What if our Prisoners had Unobstructed Views? Sight Lines, Power, and Access - in Art and in Life.
10 Days in Eyrarbakki, Iceland for Saga Residency
“Our closed prisons have fences outside, not walls, so the prisoners can have unobstructed views — they can see the landscape,” the Warden of Litla-Hraun prison, the largest closed prison in Iceland, said. I was sitting in the reception area of a 187-inmate prison in Eyrarbakki, Iceland with 8 other artists from around the world as part of this year’s Saga Residency and it was Tuesday in August 2022 — yes, just last week — but I found myself transported back to Spring 2009, on the southern Greek Island of Crete.
Ancient Sight Lines & Obstructed Views
At twenty-years old, I was traveling around Greece: a young Classics major studying abroad, exploring Greek ruins, writing long-form papers on 3rd century Attic red-figure pottery and the esoteric like. Niche, I know, but practical in that Greek & Roman thinking serves as the basis for most Western thought. But that is another essay for another time — as is how Western thought is overrated. 👁 Anyway.
Amongst the many impressions left on me from my studies, there is one fact that was mentioned in passing while hiking on the Southern island of Crete that I find myself still thinking about today. While walking along some underwhelming Minoan ruins, our Professor reported that on average, a typical palace’s structure forced a visitor to turn at least 6 times before they entered the throne room. A visitor was led down a series of hallways, turning, turning, turning, before they got to see the king. On this path they viewed the opulence of the king’s palace or the weapons he took from his vanquished enemies. The flex was not only in the treasure, but in the complexity and difficulty of access. There were no clear sight lines, no obvious path — a visitor was made to experience, literally, how far away and out of reach the king’s experience was from their own.
I have little recollection of anything else shared that day, but I always remembered that fact. For the first time it got me interested in architecture and the power architects have over our experience — they are able to physically guide and define our experience, via walls. An architect gets to obstruct or allow our views; they can define our sight lines, and therefore, much of how we experience the world.
As writers, “walls” are one of the powerful metaphors we have as are “prisons” as they are in direct opposition to that which most of us seek: freedom. As humans, walls are one of the most powerful weapons we have, as they are the fundamental unit of prison — one, two, three, four walls and a ceiling — that which we use to obstruct one’s views, that which we use to obstruct one’s freedom.
Freedom, when examined and like many things, is more of a spectrum than a binary. But for the most part, especially compared to an incarcerated man, most of us would consider ourselves free. We chose our paths, our actions, and how we move throughout the world — or do we? It is jarring to move through the world assuming you are free, then to realize that you have much less agency that you thought, especially physically. Physically, your path is fundamentally defined by the walls of the structures you occupy. From office buildings to dorm rooms, the streets you drive on to the walls of your house are guiding not only how you move but almost the entirety of your experience by defining what you see. You are free, yes, but only within the very really confines of the spaces in which you live. How much agency do we have, really, when how we literally move through the world is defined by someone else in such a tangible way?
The Icelandic Prison System & Saga Residency
Fast forward back to present times — I arrived in Iceland for Saga Residency last week. A bit about the unique residency from their website:
The Saga Residency is an immersive, participatory and communal experience with shared accommodations, meals and work space. Collaboration is at the heart of our time together: Artists work in partnership with each other and the rest of the town in a residency experience that focuses more on process over output, and growth over perfectionism.
Artists are a crucial voice in any social movement and should be at the forefront of shaping a future, alternative narrative built on possibilities and empowerment.
The 10-day residency is based in the town of Eyrarbakki, an original port of Iceland, and home to the largest ‘closed’ prison, Litla-Hraun. Unlike most artist residencies where the focus is solo work, Saga is very participatory. As part of our time here, we work in the prison about two hours a day, bringing art and creativity and collaborating directly with the men there. This is the first program of its kind in Iceland, if not the world, and I had no idea what to expect.
On our first day, we took a short walk from where we are staying to meet with the warden of the prison, who told us about the Icelandic prison system. Iceland has 4 (male) prisons in the country with a total capacity of 187 inmates total. In Iceland, you have “open” and “closed” prisons. In an open prison, there is nothing stopping you from walking out the door except the rules. There have been no escapes since 2019. According to the warden, this is because the guys know that the open prison is a pretty good set-up vs. the closed prison, where they would be sent back to.
Litla-Hraun, which means “little lava,” is the larger of two closed prisons and has a capacity of 87 men. Closed prisons have high chainlink fences and barbed wire, but not high walls, so as to keep “unobstructed views.” Closed prisons house the most “hardcore” criminals — murderers, rapists, and in Iceland, drug smugglers which make up the majority of the prisoners in the system.
The intention of the system is to move you up and out, step by step, as your sentence goes on. With good behavior in a closed prison, you can move to an open prison. With good behavior in an open prison, you can move to house arrest with a tracking bracelet. That is the intention. In Litla-Hraun, the prisoner who has been there the longest has been there since 2018, going on 4 years. The maximum sentence in Iceland is 16 years, and the maximum time in solitary confinement is 14 days. If your sentence is less than 2 years, you often do not go to jail — most of it can be served in community service. For every 100K people, Iceland has 22 prisoners. The warden told us about 20% of those are foreigners, reaching about 40% during the pandemic.
The artists from our residency are from the United States, China, and Poland. In the United States, the number per 100K people is closer to 320. Needless to say, our minds were blown by this information.
Obstructed and Unobstructed Views
I arrived to Iceland a day early and spent the day wandering around museums in Reykjavik, the country’s capital, before venturing to Eyrarbakki for the residency. Obstructed vs. unobstructed views were on my mind already, in relation to art.
Prior to coming to Iceland had the pleasure of hosting my friend Hamzat (who is, probably not coincidentally, a marble sculptor) in the desert. It delights me to bring people to the desert for the first time, as the experience of its vastness and uninterrupted views are intellectually, if not spiritually, expansive. Amongst many things, we talked about placing art out in the open desert. Hamzat had just done a participatory installation, “Creative Archaeology,” the weekend prior, where he buried his sculptures in the ground and let festival-goers at nearby Idyllwild dig them up, turning the traditional style of “exhibiting” on its head. I found myself in a room filled with work of a similar concept to one of his ideas and reached out, eventually sending this:
“Art not exclusive if not obstructed.”
Exclusivity in the Art World
I’ve been very engaged as of late with exclusivity and the art world — how achieving success as an artist is traditionally tied to selling your paintings for more money, in more high-end galleries, and how by definition that means reducing your target audience to those who can afford your increasingly expensive paintings. I’m all for artists being paid their worth — but should a painting ever be worth a million dollars? A hundred thousand? Ten thousand? A thousand?
I say this, of course, as an artist who typical sells her paintings for one to a few thousand dollars, already inaccessible for the vast majority of Americans. And, I say this of course, as an artist who gives access to her paintings for free on social media which is in its own way, an online museum, and has perhaps conditioned the average American to expect to consume art with no benefit or pay to the artist. It’s a very real tension which occupies my mental space daily.
The tension really begs the question: who is art for, who should get to own or consume it, and how? As an artist, should my greatest hope to be collected for over a million dollars and then hung and hidden away in someone’s third house in Aspen, to be enjoyed in passing over a martini one weekend a year? I say with equal amounts shade and desire, because in reality, in no world would I say no to having a dinner party look at my painting over a martini in a beautiful house with soft snow falling on the window pane… Back to obstructed views, exclusivity, and control, though — the proverbial third house in Aspen is the modern American equivalent of the King’s palace. Is then, to place our art in a place of honor, to place it there? To display it publicly, uptown, through a door and down a hallway at a museum — is that any better, is that the best way? Should it even be in a place of honor? What is sanctity in art? And if we want to get really edgy — who gets to be an artist? Who gets to be The Artist?
Motivation (Max 400 Words)
Below is a portion of the personal motivation statement I submitted for my application to this year’s Saga Residency.
“I am a fine artist interested in the desanctification of art – that is, the challenge to the archetype of the solo artistic genius working alone in their studio, the framed painting hung in the pristine white gallery. What happens when we take art outside, into nature, into community? What happens when the glass is removed, and the dust and fingerprints of true engagement get on the masterpieces? What happens if we consider the viewer the artist, and give him the brush? Where is Co-Creation present and who gets to participate in that? Perhaps I am concerned with challenging what, and who, society decides is worthy of sanctity – who is worthy of creating and who is worthy of art (spoiler: everyone ;)).
My abstract art aims to depict my personal emotional states and/or elicit a certain state within the viewer in order to normalize the human experience and by extension, offer opportunities for self-recognition, self-acceptance, and ultimately, self-expression. I believe this is the path to healing that I, and my art, can most be of service on; this is how I relate my practice to social, human, impact.
With the inmates, I am interested in literal Co-Creation of paintings; what does it look like to depict the emotions of two (or more) people in dialogue, literally, with color? How does it work to be in dialogue, with brush, on canvas, i.e. to have two (or more) artists, painting at once? What are the literal fingerprints we leave on each other and by extension, the canvas? The idea is both simple and radical: what if we paint together? What does it mean for an artist to give over ‘control’ of her canvas to another to create something in dialogue, as equals? How do we empower people through creativity and how do we challenge who and what is worthy of “fine art”?
‘Conversations on Canvas’
As part of Saga, we were invited to bring a collaborative project into Litla-Hraun. My project was called, “Conversations on Canvas” and the concept was simple: me and a partner would have a conversation while painting together on the same canvas. Whereas we might not be equal in our societal standing, we could be equal on canvas as co-creators, as Artists. There would be multiple colors of paint and multiple brushes as well some pre-written prompts, in case it felt too awkward to jump right into the conversation. There was no guidance on what to paint, they could paint whatever they wanted, and we could talk about whatever came up.
The project was emergent; I didn’t know if I would have 1 or 10 conversations over the course of a few days or how things would go, how different or how similar the conversations would be or what the output would look like. I also didn’t know if the guys would even like to paint, and if they did, what would the paintings say about the men painting them, and me?
We were not allowed to photograph the faces of the men nor are we allowed to share their names, even if they consented, for privacy purposes. But as you can see from the photos, we were in close collaboration with them — literally. No one was in handcuffs or chains and the guards didn’t even have visible guns. We were set up inside the gym or outside on the grass and the men were free to come in and out as they pleased. The vibe was jovial and light-hearted. We had between 5-15 men come each day, and the ones that came were excited we were there. We could sit together, touch, even hug. We had artists writing spoken word, making films, doing visual art or even rapping. There was something for everyone and the guys were welcome to work with as many of us as they wanted or time permitted.
Over the week, I was fortunate enough to work with three very different partners and have three very different conversations. They spanned across everything from our personal like or dislike of weed and cigarettes, when we started painting or the last time we painted, what they wanted to do when they got out (meditation retreat) or what they did to get there in the first place (shot a man in the chest). The intention was for the conversations to remain between us and for the paintings to be artifacts of those conversations, the pieces that could be shared outside of the prison. With the permission of my partners, I’ll share a little bit about each here.
“What do you want to be asked?” — “Do you want weed?
Conversation on Canvas 1: This painting was done on my second day in Litla-Hraun, with a man who was our most enthusiastic participant. He was already waiting for us when we’d arrive and participated in many of our projects, from writing rap bars to having his portrait drawn. As we were talking he painted an extremely realistic portrait of a man — shading an everything, mixing the limited colors I had. He was very artistically talented and very chatty, extremely open with both his feelings and experiences. By the end, he decided he didn’t like what he painted and blotted the portrait out with green paint. He used the smallest brush, and covered about a 2” x 2” area in 20 or so minutes of conversation. A snippet of it below —
Me: “What question do you want to be asked?”
“The question I always want to be asked — do you want weed?”
“Haha ok do you want weed?”
“Yes do you have some?”
“I do at home in California, but it’s legal there. But I’m not a big weed gal honestly, never really took to it. But I've always loved a cigarette.”
[Later] “I don’t have a sentence yet but the prosecutor wants 10 years. But I am 20 and if you’re not an adult yet in Iceland, you only have to serve a third of the term. So only 3.3y for me.”
“Are you the youngest here?”
“I was but a new guy came today, he is a few months younger than me born the same year, he is Latvian.”
“How do you feel about the new guy?”
“He’s seems fine, a bit scared, which I understand. His first time in prison, not in his country. I get it, but I’ve been here awhile.”
The following day when I arrived at the prison he called me over: “Alex, come over here! I got you a cigarette, want to smoke?” When we were standing outside, just two Artists smoking in the most secure prison in Iceland, he gave me a fist bump and said: “See, I was listening yesterday. I remembered you like a cigarette.”
Freedom on Canvas, if not in Conversation
Conversation on Canvas 2: One of the men in the prison is a painter and is set-up with a private painting studio, above the wood shop of the prison. Yes, the prison has a wood shop, complete with table saws and tools and the ability to have a (admittedly low) paying job making things for sale. The man was of few words and requested new canvases and supplies from our group. He worked alone most days, but was set-up close to me on the same tarp, sometimes looking over or coming over to borrow a brush and saying little else. By the last day, he finally accepted my invite to paint together.
Whereas my former partner was extremely restrained in his use of paint and brush, this one was very free. Grabbing bright blue colors, a big brush, and immediately and quickly painting a landscape scene. My portion became the light pink and purple clouds, which he painted around and blending over into his composition.
As we painted, I struggled to get more than a one word answer out of him. He’s always painted, he likes painting. Instead, his expression was on canvas. At the end, I said he should keep our painting. He paused and said, “No, I’d like you to keep it,” stood up, and left.
The Story of Two Wolves (source)
An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy. “It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”
He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
On my first day of Litla-Hraun I was randomly paired with a man who, within a few minutes of sitting down, brought up his meditation practice. This, of course, delighted me and it delighted him to hear I had a meditation practice too. He said, sheepishly, “this is going to sound crazy — but in my cell the other night I saw like, a dark energy? Like a spirit?” To which I of course said, “That doesn’t sound crazy to me at all.”
Over the next few days, this partner came back to find me multiple times. Whereas my other conversations started with words, he suggested that we start our painting by meditating, since we both meditated, and asked that I guide us. I guided him through a visualization where I had him picture his intention for being there and imagine its color, hold it in his hands, and place it on canvas. Then, we started to paint what we saw.
As we painted and talked about our meditation practices, he suggested we merge the sides of our paintings, eventually taking my soft colors into his blue portal. He also suggested we painted something hyper-realistic on top of our abstract painting, and by the last day had printed different reference images — yin yangs, chakra systems, trees — and we settled on a depiction of the “two wolves” fable.
“It’s crazy that they don’t teach meditation in schools,” he said. “It’s crazy that they don’t teach us to use our minds — it is so powerful.”
A friend of his, who I didn’t get to work with, approached me on the last day since he heard I liked meditation and also had a deep practice, which he started in prison. “I feel free now,” he said. “I was so angry and fucked up before — and now I feel truly free, even though I am here.”
They are both getting out soon and hope to go on a meditation retreat together.
How Can A Painting be Most Free? (Un)obstructed Views
If you’ve been following me on Instagram, you know that when I wasn’t working in the prison, I was doing my best to brave the Icelandic elements and paint outside on the coast, a mere few minutes walk from the prison.
Before I arrived in Eyrarbakki, I had been thinking of the question: “How can a painting be most free?” I jokingly asked myself: is putting a painting in a gallery like putting an animal in a zoo? We spend our time looking at paintings — if given the choice, what would the paintings want to look at? Wouldn’t it be the sea?
When you take the mental exercise of personifying the things around you, it often gives you interesting perspective on power or lack thereof, both in you and in it (them). I often paint en plein air — in open air — in the elements which is a privilege and a freedom; I paint with no walls around me with access to infinite sight lines, the sight lines that are inherent to natural vistas and in the case of this past week, the open sea. The sight lines that are inherent to the open desert (no wonder I live there). As I painted on the ocean, I found myself thinking how nice it is, that you can see this from Litla-Hraun too. That they, too, had unobstructed views…
Unobstructed views
behind chainlink fences
in the walls of a prison.
If sight lines are freedom and control of them a weapon of power, is then the bestowal of sight lines, within the cage of prison walls, perhaps the cruelest gift one could give? I found myself thinking — what a tease, what a taunt. To be able to see something but be so far from touching it. It is certainly a nice view, but it’s still from a prison.
The final exhibition of our work was held in a hallway in part of the prison that was unoccupied. Each artist was allowed an empty cell, their own “unobstructed view,” from which to share their work. In addition to sharing our Conversations on Canvas, I felt compelled to also show my painting pictured above, “Impressions of Eyrarbakki (On a Bench by the Ocean).” An unobstructed view placed next to an unobstructed view.
More Questions
I started this week being impressed by the Icelandic prison system — but at the end of the day, it is still prison. I’m leaving Iceland tomorrow with more questions than answers and lots of new friends, some of which live behind the walls of Litla-Hraun. When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t help but think the most important unobstructed view we had this week was to each other — to have the privilege to sit and work together, person to person, on the same canvas. To actually talk face-to-face in a world where most interaction is in passing over a screen. It’s been awhile since I talked to someone new in that intimate of a way. What does it say about me (or us) that to do that, I had to fly to a prison in Iceland?
I find myself thinking about the prison that is in our minds and about the men who found freedom, despite their physical situations, and how contrasted their mental states were with the men just the next cells over. I find myself throwing myself back down to earth, laughing at my heady philosophical attempts for creative meaning when direct service — interaction 1:1 with someone — has shown, over and over, to be not only the most joy-inducing but also the highest-impact activity. I wonder if my new friends will keep painting like they said they would, and if that will actually bring them joy — or freedom, even for a moment, despite their obstructed views.
I don’t have a conclusion for you today, just reflections and impressions that I am sure will settle and take shape across time and the space that I, a free woman, am allowed to traverse.
The Conversations on Canvas were gifted to my partners, if they wanted them. The above painting, “Impressions of Eyrarbakki (On A Bench by the Sea)” is available. Please reply to this e-mail with inquiries. In the coming weeks, I’ll share more about how you can contribute to Litla-Hraun Prison’s art program or Saga Residency.
Further Reading:
On Saga Residency: Saga Website
The Tale of Two Summers: A Poem Performed in Eyrarbakki, Iceland (4m Recording)