all of the supplies used are paid for by the inmates, with money earned working at the prison or money coupons sent by family members. There are 16 different classes, held four days a week.

"What we do with the special population [inmates] is the real kicker. These guys are usually lost in the system," Stewart explains. "We had a couple in the group today, but they did not present. One gentleman was not ready to talk. He's moving into our special pop group, so he can do therapy with them."

Bletcher aids Stewart by sitting down with inmates and teaching them basic art skills; Country helps with the enrollment.

But if you ask Country, he will give Stewart all of the credit for the program's success.

"It is all thanks to her," he says, "because if she wasn't here, all that would be going on is the canteen [the lunchroom] and the coffee shop. I tell you, it is amazing. People are really benefiting from it."

Natalie Durante is a Nevada-based freelance writer and artist.