Recreating a crime scene ...on canvas
A prison art tutor gets a shocking introduction to his new role when an inmate’s work proves too personal
WHEN Steven Tafka landed a new job as a prison art tutor, he didn’t know what to expect.
He was expected to introduce watercolours to violent gangsters and encourage murderers to appreciate Monet.
The Art of Crime is his darkly hilarious diary, giving an insight into the challenges of education in the prison system.
In this excerpt, Steven is just three days into his new job when he attempts to help an offender who is struggling with a painting…
A COURT REVELATION
As part of my induction, I was sent to the prison up the road, which although it is given a B category, likes to think it is a high-security establishment.
My mission is to meet Greg, the art tutor, to see how he runs the City & Guilds art courses. I presented myself at the gatehouse, which I can see is a step up from my prison in terms of space and decor.
The officer behind the glass screen was curt. He huffed and puffed as he searched his lists for my name; I was an inconvenience.
The class was in full swing and I was dumped into the overstretched hands of Greg.
Before he had a chance to do little more than introduce himself, Greg was called over by one of the offenders who was frustrated with his drawing.
Rather than stand there like a lemon, I thought I should jump in at the deep end and help out by talking to one of the prisoners.
There was a man standing awkwardly in front of an easel on which was a particularly inept painting of a tennis court. “Hello,” I said.
“It’s tricky,” he said. “I can’t get the tennis player right.”
I looked at his attempt at painting a figure holding a tennis racket standing next to the net. The splodges of white and pink paint showed he’d tried several times. The proportions were all wrong, the racket impossibly big...
“Why are you doing a painting of a tennis court?” I asked, thinking that of all the things he could be painting, a picture of a tennis court in a park with swings and slides in the background was a curious choice of subject matter.
Before he had the chance to answer, Greg came rushing over, grabbed me by the elbow and ushered me into his store cupboard.
“That’s where he spread the body parts. He chopped a woman up and placed some of the bits in the bushes by a tennis court. Best not ask him about it,” he whispered through gritted teeth.
I was a qualified teacher, I’d done my PGCE, I had years of experience as a lecturer in art and design, but nothing in my training quite prepared me for this.
And so, with a churning stomach, I returned to the strangelooking man and offered to help him get the splodges of paint to look more like a tennis player.
“If it’s okay with you, I think the best thing would be to scrape him off and have another go,” I said. “You can’t get rid of him.”
“We’ll put him back.”
“No, that wouldn’t be right,” he said.
We had the most bizarre conversation as I tried not to mention the impasto green splodges that were supposed to be the bushes...
I needed some clean water and, as he walked over to the sink, I noticed that he had trouble walking. It was hard to imagine that he had ever possessed enough physical strength to do what he had done.
He seemed frail and vulnerable, with a soft, deep sadness.
“Do you know any jokes?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not,” I replied.
“That’s a pity,” he said, staring at the floor.
“What are you going to paint next?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How about the sea?”
“That’s a good idea, I could do a picture of the seaside,” he said with a little life returning to his eyes. We talked happily about various seaside towns we’d visited, then I excused myself to help a man struggling with some air-drying clay.
I kept looking back to see our tennis court artist applying more and more dabs of viridian green to the bushes with little stabbing motions of the brush.