Your browser window currently does not have enough height, or is zoomed in too far to view our website content correctly. Once the window reaches the minimum required height or zoom percentage, the content will display automatically.
Alternatively, you can learn more via the links below.
One of the things I noticed as I entered my grimy first cell in jail was that there were no glass mirrors on the walls.
I quickly found out that glass mirrors are banned in jail; no doubt because glass can be easily smashed, shattered and used as a weapon. Assaults are commonplace, and the guy with the sharpest weapon usually wins the fight. It pays to be vigilant; perhaps this is also why cells also have no wall clocks.
The mirrors in jail are mirrors in name only. They are impenetrable flat sheets of polished stainless steel, or polycarbonate, screwed at the edges into the surrounding concrete wall. They are usually placed on the wall just above the wash basin where they share space with multicoloured graffiti.
A misty film that cannot be wiped away covers the metallic slab, and inmates therefore can’t see their facial details clearly. No matter how close you get to the mirror, the finer details of our faces remain blurred. The “protective reflection” covering the cold, bare metal renders us faceless.
Areas of the steel sheets are often stained, rusted or warped, making one’s face also appear distorted. One must comb one’s hair from memory. But, after all, this is jail, and who will care if one’s scalp part is crooked? In this place, everything is crooked.
A mirror is often the ultimate tool contributing to our feelings of self-worth. When we look into the mirror, we suddenly have nowhere to hide. We are met with a reflection, not only of our physical appearance, but also of all the thoughts and feelings we have about ourselves.
Do we like what we see, or do we see only our flaws? Can we look ourselves in the eye without wincing, or do we need to look away quickly because of our guilt and shame?
Perhaps it’s a good thing we can’t see ourselves clearly. Maybe it’s a small mercy not to see ourselves as we really are in this squalor. That way, we remain oblivious to our vacant looks, frowns and increasingly lined faces. We are only vaguely aware of our silvering hair, sunken eye sockets and roughly shaven faces. Maybe it’s kinder not to be confronted with the fear, the sorrow, the uncertainty, and the disillusionment that fills our eyes.
We become invisible to ourselves, just as we’re told by the guards to become invisible to each other. We’re likely to give up looking into mirrors here in jail, trying to find ourselves.
We can’t recognise who we are any longer or what we’ve become. Instead, we are left only with the memories of who we’d once been, and how we once appeared to a world that now rejects us.
And yet, despite this personal ambiguity, it is ironic that being in prison enables some of us to see ourselves in a different light. We see more clearly than we’ve ever seen before. We see our pride, our selfishness, our anger and our nakedness.
Although most of us can’t make out what’s dimly reflected before us in our stainless steel mirrors, some of us can still look inward to see clearly the things that really matter. Some of us, previously blind to our shortcomings, have had our sight restored. Maybe we can do without glass mirrors, after all.
Faceless, perhaps, but on the inside, newly awoken.
One of the things I noticed as I entered my grimy first cell in jail was that there were no glass mirrors on the walls.
I quickly found out that glass mirrors are banned in jail; no doubt because glass can be easily smashed, shattered and used as a weapon. Assaults are commonplace, and the guy with the sharpest weapon usually wins the fight. It pays to be vigilant; perhaps this is also why cells also have no wall clocks.
The mirrors in jail are mirrors in name only. They are impenetrable flat sheets of polished stainless steel, or polycarbonate, screwed at the edges into the surrounding concrete wall. They are usually placed on the wall just above the wash basin where they share space with multicoloured graffiti.
A misty film that cannot be wiped away covers the metallic slab, and inmates therefore can’t see their facial details clearly. No matter how close you get to the mirror, the finer details of our faces remain blurred. The “protective reflection” covering the cold, bare metal renders us faceless.
Areas of the steel sheets are often stained, rusted or warped, making one’s face also appear distorted. One must comb one’s hair from memory. But, after all, this is jail, and who will care if one’s scalp part is crooked? In this place, everything is crooked.
A mirror is often the ultimate tool contributing to our feelings of self-worth. When we look into the mirror, we suddenly have nowhere to hide. We are met with a reflection, not only of our physical appearance, but also of all the thoughts and feelings we have about ourselves.
Do we like what we see, or do we see only our flaws? Can we look ourselves in the eye without wincing, or do we need to look away quickly because of our guilt and shame?
Perhaps it’s a good thing we can’t see ourselves clearly. Maybe it’s a small mercy not to see ourselves as we really are in this squalor. That way, we remain oblivious to our vacant looks, frowns and increasingly lined faces. We are only vaguely aware of our silvering hair, sunken eye sockets and roughly shaven faces. Maybe it’s kinder not to be confronted with the fear, the sorrow, the uncertainty, and the disillusionment that fills our eyes.
We become invisible to ourselves, just as we’re told by the guards to become invisible to each other. We’re likely to give up looking into mirrors here in jail, trying to find ourselves.
We can’t recognise who we are any longer or what we’ve become. Instead, we are left only with the memories of who we’d once been, and how we once appeared to a world that now rejects us.
And yet, despite this personal ambiguity, it is ironic that being in prison enables some of us to see ourselves in a different light. We see more clearly than we’ve ever seen before. We see our pride, our selfishness, our anger and our nakedness.
Although most of us can’t make out what’s dimly reflected before us in our stainless steel mirrors, some of us can still look inward to see clearly the things that really matter. Some of us, previously blind to our shortcomings, have had our sight restored. Maybe we can do without glass mirrors, after all.
Faceless, perhaps, but on the inside, newly awoken.
As a young person, I admired my grandfather so much that I feared him. He is the kind of man that commands respect; a military man who doesn’t put up with any funny business. With Grandad, you need to try your damned hardest, always. And after you do that, you should have another go. Squeeze the last drop out of that lemon. Wedge it into your mouth and suck it. Grate every last bit off the rind.
When I was arrested, I had a job, a family, friends. When they sent me to jail, I lost it all. Because that’s the true punishment. You lose your life. You break the law, so you are destroyed.
Last Sunday night I watched a movie called Patch Adams. It’s a comedy about a man called Patch Adams, played by Robin Williams, and his journey through medical school and becoming a doctor. He decides to become a doctor after his own experience in a mental hospital. He was depressed and experiencing suicidal thoughts, but found recovery through humour and connections with other patients, rather than through traditional medical interventions. He quickly left the hospital to pursue his dreams of becoming a doctor and develop his different humour-based approach to medicine.
When Adams was a student, his teachers and fellow students thought he was just a clown and that jokes could not change a patient’s situation. But by the end of the movie, he made medical breakthroughs with his patients, especially those who were dying. Adams used happiness to treat their grief, and became a great doctor who excelled in treating physical illness through caring about their inner world.
Paolo Lobosco is of Aboriginal and Italian descent, with strong ties to the Ngarrindjeri people of the Point McLeay Mission, which they call Raukkan. Paolo is a valuable member of his community, particularly through his involvement with cue sports, such as 8-ball, the discipline of pool played with sixteen billiard balls. While he has been imprisoned on three separate occasions, 8-ball has given Paolo the focus and sense of community to move forward on the right path.
About Time Media acknowledges the traditional owners of the lands across Australia and particularly acknowledges the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin nation, traditional owners of the land on which About Time Media is based.
We acknowledge the continuing impacts of the criminal legal system on First Nations people, including disproportionate rates of incarceration and deaths in custody, which remain a national shame.
We pay deep respect to Elders past and present, and all families of those who have lost loved ones in prison.
© About Time Media Ltd.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Suspendisse varius enim in eros elementum tristique. Duis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere. uis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere.