91 days

 

It was October 8, 2005. Everything was darkness, a blur. My mind shut down.

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I had just arrived at jail, the Massachusetts House Of Corrections (MHOC) in Middleton, Massachusetts, an inmate, falsely accused and numb. I wasn’t perfect, but I was a good guy. Now, I was in jail, and what I was about to face filled me with anxiety.

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From the start, I stayed awake all night and slept all day. I recoiled from the sounds of the clanking metal doors opening and closing. During one of those sleepless nights, I saw it. A light. Of all the cells where I could have been in that place, mine had a small beam of light shining all night from the corridor outside. I grabbed that ray of light and retreated to the thing that had given me comfort in the past: drawing.

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I had an interest in art from an early age. Bullied as a child, I found my escape in drawing., comics mostly. I studied commercial art in vocational ed but after high school, it was the military for me, the 101st Airbourne Division in Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Drawing faded to a memory. Then seven years of marriage spiraled downward. A painful divorce and spiteful ex-wife sucked the life out of me. Art was the last thing on my mind. Drawing got lost. Life got lost.

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My first drawing in jail was Pamala Anderson, my cell mate Kevin’s dream girl. I worked on it all night from a photo that Kevin had received with a letter. In the morning, Kevin was excited about his gift and showed it to other inmates. News of the artwork spread like wildfire throughout the block, and soon, I had a stack of commission work to do. “Verdi” had become MHOC bed 60’s portrait artist.

I sketched portraits on the back of intake forms, charging $ 5.00. In food. I would get bagged tuna, cookies, rice, ramen noodles, pepperoni, coffee… whatever food an inmate could get to pay for his drawings.

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Time began moving swiftly. October to November, December and then January 2006, a new year. Ninety-one dark days later on January 6, 2006, Carmen J. Verdi Jr. was found innocent of the false accusations against him and released from jail.

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Disoriented and confused but happy to be free, my then wife of two years and I settled in Nashua, New Hampshire where we still live today. A vindictive ex-wife was hell-bent on continuing to cause as much pain for me as possible. My two sons were taught to hate me. No matter how I tried to be part of their lives, the only role I got to play was the one paying child support. Life wasn’t going to be an easy one, but we were determined to rely on our faith and preserve.

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I started a business and worked long hours every day. We made it through start-up pains, growing pains, a terrible recession and, finally, the light at the end of the recovery tunnel. I dreamed of my sons knowing how much I loved them. I had to follow their lives through their Facebook pages, and I drew.

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Through it all, the pull of the pencil and sketch pad remained strong. I returned home from work each day to draw until the wee hours before going to work the next day. At the time, I had no expectations of becoming a professional artist. Drawing had become my therapy, my medication, my refuge. I hid the names of my children in every piece I drew. It made me feel close to them. Maybe they would see it in the future and know that I was always thinking about them.

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One day, I was doing a job in the home of an artist/art collector. She and I struck up a conversation about my art and she asked me to bring by some examples. When I did, she was amazed, especially when she found out that I was drawing all my pieces-even the very detailed and complex drawings I started at that time-with free-hand straight lines. “Carmen, you need to get serious about this, to show and sell your work.” She said. “You have to start pursuing this as a career.”

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I couldn’t stop thinking about that. I talked to my wife, and we agreed to try it. It wouldn’t be easy. The art world can be a tough place. But I couldn’t really remember a time that hadn’t been – “tough.”

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I had no real formal training, but I longed to know more. I asked every artist I could find who might answer my questions. Some were kind and helpful. From their feedback, I grew, and my work improved. Art became an addiction. The more I created, the more I exhibited my work, the more people loved it, the more I needed to do it. It became an obsession.

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There was a time when I drowned out my thoughts in my head by listening to music. Today, I’ve replaced listening to music with listening to my thoughts, thoughts that are all about my art: the story, the truth, the composition. I became an artist.

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During my 91 days stay at MHOC, I experienced grace in a ray of light that would change my life. Nineteen years later, that experience remains a blessing that continues to change my life every day. My integrity is still intact; the client who first encouraged me became a fan and today, her family proudly displays two of my originals among their collection.

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And yes, I still hide the names of my sons in my art.