Handkerchiefs, Ballpoint Pens, and Mackerels, Oh My!

This particular field trip to the Pomona INK-CON, I was accompanied by Ron, also from Inker, the best wingman ever, who probably took a few steps back after watching me do my journalism thing in the most unorthodox way.

I’m not that guy who’s going to write some polished bullshit you consistently see everywhere. Nope, fuck that! Pomona not only allowed me to catch up with a lot of artists I’ve worked with in the past, but also meet new ones, and this particular event was a treasure trove of great shit to write about.

My normal routine is to walk the rows, do a couple of rounds to absorb the environment before I start interacting. Of course, if I see anyone I know, I’ll engage in conversation. Always a pleasure to see people I’ve dealt with in the past. Ron and I must’ve done about four rounds by the time I spotted an art display that brought on what I can only describe as a type of PTSD. Funny enough, Ron was the reason I even went into that back area. Lol.

We were waiting to speak with an artist who was busy having a conversation with somebody else, and at some point, Ron disappeared. I’m standing there waiting, looking around, thinking, where the fuck did Ron go? Lol. I finally spotted him over by an art display, so I headed over to see what had caught his attention. That’s when I came face to face with those handkerchiefs and a whole bunch of memories, I hadn’t expected to revisit that afternoon. I mentioned to Ron that I’d seen artwork like this being created in prison but didn’t get into much detail. We had a tattoo show to work and enjoy, plus Ron had absolutely no idea he’d just led me to another article.

Anyways, there they were, badass pieces of artwork done on handkerchiefs. One even had a price tag of $13,000. Get the fuck out of here!!! I knew a time when I could buy something like that for around twenty mackerels.

And yes, I said mackerels.

For those who have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about, there was a time in my life when I was incarcerated, and mackerel packages were a form of currency among inmates. We called them Macs, and they were worth about a dollar apiece. Before that, postage stamps were commonly used, but after large quantities of stamps started getting confiscated, the economy adjusted. It’s amazing what becomes money when the usual ways of conducting business aren’t available.

Those handkerchiefs brought back memories of guys buying a plain handkerchief and a couple of black or blue ballpoint pens from the commissary and creating some absolutely incredible artwork. I’m talking about drawings that looked like miniature back pieces, with shading and detail that would put plenty of experienced artists to shame. Some guys were already talented, and some were tattoo artists, and others didn’t have an artist pube on their bodies when they started. But once they saw the hustle, it was monkey see, monkey do. Give a guy three to five years, plenty of time to practice, and a few inmates willing to teach him, and that same fucker who couldn’t draw a dick on a stick figure could become a pretty fucking good artist.

And there was money to be made. Well, Macs to be made, along with commissary goods, deposits on people’s books, and other forms of payment that could get fairly creative.

These inmates weren’t buying to build an art collection. Birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, that was when the regular inmate customers came looking. The artists were basically running custom prison Hallmarks, accepting payment in fish.

And some of the opportunistic type of inmates figured out how to take that business a little further. They’d purchase one of those handkerchiefs, hire yours truly to write a custom love letter to go along with it, and mail the whole package to one of the two or three women they had on the hook. Yes, two or three, and in some cases probably more. Romance was alive and well inside prison, although honesty wasn’t necessarily part of the arrangement. Lol.

These ladies would receive a beautiful piece of artwork accompanied by a love letter written by a guy they’d never met, and before long, money would be finding its way onto their prison boyfriend’s books.

I kept pretty busy writing those letters, and that was one of my hustles inside. The guy buying the letter would tell me what he wanted to say, who he was writing to, and whatever information he thought might help. I’d put it together, he’d send it out with the artwork, and we’d see how generous his girlfriend was feeling when commissary day came around. There was a whole lot more to that business, including some pretty interesting characters, but I’ll save those stories for future articles. Let’s just say I was getting paid to write long before I ever started interviewing tattoo artists.

I never actually bought any of the handkerchiefs myself, and looking back, I wish I had. I did, however, commission several drawings from inmates who worked with pencils on ordinary 8.5 x 11 sheets of copy paper purchased from the commissary. These guys could take a photograph and recreate it with such incredible detail that you had to wonder what the fuck they were doing in prison instead of making a living off their talent. Of course, asking what a guy was doing in prison wasn’t always a conversation you wanted to have, so I stuck to admiring their work.

Most of the drawings I commissioned were of family, but there was one in particular that meant a lot to me. His name was Riddick, an enormous Great Dane rescue that belonged to two close friends of mine. I loved that dog. He was a big, lovable fucker, and unfortunately, he died during my incarceration. I had a photograph of us together, with Riddick practically taking over the couch and me sitting there without a beard, which is probably just as shocking as the size of the dog. Lol. I had one of the inmates recreate that photograph in pencil and mailed the finished portrait to my friends as a surprise. I have no idea if they still have it, but I sure hope they do.

Back to Pomona. The artwork was fucking impressive. There was an Alice in Wonderland piece with incredible detail, portraits, cultural imagery, and a drawing titled Abuelita Ayahuasca by an artist identified as Ishwar, which carried that $13,000 price tag. I wasn’t questioning the artist’s asking price. An artist can ask whatever they want for their work, and considering the talent involved good for them. I was just having a hard time reconciling the difference between what I remembered and what was hanging in front of me.

I took several photographs, including one of a piece that had the artist’s Instagram information attached to it. I’m planning to reach out and see if I can purchase it. No idea what they’re asking, and I haven’t spoken with them yet, but I’d love to get my hands on one.

There’s actually a name for this type of artwork. It’s commonly known as paño art, with a history closely associated with latino prison culture. Museums have collected and exhibited these pieces, including the National Museum of Mexican Art in Chicago. I have no idea whether the artists displaying their work at Pomona have ever been incarcerated, and I’m not going to assume they have. What I do know is that the techniques and materials were familiar to me, and the work brought back memories of artists whose names I couldn’t tell you today but whose abilities I haven’t forgotten.

Years ago, I was getting paid to write love letters that helped other inmates get money deposited into their accounts. Today, I’m writing about tattoo artists and getting their work in front of people who might never have heard of them otherwise. I suppose I’ve upgraded my clientele a little, although I have to admit some of those old customers were pretty fucking good at getting a return on their investment, LOL.

And speaking of getting an artist’s work in front of people, that’s a big part of what Inker is working toward. There are talented tattoo artists all over the place who don’t have the recognition their work deserves. Some are incredible at what they do but have absolutely no interest in spending their days figuring out social media, chasing followers, or trying to convince an algorithm that their artwork is worth a shit. Inker has built a way for people to discover those artists, see their work, find where they’re located, and connect with them without forcing the artist to become a full-time marketing department.

I think about the guys I knew inside who developed unbelievable skills with nothing more than a ballpoint pen and a handkerchief. Some became successful at selling their work through an economy that ran on fish, favors, and commissary purchases. They didn’t need a social media strategy, but they did need customers, and the guys who figured out how to connect their skills with people willing to pay usually did pretty well. Not a bad business lesson, although I wouldn’t recommend prison as a place to take an entrepreneurship course.

I’m still considering buying that piece from Pomona, and I owe Ron some credit for unintentionally leading me to the exhibit. We went there to enjoy a tattoo show, catch up with artists, and meet new people. He disappeared for a few minutes, and I ended up revisiting a part of my life that also happened to explain where some of my earliest paid writing came from.

As for the handkerchiefs I never purchased inside, I suppose there’s no sense crying over spilled mackerels. There are probably a few of those original prison Hallmarks tucked away in drawers somewhere, surrounded by old letters from men who promised the moon, the stars, and a future together, frequently with the assistance of a ghostwriter who charged by the letter.

If any of those ladies are reading this and still have the artwork and correspondence, please don’t get mad at the messenger. I was just the guy with the pen.

J Gekko
Staff Writer, Inker