Convicted art forger, Alfredo Martinez, corresponds with old friend and curator, James Fuentes, about his experiences in federal prison.

Since my previous article was published on Alfredo Martinez and his Basquiat forgeries, I have reestablished contact with him. Most striking to me is that even in federal prison, he continues to do what he loves most: draw. Despite his criminal past and the controversy surrounding it, his primary interest is still in making a career for himself as an artist. I have written the following account with the help of letters and telephone conversations I’ve had with Alfredo Martinez.

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So there I was, drawing away. I made about 15 drawings. I would have made more, but the inmates kept bugging me to make drawings for them, and I would draw portraits of inmates and their girlfriends or some silly cartoon they wanted to send their kids. The inmates would want to pay me for the drawings, but I would not let them. “Why would I want the canned fish they sell here? It smells like cat food.”

I would get up at 6 AM to line up for breakfast, milk and prison-made cake. Then, in the TV room, I would make paper by gluing scraps of blank paper with a glue mix I make with bread and water (a trick I learned from a Russian inmate friend of mine). When the paper was big enough and dry (that would take a day), I would glue on to it the back page of a magazine or paper from a book to make it thicker. With some paper ready, I would draw all day long, stopping only for lunch at 11 AM and dinner at 5 PM. Then I’d work until 11 PM when they turn off the lights.

Until the 19th of August, I had no trouble. On that Sunday, Safety Inspector Engram happened to see what I was working on in the TV room (a drawing of a .50 caliber sniper rifle). He walked over and asked what this was all about. I told him I was making drawings because I was trying to organize a show of my artwork. He asked if he could take a drawing to show someone. So, I let him take one, kept on working and forgot about the incident.

A week later, after lights out, a guard called my name. Everyone began to hoot and holler. I got out of my bunk and met up with a guard named Bregose; a one-time member of the NYPD, but not a bad guy. (Actually none of the guards are; they’re just overworked.) Bregose demanded that the other inmates “Shut the fuck up!” and then informed me nervously, “Lieutenant Bledsoe from S.I.S. wants to see you.” The room broke into long ooohs and catcalls. “He’s going to the hole!”

As we walked to the door I asked, “What’s this all about,” to which he replied, “I don’t know.” He gave me a sad look and added that he was “sorry.” Even the guards don’t like the S.I.S.; it’s like the Gestapo here.

Safety Inspector Services investigates both guards and the inmates. The officer I was going to meet was Lt. Bledsoe, head of the S.I.S. As I entered the hallway, I saw three more guards. One asked me if I could please put my hands up against the wall so that he could search me. Then I was told to wait. I squatted on the floor waiting for a little while. One of the guards shouted, “Bledsoe’s here!” as he came down to our part of the hall. I didn’t bother to get up.
Bledsoe is a tall, thin man of about 50 years with an olive complexion and black hair, cut in a sharp crew cut. He wore the same uniform as the other guards: a white short sleeved shirt with a B.O.P. patch on his right arm, a name and rank tag on his right-hand pocket, gray pants, heavy shoes, and a police-type belt with all of the police-type gadgets. But no gun. Guards only carry their guns (9mm Ruger P95) when they’re outside. Oh, and one last detail: he had a short Hitler mustache. I kid you not!

Without looking at me, Bledsoe asked, “Is that Martinez?” With a nod, he crouched down beside me and said, “I came back from vacation to find this in my mailbox,” to which I replied, “So that’s where my drawing went! I was wondering what happened to it!” He threw the drawings at my feet and stared at me for a moment.

Martinez: What’s the problem officer?
Bledsoe: So this is yours?
Martinez: Yes, of course.
Bledsoe: What is this? And where do you get the paper?
Martinez: That’s my artwork and I was making them for art shows here in New York and in Europe. The paper I made out of paper they give me here using bread or oatmeal and water as glue.
Bledsoe: You have more?
Martinez: Yes, I get up at 6 AM and work all day.
Bledsoe: Go and get them.
So I stood up and went to my locker, fetching my drawings amid more hoots and hollers. I then took them to the hallway where Bledsoe was waiting.
Bledsoe: Is this all of them?
Martinez: Yes, I think so.
He looked at them all over as I unrolled them and laid the drawings flat.
Bledsoe: Are you in a gang?
Martinez: No. I don’t think they allow art forgers in gangs.
Bledsoe: What are you in here for?
Martinez: Art forgery. You can look at my legal work if you want to.
Bledsoe: How were you going to get this all out of here?
Martinez: Fold it up and mail it out; I‘m just waiting for money for stamps.
Bledsoe: We would never let you mail this out.
Martinez: Why not? I’ve been doing this out in the open for the last month and a half and there is nothing about what kinds of art you can do around here in the rulebook.
Bledsoe: Where’s the book with the .50 caliber sniper rifle you drew?
Martinez: I don’t need a book. I draw from memory. I’m a gun expert. This is what I would draw on the outside. I’ve been reviewed in the New York Times.
Bledsoe: Are you a terrorist? Other inmates may find what you do offensive and attack you.
Martinez: All the other inmates want me to do is draw pictures of their girlfriends and cartoons for their kids.
Bledsoe: Where do you steal the paint?
Martinez: The colors come from come from the coffee, tea or juice that all the inmates get here.
Bledsoe: I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you get to the outside before you can make any of this again. Get this man out of my sight.

As I was led back to my bunk, fellow inmates asked me what happened. “They took my drawings.” “Man that’s fucked up!” Since it was late and most of the inmates were awakened by the commotion, they started shouting, “Fuck you,” in Spanish and English, and throwing raspberries, making fart noises, and asking “Why you fuckin’ with my boy Picasso?” The commotion came to an immediate halt when three guards charged in and yelled, “Who wants to go to the hole?” Bledsoe rushed behind one the guards and whispered something into his ear—and then the guard called my name. When I approached him, the guard told me I would be searched again, handcuffed and taken to the hole. The whole place went nuts. Men were screaming and throwing things.

Bledsoe: I’m taking him to the S.H.U. (a.k.a. the Special Housing Unit or “the hole” by inmates; known to most as solitary confinement). When I get back, I want a full shakedown of this unit.
A shakedown is a group punishment in which all the inmates are moved to a common space and individual rooms are thoroughly searched. Big plastic carts are rolled throughout the unit to collect contraband. Contraband includes weapons and drugs, but mostly it consists of food and clothes. Technically, you can’t have food or clothes that aren’t issued by the jail.

Bledsoe turned the unit inside out in a severe shakedown that lasted until 4 AM—searching mainly for books about guns. He left each cell a mess and removed all the microwaves and a television. He was furious that he didn’t find anything. Afterward, I was led through a maze of hallways and elevators that were remarkably similar to the video games I like to play (Metal Gear Solid, Doom, Quake.)

When we finally got to the door of the S.H.U., Bledsoe called on his radio, “Bledsoe on your Cheryl door.” The door buzzed open and he handed me to a guard who took off my handcuffs and put me in a cell for a strip search. First I took off all my clothes—tan jump suit, t-shirt, underwear, socks. Then I was asked to run my hands through my hair, pull my ears back, open my mouth and stick out my tongue, show him my hands, turn around and show the bottom of my feet. And then, everyone’s favorite: squat and spread my ass cheeks. They gave me an orange jumpsuit and told me to get dressed. I was moved to the cell where I have spent a lot of time since that incident.
An inmate can find himself in the S.H.U. for all sorts of reasons: fighting, contraband, investigation for his own protection, and sometimes, if there is no room for him anywhere else. I found myself there for “Investigation for Terrorism.”

You are kept in your cell 23 hours a day. For one hour each day, you can go on the roof deck for an hour. It’s an area about 10 x 25 feet with a heavy metal grate on top. Inmates stand around, talk, and smoke homemade cigarettes out of tea. Meals come through a plastic slot in the door. Lights go on at 6 AM and off at 11 PM. Even though you’re on the top floor, there is no view. The windows are fogged with acid. Below I have drawn a view of the S.H.U. cell from the top bunk.

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James Fuentes is an independant curator living in NY

Alfredo Martinez “ Heckler & Koch P7-13” 2002
(drawn from memory) pencil on paper 8 _” x 11”
Courtesy James Fuentes

Alfredo Martinez “ Special Housing Unit” (detail)
pencil on paper 8 _” x 11”
Courtesy James Fuentes