Drawing always came naturally to me. I was determined to use it as my anchor to ground and protect me from the world inside San Quentin.
During my senior year in high school, I took an art class and learned a unique way to draw solely using dots. I don’t remember much about the class except this technique, and after so many years an idea formed. Using the set of technical pens the handicraft manager gave me, I experimented until I fully grasped the potential of the technique.
After only a month, I replaced working in graphite pencil with ink stippling, and when a potential buyer came to me for one of my pieces, I would show him and explain my unique way of drawing with only dots. It seemed to fascinate everyone who saw the drawings, and after only creating two of them for staff members of San Quentin, word spread about my work. I’ll admit, I didn’t believe my technique or my delivery was as clear as when I drew with graphite and regular pen. Nevertheless, the orders continued to come, to the point I was turning them down until I could catch up. That only seemed to put me in more demand. I raised my prices and was still a year behind. I had a real sense of accomplishment because my work was so sought after. No one at San Quentin sold their work solely through contracts as I did. The handicraft manager even suggested I reduce my prices, as she put it, “so everyone can afford to buy one.”
I wasn’t interested in her suggestions. If anything, I thought my prices were too low. But I wasn’t complaining. I had work. I was practicing and perfecting my voice and technique and being paid for it. I was also sending money home every month to help my family.
Most men here would be satisfied with that, but I wasn’t. That ambition, that sense of wanting to be heard, drove me forward. I didn’t want to merely “work for” someone. True, I needed to continue to get commissions to support myself, but what I truly wanted—what I thought of constantly—was the freedom to work for myself. As an artist, I wanted to create what I felt and needed to express, without limitation. I couldn’t do that while I spent most of my time working on commissions.
My solution to the problem, at least temporarily, was to make a personal expression book, where I drew and expressed myself fully, crossing into dark territory where my subconscious and vision became one.
Each night, I’d completely abandon myself to expression and the power I seemed to be able to invoke but not fully control. My time was limited, so for one hour each night I crossed over and worked. This, at least, was the plan. But often I didn’t stop until morning. Time ceased to exist. The only thing that mattered was bringing my emotions to life.
Those drawings I showed to no one. They were a look into the deepest part of my soul where my emotions and dreams, mixed with the influences around me, took flight and demanded attention. There, also, in those drawings and images, I worked with mathematically-arranged geometric forms and broke up the layout of the drawings and images. Each form was based on a coordinating number system that brought order and ended the chaos inside me when arranged together to complete a number combination. The images weren’t simply for the eyes. Beauty wasn’t the goal. Truth, an accurate representation of my interior sensation and experience, was what pushed me to those depths. And although I wasn’t ready to show anyone my work, an idea was born. It burned inside me and drove me forward. I wanted the world to see me, and wanted my voice to be heard. I constantly thought of exhibiting my work. The pieces I did on commission were simply pretty pictures and, to me, as insignificant as wallpaper. I believe true art is about rendering the barest of human emotion for the world to see through images that trigger the mind’s wanderings and fill the viewer with the very emotions that possess me when I create them.
I wanted to be known as an artist and respected in the art world by my contemporaries. But I wasn’t ready. I needed to be comfortable with my true work and I needed to complete a body of work I could show.
I also feared that galleries wouldn’t take me or my work seriously. I didn’t want them to use me as if I were a circus act. I decided to wait and bide my time. I’d labor to complete a significant body of work, and only then present it to a gallery for serious consideration.
Meanwhile I continued taking on commissions and perfecting my technique and style. Late at night, when everyone slept, I crossed over into dark territory and truly worked out my problems, calming the chaos that seemed quieted only by the complete embrace of my imagination and vision.
Sales of my work had not gone unnoticed by the man who gave me a chance to do something with my talent. Nearly a year to the day after he gave me my grade-A status and sent me to East Block, Warden Vasquez and one of his captains appeared in front of my cell. Just like the first time he came to my cell in the AC, I didn’t notice they were there. I had my headphones on while I worked and I was oblivious to their presence until they flashed their light in my eyes.
I took off my headphones and was surprised by the warden standing at my door.
“Mr. Noguera, how are you? I’ve come by to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing well, Warden Vasquez. I’m finishing up a piece for one of your officers. I’m sorry I didn’t respond right away. I listen to music while I work and it’s hard to hear anyone at my door.”
“It’s quite all right. I’ve been following your progress and noticed you’re taking on a lot of contract work. Honestly, you’ve surprised me. I normally give a convict a chance like I gave you, only to find myself regretting it. But with you, I must say, you’ve exceeded all my expectations. May I see what you’re finishing?”
“Of course. I have only about ten hours more and I’ll finish it, but I believe you’ll get a good idea of what I’m doing.”
The warden and the captain both looked at the portrait of Joe Montana I was finishing.
“Captain Hales, was I wrong in telling you Mr. Noguera would help you win your bet?” the warden asked.
The Captain laughed, “There’s no doubt in my mind. No doubt.”
“Mr. Noguera, the Captain is interested in commissioning you to do two pieces, both portraits. One of JFK and the other of Ronald Reagan.”
“Gentlemen, I’m presently booked solid until next year. I’ve even turned down orders because of the long list of clients already waiting for my work.”
“That’s unfortunate. I was really hoping you could help me.”
I did a quick mental evaluation and decided to make an exception. I needed high ranking officials to appreciate and allow me to order the materials I needed to reach the level I envisioned I’d someday reach.
“Captain Hales, I’ll finish this piece by tomorrow and I’ll make room for you. What do you have in mind?”
“Well, as the warden mentioned, I’d like two portraits. I’ve brought you two small pictures I’d like you to use. I’d also like them done in dots like the portrait there of Montana. The portraits are for me, but an associate warden at Folsom Prison is convinced he has the best artist in the system there. I want to prove him wrong and win the bet we made.”
“I’ll be happy to prove you right, but please understand, art is not about who makes a picture look life-like. There are different types of styles and mediums, so it’s difficult to judge whose is better. But I understand what you want. You want the work to be hyper-realistic as if it were a photograph.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. How much will you charge me?”
“Two portraits, approximately twenty by twenty-six inches, will take one hundred fifty to one hundred ninety-five hours per piece to complete, and will run three hundred seventy-five dollars per piece. A total of seven hundred fifty dollars.”
I was taking a risk in raising my prices. But I believed the work spoke for itself, and everyone who bought one of my pieces always came back to order more, telling me how the galleries that framed the work spoke highly of the unique style and technique I used.
“That’s fair. When will they be done?”
“Give me five weeks and I’ll have them ready for you. Let me fill out a contract and we’ll both sign it, making this agreement official.”
I prepared the contract and we both signed, then, to my surprise, the Captain opened my food port and put his hand through to shake my hand.
“Thank you for taking time from your other work to help me. I appreciate it,” he said.
“The pleasure’s mine, Captain. Thank you for the order and for believing in my work.”
I then turned to Warden Vasquez. “Warden, I never had the opportunity to thank you for asking the handicraft manager to stop by when I first came to East Block so I could enter the program. She brought me art materials at your behest. Thank you.” I put my hand through the food port and the warden shook it.
“I gave you a chance, much like I’ve given many other men. You made something of it. You did that, not me. This job rarely gives me the chance to see someone actually grow into something positive. Seeing what you’re doing gives me that chance.”
“I appreciate that.”
Once they left, I sat and stared at the contract we signed and then at the pictures he gave me to work from. I knew what I’d do and how I’d do it. I also became very aware of how badly I wanted the Captain to win his bet. Not for him, but for me. It was me, my work, that would be judged and I wanted no doubt in anyone’s mind who was the best. I wanted my work to be known in and out of prison. I wanted my name to be recognized and respected. I decided nothing would stop me from accomplishing that goal. Prison walls would not be enough to stop my escape.
Two weeks after finishing the captain’s portraits, he stopped by my cell while I got ready to clean the showers.
“How are you, Captain? I see you picked up your portraits. Were you pleased with my work?”
“I am more than pleased. The portraits are absolutely stunning. I’ve framed and compared them to the work my friend in Folsom was so pleased with. Although his work was very nice, what you did, and how photo-realistic it is, blew him away. I came by to tell you that and, again, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I was happy to help.”
The Captain nodded. “Enjoy your day, Mr. Noguera.”
After cleaning the shower, I turned on the hot water and, as the water cascaded over me, I thought, I’ve taken yet another step with many more to go, but I’m on my way. Art will be my vehicle of escape.