Chapter 42
San Quentin Death Row, 2008–2010
There is no greater personal expression than the creation of art. It allows me to render my truest, deepest emotions, to share myself and all that I hold dear with friend and foe alike.
I’ve always distanced myself from other artists in prison, so when Jennifer placed my pieces in an exhibit entitled “The Prison Project,” I was very unhappy with her. I was focused on new work for an upcoming exhibit in May at the Braunstein/Quay Gallery in San Francisco. A news reporter sent a letter requesting an interview and asked about my views and involvement with the Prison Project exhibition. I read the letter, and as each word registered, my jaw clenched tight. I’d just gotten out of a situation like this, and here she was, doing exactly what I made clear I never wanted—for my work to hang next to the work of other prisoners. I had worked hard to gain respect for my work from the art world, and she risked ruining all of my efforts.
I called Jennifer to confront her. “Hi, William,” she said in an excited voice.
“Hello, Jennifer.” I didn’t hide how upset I was, and she picked up on it right away.
“What’s wrong? You sound angry.”
“I am. Imagine my surprise when I learned my work is in an exhibit hanging next to pieces by other prisoners—rapists, child molesters, child killers, and God knows who else. Imagine how I felt when I learned it was you who placed me in the exhibition after I told you my work is never to be shown with work by other prisoners. I’ve worked very hard over the past twenty years to distance myself from prison artists. How dare you ruin that?”
“I’m sorry. When the exhibition curator called me, he said you were the only incarcerated artist in the show. The other artists would be from all walks of life and live in their own prisons through their state of mind: economic, environmental, and forms of mental illness. Please believe me. I had no idea the exhibit would place your work next to other prisoners.”
She started to cry. “I just wanted to get you into an exhibit so you’d believe in me, but I’ve ruined everything.” When I heard her cry, my anger died down. I was still very upset because she’d lied to me.
“Don’t cry. You were obviously lied to. I don’t blame you for that. But please, in the future, if something doesn’t go as planned, just tell me. I don’t want to find out through a third party. Okay?”
“I was afraid of losing you as an artist.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s move on. It’s already forgotten.”
“You’re truly a great friend and I thank you for trusting me with your career. I promise never to let you down. Now are you ready for some great news?”
“Of course. I could use some right about now.” I wanted to trust her. I needed to. For too many years I trusted no one and I was starved for normality. The luxury of friendship was only a concept because of the fear that it could go wrong and cost me my life. I’d have to approach my association with Jennifer differently than my association with criminals and murderers.
“I’ve made all the arrangements for Jesse Hamlin to come interview you. He’s a writer for the San Francisco Chronicle, and he’s very interested in your story and work. And they’re giving you the front page. Isn’t that great? I’m so excited.”
“That is great news.”
“There’s more. Ruth Braunstein picked out all the pieces for your exhibit at the Braunstein/Quay Gallery. She said she’s never seen work that evokes the drama and emotion that yours does. When I brought all of your works to the gallery, she asked to be left alone with them and she closed the doors, locking everyone out for the next hour so she could experience your work intimately. When she emerged, she asked that I tell you, ‘Thank you,’ and said you’d understand.”
I hung up the phone satisfied and complete. I knew Jennifer didn’t understand what Ruth Braunstein meant when she said thank you, but I did. Ruth Braunstein was the rare “sensitive observer.” My work came to life for her, breathing emotion, freeing my voice and ideas to affect her with no obstacles in between. She heard and understood me through my work. I couldn’t ask for anything more.
As promised, after the interview with Jesse Hamlin, I was given the front page of the Chronicle’s Datebook Section for the Arts. One of my black-and-white hyper-realistic neo-cubist images covered most of the page. The headline read, “Letting His Creativity Run Free Behind Bars.” At the same time, an article also appeared in Style Century Magazine entitled “A Studio on Death Row,” and, in Arts and Opinion Magazine, “Art as Lifeline: William Noguera.”
With the success I experienced, I should have been happy and content, but something wasn’t right. Every time I spoke to Jennifer, I was left thinking I’d been lied to or that something was hidden. She said all the right things, always telling me how much she respected and appreciated our friendship. But more and more it felt like a smoke screen. I wanted so desperately to believe she truly saw me as a human being and that we shared a friendship based on mutual respect. But my gut told me otherwise. I began to investigate things Jennifer said, but nothing really jumped out to confirm she was lying. It wasn’t until Jennifer went to Miami months later for the annual Art Basel fair that I heard back from some of my sources.
One source told me flat out, “William, I hate to burst your bubble, but she’s playing you. You remember the gift you created for the artist Stanley Pierce for his wedding? He never got it. Jennifer kept it and it’s hanging in her apartment. She’s also been selling prints of your work through her website and numerous other sites. And I hear she’s sold some of your originals that you don’t even know about.”
I waited for her return from Miami to confront her. I didn’t expect things to be so bad, and I still didn’t want to believe it. Could I be so naive? I respected her, trusted in her, and most of all I believed we were friends. I had even given her small gifts of my work as a token of my appreciation. I was angry and hurt by everything I’d learned. I didn’t know what to do. If I fired her, I stood the likelihood of losing more of my work. I also didn’t know if what I heard was even true. My sources could be wrong. Or maybe I just didn’t want it to be true.
A few months before, a high school friend, Melissa, contacted me. We started talking on a regular basis. Melissa and I had gone to La Habra High School together. Back then, she dated a guy I knew, and we always got along well. For some reason, after nearly twenty-seven years, she wondered whatever happened to me, then found me and reached out.
Since I was unsure how to handle the situation with Jennifer, I asked Melissa for advice. It’s one thing to deal with convicts and killers, but I was at a loss as to how to address this kind of situation. Melissa suggested I not jump to any conclusions, and to ask about the wedding gift I made for Stanley Pierce to see what her answer was. In the meantime, she would investigate the online sales of my work to try and clear up whether or not the rumors were true.
From the very start of the conversation with Jennifer, I knew she was guilty of everything. She admitted to never giving the wedding gift, Adam’s Eden II, to Stanley. She said, “I fell in love with it and couldn’t stand parting with it.” I asked why she hadn’t told me and once again she cried, saying she was afraid I’d think badly of her and leave. I understood it was all an act, the tears, the crying. It was how Jennifer got away with lying and stealing. She had led me to believe she’d accomplish so much for my career, but I had to act fast and find a way to get my work out of Jennifer’s possession before she sold or stole any more of it.
Shortly after our last conversation, Jennifer said she’d come visit but never showed up. I was going to use the opportunity to terminate her as my representative in person, and to give her detailed instructions to hand my work over to Melissa and Tatiana. But she became extremely evasive, disconnecting her phone and moving to another location.
After months of not being able to meet, Melissa, my sister Tatiana, and I met to decide a plan of action. They’d retrieve all of my work and other intellectu
al property. The plan was sound, but its execution wasn’t so easy. Jennifer refused to return calls, canceled meeting appointments, and made a myriad of excuses not to meet with Melissa and my sister. I sent a registered letter that terminated our professional relationship. Still, no response.
Finally, in fall 2009, Melissa and Tatiana arranged to meet Jennifer at her apartment in San Francisco. Armed with power of attorney and executorship to my trust, they informed Jennifer she no longer represented me or my work. Her response was simple: “There it is, take it.”
While preparing the pieces for transport into Melissa’s car, it became evident that many pieces were missing. They questioned her about the missing pieces, as well as the digital scans used to make prints—which I paid for with my gift of Samo to Clayton Tate. She refused to give any answers, or to sign a receipt acknowledging the transfer of the work in her possession.
Altogether, I lost nearly two dozen original pieces, digital scans of over twenty-five pieces, fifty-three certificates of authenticity, fifteen artist proofs, and all sales records for the work Jennifer had sold. In the two years Jennifer and Phoenix Art Agency represented my art, neither my family nor designated charities received a single dime. Everything Jennifer sold, she kept.
After returning to Los Angeles, Melissa conducted an inventory, professionally photographed the pieces, and ensured that proper copyright was in place. Most importantly, she began investigating the whereabouts of the missing pieces. She uncovered more facts too. Jennifer was selling original pieces and prints all over the Internet and through various third-party art dealers. Jennifer consigned the work without my permission or knowledge, advertising original works and prints for sale.
Melissa made a list of the missing originals and some of the facts. She reported the missing pieces to the police department and sent certified letters and e-mails to Jennifer demanding answers and the return of the missing pieces. Jennifer’s responses were condescending—she didn’t think she owed anyone an explanation. According to her, she had expenses for representing me that entitled her to keep one hundred percent of the proceeds. When Melissa relayed this to me, I couldn’t believe it had happened again. Never in my worst nightmare did I expect Jennifer to steal from me. But her self-proclaimed mentor was Clayton Tate, and that was his self-made reputation. In Jennifer’s case, the bad apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
Weeks passed, and Melissa uncovered more of Jennifer’s dishonest dealings. She consigned a dozen original paintings and drawings to a Bay Area art dealer several years earlier but had basically abandoned the work. Melissa contacted the dealer to retrieve the pieces and discovered that Jennifer owed the gallery over two thousand dollars. We reached an agreement to trade a framed drawing in exchange for the release of the consigned pieces. Melissa retrieved twelve originals and fifteen artist proofs.
Melissa contacted Jennifer again, telling her she’d retrieved the pieces and at what cost. She requested the return of the disks Jennifer was using to make and sell prints, that she remove all reference to me and my work from her website, and that she stop selling prints of my work. She refused, and was extremely combative and hostile.
Melissa also insisted on the return of the final five missing pieces—major pieces featured in numerous publications. They were never returned; all of the pieces are considered stolen and unaccounted for to this day. They include Echo, Moved to Tears, The Divine Proportion, Adam’s Eden, and Ghost in the Material.
Melissa, who proved to be a true friend and assistant, helped me connect with California Lawyers for the Arts. After writing a letter about my situation, I was placed on a list of artists seeking legal representation. In the meantime, I busied myself with searching for new gallery representation. I was aware of my need to be extremely selective in who I submitted my portfolio to, but now Melissa would be able to help safeguard against predatory art dealers.
By the end of that year, I received two letters that gave me hope. The first was from California Lawyers for the Arts. I opened the letter and read it over and over: “We found a lawyer who will represent you.” The news was actually better than I’d first realized. A very large firm with offices around the globe read the summary about what happened and offered their services to protect my rights against Jennifer and anyone else prior to her representation who had infringed on my intellectual property rights. Manatt, Phelps, & Phillips, LLP, would act on my behalf to recover what was stolen from me, and fight to enforce and protect my legal rights as an artist. The other letter I received was from a group called the Organization of Independent Artists, in New York, another group Melissa recommended I contact. I was invited to join and show my work in a group exhibition at the New York Law School.
I took a deep breath, and exhaled. It was the first time in over a year I was able to relax. I was relieved to be able to pick myself up again, dust myself off, and move forward.
Every time I experience trauma and pain it’s a shock to my perspective, but my ability to translate the experiences into and through my work is elevated and enhanced. Never before had it been so laser sharp as when I truly accepted my surroundings.
That’s not to say I didn’t acknowledge it before. However, I consciously kept any reference to my surroundings out of my work, afraid it would somehow place me in the same catchall category of prison art. I convinced myself the viewer didn’t need those images to grasp the emotion I experienced, even if my emotional state was a result of my surroundings. But there’s some truth gained in knowing where an emotion was born in order to give it perspective.
I touched on something important when I started the “Structured Chaos” series. I used cut pieces of mathematically arranged canvases that were painted based on rhythms and emotions, and then bonded to Masonite panel. I washed the panels in paint dozens of times, creating the impression that the geometric canvas shapes floated in a sea of paint held in place by three-dimensional biomorphic roots.
As each idea gave way to the next, I used Masonite instead of canvas to build a three-dimensional structure that rose from the base panel. This illustrated the landscape of my confinement with weaving rhythmic spirals, zips, and drips of color that characterized the complexity and nakedness of my mind. I encased these glimpses into the philosophical and psychological undercurrents of my mind in hardedged geometric shapes to communicate the boundaries and struggle for space I experienced every day.
The first of these neo-constructivist wall sculptures was Touch. From there, a door opened in my mind, driving me to create more of these unique sculptures. I developed this idea even further when I incorporated the San Quentin Prison newspaper into my work, which resulted in the series Take No Prisoners.
About the same time I wrote an artist statement to give the world an opportunity to understand my theories and purpose in creating art. It read as follows:
My evolution as an artist has been long, lonely and sometimes frustrating—with long periods when nothing was satisfactory.
My early beginnings were in a realistic visual repertoire that evolved into my present abstract style rooted in geometry, Constructivism, Color and Set Theory. Only when I accepted my surroundings using the purity of my senses, did I break through to a place where the intensity of mind and vision were given full play.
The results: I created a language to convey what I see happening around me, and within me. This language brings the multifaceted dimensionality of my mind together through an alphabet of shapes, numbers, color, and images that portray the energies, feelings, thoughts, and emotions I experience. This enables me to communicate, and make real to the viewer the very emotions that possess me when I create the work.
With each work, I walk and sometimes stumble, searching with driven sincerity for that road which eludes even the most focused of us—the road toward clarity and freedom.
Not long after I wrote the artist statement, I started hearing a new artistic voice demanding to be heard. July 12, 2010 marked the opening of the group exhibition with the
Organization of Independent Artists at the New York Law School, entitled “Summer Salon Show.” That’s when I took my retreat and sat down to write the story of my life. There is much I didn’t write about because it wasn’t paramount to how I find myself in this cage on death row. One more part remains, which will bring everything full circle.
I do not look forward to sharing this part of my life story. It’s difficult to call forth these memories because they are so painful. Even after thirty years, these wounds are easily opened and the primal soulwrenching agony consumes me. A father never stops being a father.
Chapter 43
Adolescence, 1982–1983
My world was destroyed and all I could ask was, Why? I asked myself over and over again, but the magnitude of the murder of my son still never fully registered. I was in shock, and with each heartbeat the rage and pain overwhelmed me. I couldn’t bear the grief, and I blamed myself for not keeping my promise to protect Vanessa and William.
In my mind, I imagined holding and loving William, and doing everything a father and son do together. I watched his first steps, heard his first words, cheered him on the first time he rode his bicycle and caught his first wave surfing, and beamed at his prom and graduation. I pictured his beautiful smile. As I explored each of the would-be memories, I lost more of myself to the crushing sorrow of having lost him. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or function. I just laid in bed and cried. The fragments of my soul would never come together again.
To escape, I drank, used drugs, and allowed the pain to rule me. I was a mess. Each time I thought of my son, I was destroyed all over again.
A week later, I went to Vanessa’s house. There were questions I needed answered, and only she could answer them. No sooner had I knocked on the door than I was confronted by Loretta.
“What the hell do you want?” she asked.
“I need to talk to Vanessa,” I said.
Escape Artist Page 39
