The Power of Art behind Bars
Volunteer work in a youth prison has deepened my understanding of our shared humanity
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During the twenty-five-minute taxi ride from Cornell University to the high-security prison where I lead art projects for boys and men up to age twenty-one, I brief three fellow student volunteers on what to expect: We will arrive at a compound ringed with barbed wire and chain-link fencing and then pass through a dual-gated entrance. After buzzing in, we will have to state our names and purpose and confirm we carry no contraband. Gates will clang shut behind us as we move into the courtyard. We will present our IDs and pass through a metal detector. A corrections officer—who is usually our age—will wand us before we set up art supplies in a recreation area and wait for the ten to twelve residents who participate each time.
I have volunteered with Art Beyond Cornell since second semester of my freshman year. Through weekly workshops, the program, which has existed since 2005, brings dozens of Cornell student volunteers inside a youth detention facility each year to lead collaborative art projects with incarcerated young people. The goal of the program is simple but radical—to establish a space for creative agency, human connection, and dignity within an environment designed to limit all three.
For those of us living outside of prison, casual conversations are often inconsequential. I talk to countless people each day. Keeping track of everybody I’ve met over the past few weeks or months would be impossible. But for the nearly 32,000 incarcerated teenagers in the United States, volunteer groups like mine are often the only consistent contact they have with young people outside of prison. Every conversation and each interaction matters. Making art—whether by folding origami, painting a portrait, or pressing leaves into ink—offers something tangible to hold on to, a brief assertion of choice and selfhood within an otherwise rigidly controlled world.
People often ask whether I’m afraid of the incarcerated residents. I always answer, “No.” The boys I make art with want to have normal lives. They want to go home and attend school. I’ve met aspiring chefs, therapists, doctors, actors, electricians, rappers, fashion designers, and real estate agents. They ask me what I want to do with my life and tell me they believe in me. I say the same to them.
At the end of every visit, the corrections officers signal for the incarcerated youths to file out of the rec room. Before they go, we exchange goodbyes. “This is the hardest part,” one resident has taken to saying as he bids us farewell.
Another resident recently asked, “Do you miss us?” I was struck by the vulnerability of his question. It was the first time he’d spoken to me after several visits. Yes, I assured him, I do.
I will soon graduate from college. I anticipate saying goodbye one last time with sadness. However, I’m grateful to know that Art Beyond Cornell will continue to provide a space for creativity, dignity, and human connection for volunteers and prison residents alike.
Photo: Isabel Macedo (third from right) is the president of Art Beyond Cornell. In the fall of 2025, she and other participants in the program hosted a gallery of works by incarcerated people across the country.
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