The first time I visited my brother in jail was on his 21st birthday. My dad and I had done video calls with him throughout the year, but there was a difference between seeing someone through a screen and seeing them in person.
Three months into his sentence, my brother already looked different. His face was worn, his eyes dim. His hair had grown longer, and his facial hair was messy, unkept — like time had passed without care.
As I sat in the visiting room, separated from him by glass, an unbearable distance settled between us. He tried to smile — a brave attempt to make visiting day feel like just another day. But how could it be?
We were celebrating his 21st birthday in a stark room, surrounded by cold concrete, devoid of cake, candles or any semblance of joy. My dad and I held a birthday card to the glass — the staff wouldn’t let us give it to him. It was homemade. But that genuine card felt painfully out of place in a sterile jail, and only exaggerated the hostility of the situation.
Despite five other families around us, I remember how quiet the room was. I occasionally heard muffled laughter. My dad and I passed a dense, plastic phone back and forth, straining to hear. A thick silence hung between our words. Our voices were thin and fragile, like they could shatter if we were too honest.
It’s hard to be honest when the truth is scary. I hesitated to ask him how he was doing; looking at the alarms behind him made the truth all too clear. No one belonged there, and no one was having a good time.
In that moment, I saw how people disappear during incarceration — not all at once, but slowly, quietly, behind rusted cell bars and daily searches. During nearly 24-hour solitary confinement. Jails and prisons can strip away layers of humanity, leaving bare the remnants of who someone once was.
This painting is about that day. The weight of it. The strangeness of loving someone you barely recognize. And of barely recognizing someone you love. The ache of seeing them try to protect you from their hardships. No matter what they do, they can never fully cover it up.
I painted the glass thick, reflective and cold, juxtaposing it against a sterile background that echoed the emptiness of the visit. Yet in his face, I infused warmth, aiming to preserve the essence of the brother I know and love. Despite the changes, despite the distance, he remains a part of me. This piece is not just a portrait. It’s mourning. A love letter. A witness. An attempt to hold on to something that feels like it’s slipping away.
Editor’s Note: This artwork inspired Zoe MacDonald’s upcoming exhibition. It marks the beginning of a larger project examining incarceration and its effects on loved ones. Through visual art mediums, writings and interviews with family members of incarcerated people, MacDonald hopes to “create an environment of discovery, curiosity and empathy for intimate experiences of incarceration, from both sides of the glass.” The exhibition opens to the public with a reception, 5 to 7 p.m. Jan. 14 in the Helen Lindhurst Gallery in Watt Hall on the campus of University of Southern California, in Los Angeles.
MacDonald’s brother is now out on parole in Wisconsin.
