Prison Art Exhibition and My Fathers

They are operated in 66 locations nationwide.
As of the end of 2022, there were approximately 36,000 people working there.

When I learned that this referred to prisons and inmates, I was surprised and thought,
“Is this a publicly traded company?”
However, when I think about it, it is not surprising at all. Prisons are an important part of the separation of powers, under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Justice.
About the prison system. About the environment inside the facilities.

And above all, about the inmates. I learned many things that day.
In late March of this year (2024), it was at the
Prison Art Exhibitionheld in Kita-Senju, Tokyo.Art is something that questions common sense. My “common sense about prisons” was greatly overturned.

The Prison Art Exhibition was part of a project that solicited art from inmates serving time in various prisons and returned comments from viewers to the creators. It was an attempt to create interaction between the other side of the wall and this side.

This second exhibition reportedly received 135 entries from 52 people across 29 facilities.
All entries are exhibited using the venue and the web, and even now that the exhibition has ended, you can see themhere.

Initially, based on the title of the exhibition, I imagined things like poems, tanka, haiku, senryu, essays, and paintings. Even if it was art, I thought it would be serious, or perhaps plain. Something well-behaved.

However, that was a huge mistake. There were essays, novels, calligraphy, and even manga. It wasn't just stiff works; there was plenty of entertainment content as well. As someone who loves culture, the lineup alone was compelling.
Perhaps people don't create because they are free, but become free because they create. While feeling that, I was also confused about whether it was okay to feel that way.

What was even more striking were the many high-level works by talented individuals who were clearly skilled. Works I wanted to keep watching and finish reading kept jumping out at me.
“Are you serious...”
I, who hadn't expected quality from the start, was flustered. And I was ashamed of my arrogance in having unknowingly underestimated the creators.

While I'm at it, I'll admit there were some works I thought, “I wonder if I can buy this.”
I want to decorate my room with this painting. Or rather, I want to live in a room that suits this painting.
Even if I didn't know the background that it was made by an inmate, I definitely would have thought so.

On the other hand, there were, of course, many works that shone with a unique light precisely because I knew the author was an inmate. I feel this was especially true for linguistic arts like haiku and senryu. Words ring in my head. Some like bells, some like gongs.
Works themed around children I cannot meet or precious daily life with my children made my nose sting.
“Haa.”
Something that was neither a deep breath nor a sigh escaped me. It was so frustrating I wanted to click my tongue.

Among them were works overflowing with humor and defiance that made me think,
“This person hasn't learned their lesson.”
I was excited, thinking, “This kind of thing is allowed too!”

I don't know what crimes the creators committed. I don't know their character either.
However, every work was something that couldn't be contained within my “common sense about prisons.” There was a presence unique to works created by people who love to create. The level of attraction was different.

As I was drawn into the works, I felt as if I were sitting next to the creators, watching their hands and gazes intently.

What posture did they make it in? Did they redo it many times? Did they ever look out the window? What was reflected there at that time, and what were they thinking?

It was a strange sensation to vividly imagine the profile of someone I didn't even know, someone silently creating something in a solitude where the outlines seemed to stand out clearly.

Easy sympathy is hypocritical and worthless. I knew that in my head.
However, once my heart leaned toward the works, it didn't want to leave.

The wall separating this side and that side is neither high enough to point fingers at, nor thick enough.
Because I knew that.

I had two fathers. And both were criminals.

My biological father had killed someone. It seems it was before he married my mother. Involuntary manslaughter as a minor. I heard from my mother that his bad friend, who came to collect a debt, revealed it as a form of harassment. My father disappeared when I was nine, keeping that hidden.

The person who was a father figure to me for only a few years later was also a former yakuza, and while he said he had washed his hands of it, he was involved in multiple crimes, including stimulants.
My younger brother and I, who were in elementary and junior high school, were made to help with simple tasks.
“My dream is to eat my fill of Pudding.”
To us, a few hundred yen in part-time wages was a lot of money. Later, I learned that it was for sticking address labels on illicit videos, and my mother was also in on it.
He also served a prison sentence, I believe it was in Fuchu. That didn't affect us, but after his release, he returned to his actual wife, who had existed all along.

Looking back, crime and prison were close to me in my childhood.
It has been over a quarter of a century since I cut ties with both, but when I hear “this side” of the wall, I still associate it with the inside of a prison.

I don't know what my former fathers are doing now, or even if they are alive. It would be a hassle even if I knew.
But now that I am 45, I understand that they also had sensitivity.
Sensitivity is potential. While touring the exhibition, I couldn't help but imagine “what if.”

What if they had been able to express themselves like this?
What if they had been able to meet people other than their associates through expression?
And what if they had been able to learn about different values and different choices?

They were two people completely unrelated to art or creation, so I guess that's impossible.
But precisely because they were unrelated, it might have become something that could relativize their bad connections.
Even though I knew it was a faint hope, I couldn't help but think about the possibilities of art.

That said, I couldn't immediately feel,
“Give all inmates more places to express themselves! Improve the expression environment in prisons!”
Is it okay to allow freedom and joy to people who have stolen the freedom and joy of others?
Before that, couldn't they first return what they took away?
As someone who was affected by those good-for-nothings, I wanted to say it loudly. In the first place, I doubt they are all the type to quietly reflect.

But at the same time, as someone who was a member of a criminal's family, I remember.
My fathers were lonely. There was no one they could ask for help.
To me, it looked as if they were being forced to live after having been robbed of something necessary for life.
What if many of the inmates were also people like my fathers? What if, before being perpetrators, they were victims of their birth, their families, or society?

When I connect the dots of a life where something was taken away from the start, I, my fathers, and the people behind bars all line up in a straight row. Perhaps there was almost no difference between them and me.

The only difference was a hair's breadth of luck.
I happen to like 'writing,' and I just happened to not have that taken away from me. I just happened to be allowed to make an effort, and I just happened to be able to earn a living. It's all just luck. Even now, I don't think I'm living in a safe zone.

Don't take away people's expression and potential to connect with society.
A thought that contradicted what I had just said echoed in my head, louder than before.

I have almost no memories of my biological father, and they are all hazy. Perhaps that is because he was as silent as a monk.
Even so, I remember the day we went for a drive as a family.

While driving, he was humming an old song.
It was a song called Blue Chateau by The Blue Comets.
"Surrounded by forests and springs, sleeping quietly, Blue Chateau."
In a faint voice, so as not to wake his sleeping family.

I pretended to be asleep while secretly listening from the back seat, thinking, 'How rare.'
That was the only time I ever heard him sing. The reason it still lingers in my ears might be because that singing voice was so fleeting.

A lonely thought, not addressed to anyone.
You can only become someone who can accept yourself among people who will accept such helplessness.
He had no such person. And I was too young at the time to accept it.

So perhaps, my father failed to return. To his family, to society.
He disappeared without ever being able to believe in his own 'I'm home' or our 'Welcome back.'

There might be people like that behind bars, too. Thinking of that made me feel unbearable.

By the way.
My father showed up unexpectedly after that. A reunion after 16 years, arriving in a tracksuit and sandals.
"I have a wife and daughter now, so please restore my family register."
That's what he said.
Is that how you're going to play it, Dad? I laughed, and my younger brother cried.
We couldn't even say 'Welcome back,' and he got his family register, which had been cancelled due to his death, restored, and disappeared again.

He was a kind man, dexterous with his hands, and good at drawing.
Just as he once drew Perman for me, he must have been drawing something for his new daughter.
I hope that this time, and even now, that drawing is connected to a place where he can truly return.
As I walked through the exhibition, I felt like worshiping the works.

(End)

Thank you for reading until the end. Please feel free to read this as well if you'd like.