Dark Highways of the Criminal Mind

New Cross, London, last weekend. In the front room of the house, beneath a plant with fat drooping leaves, there is a black container the size of a shoebox. It stands upright and exposes its contents to the world with an unworldly silence that borders on the obscene. This thing is weird.

But the thing also appears shabby and second-hand, and could be mistaken for junk if seen from the corner of your eye. That would be before some mechanism in your head snaps, and the full monstrous glory of the thing grabs your attention by the throat and vomits in its ear. This box is the stuff of nightmares, and it is tucked away in a corner, as if it did not matter one way or the other.

It is the property of Julian, an apparently upstanding citizen who was advising us on whether the area was a good place to live. But the dark side had seized him long ago; he spent fifty pounds on this artefact. Even today he stands by his decision to purchase the twisted skeleton of a rabbit, hanging in an iron-maiden style box where gruesome knives thrust through the bones, the whole damn thing appearing to be a fucked up parody of crucifiction. There is no Easter-style resurrection here...this is one man's interpretation of death and the nothingness that follows. No afterlife can be perceived here, just the leering edges of a few dozen blades.

And at the bottom corner, a little placard reads "pull me" above an extendable string tied to a metal loop. If you pull the string the box will speak to you and implore you to love it.

This is art, damn it. And where it comes from is a dark place indeed. We discovered that Julian bought the piece from a man locked away deep in the penal system. And the crime of this artist was so dark, so horrific, so shocking, that the other prisoners on the wing dare not speak of it. Ye gods. This piece of art came from somewhere inside him, a manifestation of some terrible parasite squatting in the belly of his soul. What the hell had he done? We will never know, and we are better off not knowing.

But Julian had his reasons to buy the rabbit. He knew that he must encourage the artist to continue creating his art. Many prisons conduct classes in art therapy and prisoners can come to terms with their crimes this way. Only by creating something can they bait the hook that catches the bad memories previously lost at the bottom of a very black ocean.

The benefits of these classes, whilst on the surface designed seemingly to enrage the reactionary taxpayer, are many and varied.

"Art activities can channel negative energy into positive results. [It] has been shown to reduce recidivism, assist professions in healing people with violent or tragic pasts, and help inmates gain some control over their lives." -- Dr. Rachel Williams, Ph.D (full article here)

The process of creation is much more important than the final result - clearly, most of the pieces created in this manner do not stand up to critical gaze...at least, not without knowing the story behind the creation. Our dead rabbit is not an appealing piece and only a bug-eyed lunatic would want it in his front room. But to know each of the blades are made up of sharp screwdriver heads that some twisted bastard had to smuggle into the prison workshop past the guards... this is what I remember when I think about the piece, not the physical end result. It gives the piece flavour.

Sure, given enough time your average Young British Artist could throw together a telephone box full of fake foetuses covered in blood that light up at random. And people would be shocked and give them lots of cash. But those are hollow pieces with no depth. Our dead rabbit is different. It is much, much darker, and all the better for it.