This study guide introduces the artworks and artists in Barring Freedom engaging issues of carceral visuality. It contains a brief definition of carceral visuality, followed by a summary of how some of the artists in Barring Freedom invite reflection on the relationships between our carceral system, vision, and power. Relevant short clips from the artist interviews are included with each section and the embedded links will take you to more information about the artworks and artists mentioned.
Carceral visuality is possibly not a familiar phrase. Take a moment to make an educated guess of what carceral visuality might mean.
“The history of visuality linked to the prison is a main reinforcement of the institution of the prison as a naturalized part of our social landscape.” Gina Dent
“I think of policing as a way of seeing and a sort of visual frame that recognizes people through different lenses such as guilty or criminal or as targets.” American Artist
To paraphrase visual culture theorist Nicholas Mirzoeff, we make sense of what we see by what we already know and have experienced. Our societies, belief systems, families, education, and all manner of other social and political conditions inform how we see and how we understand what we see. As American Artist alludes to in the quote about police above, within our ways of seeing there are forms of power, narratives, and ideologies that work on our senses. The term visuality refers to this relation between seeing, knowing, visual representation, and power. It refers to the structures that inform how we see and determine who has the right to look, where, and at what, and who has the power to choose who and what is visible.
Carceral is a verb that describes anything related to jails and prisons, so, carceral visuality is the form of visual power embedded in the system of prisons and policing. It refers to how our social relations constructed through policing, prison, and jails impacts how we see the world around us. One example of carceral visuality given by Mirzoeff is when you approach the site of an accident and the police tell you “move along, there’s nothing to see here.” In that moment, the police are controlling what you are allowed to see. But carceral visuality also refers to the variety of ways our perceptions have been shaped by the idea and practices of imprisonment—even for people who do not see themselves connected to or affected by incarceration.
This study guide asks two main questions about carceral visuality:
Where do you feel particularly visible? Where do you feel invisible?
In those situations, how do you feel and who holds power?
Where do you feel particularly visible? Where do you feel invisible? In those situations, how do you feel and who holds power?
“Visuality’s first domains were the slave plantation, monitored by the surveillance of the overseer, operating as surrogate of the sovereign.” Nicholas Mirzeoff
“Racism and antiblackness undergird and sustain the intersecting surveillances of the present.” Simone Browne
Nicholas Mirzeoff posits the slave plantation as the original site of disciplinary surveillance, where current regimes of carceral visuality emerged. This connection is made chillingly present by Keith Calhoun’s photograph Who’s That Man on the Horse, I Don’t Know But They Call Him Boss, 1980. The image, taken one hundred and fifteen years after the abolition of slavery, shows a white prison guard on a horse, watching over hundreds of incarcerated men, the vast majority of whom are Black. The gaze of the prison guard is part of the same exercise of power explicit in the rifle he holds or his elevated presence on the horse. Not only does this photograph depict the continuing labor exploitation and racialized hierarchies in the United States, as discussed in the Histories & Structures guide, it also illustrates the ongoing role of visuality in these power structures.
What we are calling carceral visuality is similar to what Simone Browne calls surveillance. According to Browne, surveillance often operates along racial lines, making racial categories seem solid and “the outcome of this is often discriminatory and violent treatment.” In other words, surveillance produces and reproduces our society’s ideas about race. Several artists in Barring Freedom consider the racializing and violent effects of hypervisibility and surveillance.
Sherrill Roland’s performance The Jumpsuit Project, in which he performs in public locations, wearing an orange jumpsuit, highlights the hypervisibility of incarcerated individuals. In the video below, he discusses the oppressive surveillance of his activities while in prison, and the stigma of appearing in public as a Black man wearing an orange jumpsuit, reminiscent of his prison uniform. He refers to the jumpsuit as an illusion that clouds other people’s perceptions of him. Scholar Nicole Fleetwood states: “In the context of prisons, visuality functions to keep the imprisoned stigmatized as criminals who are excluded from realms of the intimate, social, and political.” Roland’s artworks speak to the discomfort of living within this visual regime.
Artist Dread Scott has three works in Barring Freedom, all addressing the repeated and ongoing policing of Black people in the U.S., particularly in low-income neighborhoods. In the video installation STOP, viewers are confronted by the life-size projections of six men, who each take turns stating how many times they have been stopped by the police. The project resulted from a collaboration between Scott and the British artist Joanne Kushner. The men on one side of the projection are residents of Liverpool, UK and those on the other live in Brooklyn, NY, pointing to the export of US “tough on crime” policing strategies. The numbers of police stops the men have experienced range from 30 to 200. As the men repeat these numbers, the video conjures the incessant nature of police discrimination and racism.
Using a similar strategy of repetition, Dread’s print #WhileBlack lists many seemingly harmless activities that Black individuals have been policed and, in some cases, killed for performing. The accompanying #WhileWhite provides a list of privileges that white individuals in the United States have been entitled to. As Mirzeoff states: “To be white is simply to be allowed to act.” You can see Scott discuss #WhileBlack on his artist page.
American Artist also explores police violence and racial profiling. Artist’s videos and sculptures critique the Blue Lives Matter movement, begun by police officers in response to Black Lives Matter activism, as well as the racialized biases of the technologies used in policing. His work resonates with the research of Jackie Wang into predictive policing: “Whether it is a covert municipal financial structure that authorizes plunder or an algorithm that generates hot spots on a map, invisible forms of power are circulating all around us, circumscribing and sorting us into invisible cells that confine us sometimes without our knowing.” In the video below, American Artist discusses the troubling identity of blueness and how policing acts as a way of seeing, separating, classifying, and judging individuals.
Consider your own experiences with the police. How did you feel during those encounters? What role do you think your race may have played in these encounters? What other factors may have contributed?
“The Carceral State is everywhere.” Maria Gaspar
“The more that prisons and jails are used as the solution to every social problem that our society doesn't want to have to deal with, we see a desire to erase that.” Ashley Hunt
In California, the Department of Corrections employs more than 60,000 people and has an annual budget of over twelve million dollars. The carceral state and its effects are indeed everywhere, but the scope of this power is not always visible. In her exploration of prison expansion in California, Golden Gulag: Prisons, Surplus, Crisis, and Opposition in Globalizing California, Ruth Wilson Gilmore points out that although prisons and detention centers are often located in rural or marginal spaces, “this apparent marginality is a trick of perspective.” She argues that prisons play a key role in the political economy of California, even as they remain out of sight for many Californians. Along similar lines, writer and documentarian Brett Story argues that the expansion of the prison system since the 1970s is a fundamental facet of the rise of neoliberalism. Rather than a shrinking of state power, “the carceral state is a state restructured and expanded through its punishment and criminalization functions.” Artists in Barring Freedom consider this tension between the presence and absence of the prison system in our physical and mental worlds.
In the series Degrees of Visibility, Ashley Hunt photographs detention centers, prisons, and jails, from public locations. The majority of the images in the collection are unremarkable scenes, either of empty fields or of banal urban architecture. Were it not for Hunt’s titles which name the prison and give the number of individuals incarcerated within, a viewer might not know that these facilities even exist. As Hunt discusses in the video below, this invisibility and erasure of the prisons from our visual field, is precisely the point. He suggests that these forms of erasure both deny and normalize the use of incarceration as a solution for social problems such as poverty, mental illness, and unemployment.
Maria Gaspar’s immersive sound and video installation On the Border of What is Formless and Monstrous, focuses our attention on the massive concrete north wall of Cook County Jail in Chicago. (To see the installation visit San José Museum of Art, otherwise a trailer of the video is available here). Far from invisible, this wall is a looming presence in the neighboring communities. In the video below Gaspar expands upon how the installation interrogates the wall itself. What does it hide from view? How does this wall distort how people on the outside view people within? Gaspar uses sound from inside and outside the prison, blending the two into a single soundscape and allowing the wall to become momentarily porous.
Do you know where the jails and prisons are in your community? Are they visible or hidden from view? Why do you think that is?