Bedford Hills Correctional Facility , NY 2002
initial charges
Vehicular Manslaughter, Possession 7th degree, Felony Injection of a Narcotic, Needle Charge
Guilty plea

The Harrowing of Hell

Cole is very comfortable, his legs are in my lap he is lying across the bench seat in our new Ford F150. And I'm driving along too fast and i lose control and i can either slow down or turn the wheel. But Immediately i know its the wrong move and his last words to me are " jesus ! jen!" when i start losing control as soon as i turn the wheel- too sharp- flips car turns tumbles over and over glass flying and flying. Cole gone. Me hanging by the safety belt thinking if it would just stop spinning now i'd be okay over and over i say this to myself. Finally upside down in the grass the F150 comes still on its back on fire leaving wheels ruts all over the late summer grass. Even with Broken ribs and burns i go to look for Cole. He is bleeding out in the middle of the Taconic. I hold his hand- almost a year later the DA will ask me why i was touching his body when EMS arrived. As if i was yet a further agent in his demise; was there something sinister in the way i held him as he left the bonds of earth? This is the image that stays with me. It has taken permanent residence on the back of my eyelids. When you has already done the worst thing you can imagine doing to another human being you have the rest of your life to be more careful.
For Cole; my best friend, my partner, my accomplice- 1963-2001


above pics= Cole ; drawing 2009- charcoal/ink/arches

Grant Wood (American, 1892-1942)
Death on the Ridge Road, 1935

Sometimes this painting runs through my head and not My accident. For a minute there is no Death on the Taconic. It's here on Ridge Road. Art was always a framework in which i understood, classified and ordered all things. It is how i understood myself, my culture and my relationships. It was how i communicated. It was why i traveled. Every memory has a painting or an object. Jail was possible because of a large reservoir of paintings treasured in my memory. i would draw these repeatedly with whatever material was available. I learned that the vision and solitary pursuits of an artist may lift an inmate up above the daily struggles of the cellblock but it will not deliver you from it. There is to much violence, rage & hopelessness. It comes for everyone.

Before this did i really know what I was?