I moved in. I didn’t hear the crowd or feel their presence anymore. In the circle, only he and I existed. The fight lasted only a few minutes, but that’s an eternity to a fighter. In my ten fights, I had knocked out all of my opponents, and I wasn’t about to let that change.
He seemed to slow down, as if he was desperate to end the fight with one blow. He threw a combination of kicks, and as I backed away, blocking the blows, he jumped up with a flying knee aimed at my head. I caught him in mid-air, lifted him, and slammed him head first onto the floor. I backed away and watched him as he had done earlier with me. He was dazed and attempted to get up before he was ready. His fear of fighting on the ground made him get up—he thought I’d attack while he was down. I’m sure he studied me and knew, unlike him, my ground game wasn’t a weakness. But that fear made him walk right into what happened next.
Still dazed as he got to his feet and squared off, I advanced, landing blows to his face, and finished off with a spinning back kick that connected with the back of his head. He crumbled to the ground in a heap. All of a sudden, the roar of the crowd engulfed me. Looking up, I caught Vanessa’s eye and she smiled.
It was always like that with her. She never criticized me. She simply let me be me, and her responses during our most intimate moments encouraged me to push myself even harder.
Still, not everything in our lives was great. She confided in me she’d been abused as a child. Her father beat her, but since her parents were divorced and he’d remarried and lived elsewhere, she said she didn’t suffer at his hands anymore. But I didn’t believe her. I didn’t press her either, because I knew how difficult and powerless a victim of abuse feels. All I wanted to do was protect her from harm, and if she wasn’t ready to talk about it, I wouldn’t make her. But deep down I sensed there was a lot more than she was telling me. I just never imagined the monstrosity or totality of the abuse, and how it would affect me and change my life forever.
Chapter 37
San Quentin Death Row, 2000–2004
Jaturun Siripongs February 9, 1999
Manuel Babbitt May 5, 1999
Darrell “Young-Elk” Rich March 15, 2000
Robert Lee Massie March 27, 2001
Stephen Wayne Anderson January 29, 2002
Like tolls from a ringing bell, the executions awakened the conscience of the men on death row and served as reminders of the sinister joke of our existence and the precarious path on which we walked.
I wasn’t immune to the stress and depression, nor did I want to be. To do so would have blinded me to my emotions. I accepted my surroundings and everything that came with them. Indeed, these feelings are the very soil in which the subconscious mind and the creative imagination flower, opening the gates of future movement toward reintegration.
I used everything I experienced, both visually and emotionally, to create images, resulting in Father’s Rage, A Season in Conundrum, Little Boy Blue, Far from Heaven, and In My Time of Dying. They were shown at Winchester Contemporary Art in San Francisco at an exhibit simply entitled “William Noguera,” which received positive reviews and brought the attention of high-end collectors who wanted pieces created for them.
Unfortunately, and to my dismay, Gerhard refused to sell any of the originals that he bought. This frustrated me. I wanted my work to have more exposure and Gerhard wanted to show it only in his gallery, under his terms. But he had given me my first exhibit, and believed in me and my work enough to stand behind it. I believed I was indebted to him, so I kept my mouth shut and buried myself in my work. But no matter how much I tried to forget it, I couldn’t. I was trapped by my commitment to Gerhard. I also had a responsibility to my family because I sent the majority of my earnings to them. The other portion I donated anonymously to various children’s charities.
Over the next year I worked feverishly, pouring all of my frustrations into my work. I didn’t know that feverish pace would turn out to be the very life raft that freed me from the imprisonment of my commitment to Gerhard. The escape came in the form of a letter from Amanda, Gerhard’s wife. She wrote that they were extremely impressed with my newest body of work, and particularly with the speed in which I completed it. But because of the economic downturn, they couldn’t purchase pieces as fast as I created them. They could only purchase one every quarter.
I read the letter twice. Whether she knew it or not, Amanda had broken their word to purchase all of my work in exchange for dealing exclusively with them. By changing the agreement to four pieces per year, I became free to sell and exhibit the rest of my work elsewhere. I called Amanda to confirm they’d only purchase four pieces per year. I expressed gratitude for everything they’d done for me, as well as my hope the economy would soon improve.
The following week I contacted Charles Linder, an art dealer and owner of the Linc Real Art gallery in San Francisco. I sent my résumé and photographs of my work, and expressed my interest in exhibiting my latest work at his gallery. To my surprise, he responded immediately and asked me to call him right away. He was very candid and said when he received a letter marked San Quentin Prison he wasn’t going to open it until he noticed my name, which sounded familiar. Once he saw my work he recognized my style from the articles he’d read.
“William, your work is nothing like what anyone would expect to come from someone in your circumstance. The images you create are unique and powerful. They leave me wanting to gaze at them over and over again. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thank you. My images are unique because they’re based on my dreams and imagination, then they’re washed and fragmented with mathematical and lyrical rhythms. No image is the same because each image has its own number and emotional rhythm.”
“Fascinating. I have an exhibit that opens in December and runs through January 2004. It’s a group exhibit and I believe your work would be a spectacular addition. Would you be interested?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “How many pieces do you need for the exhibit?”
“I believe three would be fine. There are four other artists exhibiting: Michele Manzoni, Rudi Molacek, Darrel Mortimer, and Jose Sarinana. They will all feature new work. It’s unfortunate you won’t be present for the opening reception. I’m sure the other artists would be interested in meeting the artist responsible for creating such wonderful work.”
“I really appreciate this opportunity and I promise you won’t be disappointed with the three pieces I create for the exhibit.”
“I’m looking forward to it. By the way, William, the exhibit is titled ‘Boxcar Wilhelmina: A Group Show.’”
“Interesting title. Again, thank you. I’ll have the pieces arrive at your gallery a week prior to the exhibit. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you.”
I hung up and pumped my fist in the air. I called Paul Reinhertz, who I was introduced to the previous year. Paul had fast become—and still is—my most trusted and valued friend.
I told Paul about Amanda’s letter and my upcoming exhibit at Linc Real Art in San Francisco. Finally I was free, back in control of how my work would be presented and where. After I hung up the phone, I sat back on my bucket to take everything in. This was good. I had about three months to create these pieces. My work would be allowed to stand on its merit and my voice would once again be heard.
All of this happened at a time when the world around me was in a state of chaos. Two more men on death row were killed. Smokey, from San Gabriel, was stabbed on the yard for his part in the senseless murder of a child and infant as he carried out a hit, which he bragged about. The other man was Chico Gonzales, who probably never thought as he went to the yard that it would be his last walk. An argument with another prisoner escalated to a fight. He took a punch so hard it lifted him off the ground and broke his neck from the impact. Unconscious, he fell and struck his head against the cement, crushing his skull.
Several others took their own lives instead of facing the depression and chaos that exists inside these walls. To avoid a si
milar fate, I escaped into the world I created.
Over the next two months I created the pieces for the exhibit. The first two, Slave to Love and Sunrise, were of ballerinas in motion poses. Their bodies were a testament to the rigors of their profession. The geometric fragmentation of the images was based on a mathematical arrangement and rhythms, which quieted the storm of chaos inside me.
The final piece, Drops of Jupiter, was a hyper-realistic montage arranged in a mathematical order. It represented the images of my subconscious mind at work during sleep, brought to life for everyone to see and experience.
Satisfied with the work, I signed each one, then signed, dated, and placed my fingerprint in blood on the back.
I smiled and packaged the work. The next day I’d ship them, and by the end of the week Charles Linder would have them. When I send my work out into the world, there’s a part of me that goes with it, allowing me to escape and leave this place. My work isn’t just a portrait of who I am as an artist—it’s also both a figurative and literal vehicle of escape.
Since I was still doing four pieces a year for Gerhard, I busied myself with creating another piece for him, but something had changed. Where I used to look forward to it, I now dreaded it. I didn’t want to send him any more of my pieces knowing they’d sit in a storage locker until he allowed people to see them. For me that meant my work was being subjected to imprisonment, a fate I abhorred.
I send my work out into the world incomplete, like orphans reaching for a first handhold in a stony world, searching out the sensitive observer. Like mirrors, the pieces reflect the viewer’s passions, fears, secrets, and memories, no matter how well hidden. It’s only in the eyes of the observer that the final ingredient falls into place, at last becoming concrete, breathing life and emotion into the piece. When the observer leaves, the piece once again enters a state of waiting. The works I sent to Gerhard would only come to life when he allowed them to be seen.
The exhibit at Linc Real Art came and went. My work was well received, and I sold all three pieces to a collector who’d attended the show. My true goal has never been to sell my work. I need to sell to meet my responsibilities, but my true artistic goal has always been freedom and clarity.
Less than two weeks after the exhibit at Linc Real Art, I spoke to Paul, and he asked me how I felt about the Vallejo Artists’ Guild, which was considering me for a solo exhibit.
“I’d love to have a solo exhibit with them, but what made them consider me?”
He laughed. “I submitted a proposal for you. I’m now a member of the board, and next Thursday the entire board will meet to vote. If your work receives the majority vote, you get the exhibit.”
“Paul, even if I get the exhibit and I start working right away, I won’t have enough finished work for a solo exhibit.”
“I’ve thought of that. I’ll speak with Gerhard and Amanda about the exhibit and ask to borrow the work they have. I’ll explain the exhibit will give them and the work they own exposure.”
“I hope they say yes. Otherwise I won’t be able to do the exhibit.”
“You should consider putting together your own private collection of your best work. That way you’ll always have enough to exhibit and won’t be at someone else’s mercy.”
“You’re right, especially now that I’ve decided to leave Winchester Contemporary Art.”
“Why did you decide that?”
I explained my reasons. I don’t know if he fully understood, but he accepted and respected them.
After that, I began working on what would become my private collection. Since I no longer worked for anyone, I didn’t have to meet someone else’s aesthetic standard. I slowly allowed myself to wade into the waters of color and abstraction. It was a new beginning—one that would take many years for me to become fully comfortable with. But since freedom and clarity had always been at the heart of my expression, I moved toward freeing myself from the old pictorial formula. I would allow my work to reflect changes that took place within. These changes represented a new language based on my surroundings, geometry, emotion, and color.
The following Sunday morning, I was called for a visit. I thought it was a mistake, and asked the tier bull to double check.
“Hey, Noguera, the front desk said you’re scheduled for an eight a.m. visit. It’s no mistake.”
“Thank you, boss. I’ll get ready.”
“You have about fifteen minutes. I’ll be back.”
I nodded and got ready. I wasn’t sure who it was and wondered if it was Paul. Maybe he had an answer about the Vallejo exhibit. Suddenly, I got nervous. I really wanted the show and the recognition it would bring. It represented so many things—recognition, respect, acceptance, and movement toward the goals I was driven to accomplish.
A few moments later the bull returned.
“You ready, Noguera?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Didn’t think you had a visit today. It’s nice someone remembered you.”
He was right.
I went through the strip out. As I put my clothes back on, I thought about what the bull had just said. It’s nice someone remembered you. My thoughts went to my work. I wouldn’t give them a choice. I would be remembered because my work wouldn’t let anyone forget I was once here. My mark would be undeniable.
I stopped just inside the visiting area and gave the floor bull my name and number. He escorted me to the five-by-eight-foot steel mesh cage where I would have my visit.
“C-5,” the bull announced, and the other bull let my visitor into the cage. After the outer door was locked, the inner door was opened for me to enter. I turned around, placing my hands through the door slot so the cuffs could be removed.
I smiled at Paul and we shook hands.
“Hey, brother. How you doing?” I said.
“Okay, Bill. I’m here. I’m alive,” he said with a smile.
Paul and I get along so well because we’re both comfortable with who we are and neither has any desire to change the other. We agree on some things and disagree on others, but that’s fine. I respect him as a man, and at nearly seventy-five years old, he’s earned it. He’s a retired teacher, an active Sufi, a practicing martial artist with over fifty years of experience, and he’s a good guy to boot.
“Okay, so you look like you found a gold brick,” I said. “What’s got you smiling ear to ear?”
He laughed. “Nothing gets past you. It’s nothing. I’m just happy to be here enjoying a cup of coffee with you.”
As much as I wanted to ask him about the Vallejo Artists’ Guild’s board meeting, I didn’t. The way he was smiling, I figured I’d gotten the exhibit, but he wanted to milk it for all it was worth. Finally, he asked, “How does the title ‘Redemption’ grab you?”
“It’s powerful and has a great deal of significance for me. Why do you ask?”
“It’s the title of your solo exhibit with the Vallejo Artists’ Guild. A vote was taken Thursday and every member voted in favor, except one. That member was outraged. Hey, some people have such closed minds, they can’t be reached. The rest of the members are extremely moved by your work and happy about the exhibit.”
He still smiled.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Oh yeah. I spoke to Gerhard and Amanda. They’ve agreed to loan a few pieces for the exhibit.”
I shook Paul’s hand and expressed my thanks for what he’d done.
“Don’t thank me yet. The exhibit’s in December. You have ten months to prepare. It’s you and your work that’ll be under the microscope. I did the easy part. The ball’s in your court.”
He was right. Over the following months, I created a new body of work, including a number of oil and acrylic paintings that I would allow people to see for the first time.
I knew I needed to find new representation—someone who would push my work to the next level of the art world. From the years of reading about other artists and their successes and failures, I knew success was a
s much about who you knew as it was about talent. For many artists in history, that was the difference between being well known and never being heard of.
I wrote a number of letters to art dealers, galleries, and art organizations that I thought could help me meet my goals over the coming months.
Finally I received a response from Clayton Tate and his organization, the Modern Art Foundation. I sent them a letter with pictures of my work, but somehow his response had been lost in the prison mail system and I received it two months later.
I read his words carefully, which were encouraging and full of promise. Most importantly, he was interested in representing me. In his letter, he said my work was visually striking and emotionally driven, which caused him to react physically to the images. He asked me to call him as soon as possible.
When I spoke to him, I apologized for the delay in calling him, and explained I’d just received his letter.
“Don’t worry about it, my friend. I understand you’re not at the Ritz-Carlton. I’m just glad to hear from you. Tell me, are you working on anything now?”
“I am. I’m preparing for a solo exhibit with the Vallejo Artists’ Guild, which will feature a number of new works. I’m in the process of finding new representation to allow me to evolve and not control my artistic direction.”
“I totally understand where you’re coming from. I’ve worked with Barry ‘Twist’ McGee, Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and I’ve produced concerts for Iggy Pop. I know all artists need freedom to grow and express themselves. Here at MAF, that’s exactly what we stand for.”
I noticed he liked to name-drop, but didn’t think it was necessarily a bad thing—especially if it was all true.
“Mr. Tate, I’m encouraged with what you’ve said, but let me explain exactly what I’m interested in. I’ve spent the past eighteen years evolving as an artist, and I’m sure that in ten more years I’ll be a different artist than the one you’re speaking with today. I’d like to not only exhibit work but to record this process as a portrait of my own development as an artist. I want the seriousness of my voice in this medium to be heard, and to earn the respect and acceptance of my contemporaries. I want my work to transform the sensitive observer, at first glance, to the emotional state I experience when I created the work.”
Escape Artist Page 34
