PhotographyInterview'I'll never forget the sound of the door shutting behind me': inside South America's toughest prisons
Sean O'HaganHe’s had a knife held to his throat, been pelted with bags of urine – even kissed behind the bookshelves in the prison library. Photographer Valerio Bispuri on his dangerous 10-year journey through South America’s most notorious jails
Until recently, the 90 men judged the most dangerous convicts in Argentina were held in Pavilion 5 of Mendoza prison. It was a place even the guards did not venture into, instead leaving the inmates’ meals at an agreed spot some distance from the interior. When Italian photographer Valerio Bispuri asked for permission to go into Pavilion 5 with his camera, the authorities agreed only on the condition that he signed a document absolving them of all responsibility for his safety.
“I’ll never forget ... the sound of the door shutting behind me, my trembling legs,” he writes in the prologue to his new book, Encerrados: 10 Years, 74 Prisons. And yet he was welcomed there by the inmates, who were moved by his bravery and curiosity, granting him total freedom to document the inhuman conditions in which they served their long sentences. As he left, they made him promise that he would publish the photographs to publicise their plight. He kept that promise and the subsequent photo essay caused such public outrage that Pavilion 5 was closed soon afterwards.
One senses that Bispuri could have made an entire book from his short time in Mendoza prison, but instead he has chosen to chronicle his long and often arduous journey though 74 South American jails because, as he puts it, “prisons are a mirror of what is happening in a country, from small dramas to the great social and economic crises”. What is mainly happening in South America is a failed war on drugs.
Bispuri gained access to Lurigancho in Lima, Peru, the largest prison in South America, housing over 10,000 inmates. It is, writes the journalist, Robert Saviano, in his introduction to the book, “a city within a city in a country that is currently the major producer of cocaine, and entering it means catching a glimpse into the depths of hell”. Bispuri also spent time in the oldest prison in South America (the Penitenciaría in Santiago de Chile), where prisoners settle disputes with duels using swords fashioned from drainpipes. In Villa Devoto in Buenos Aires, Argentina, he entered the most dangerous prison in South America; and in Los Teques in Caracas, Venezuela, the strangest – every inmate carries a knife or a gun.
A smiling guy, in front of guards, put his arm round my neck, pulled a knife and asked if I was enjoying taking picturesThere, he was shown a wall peppered with bullet holes, the results of a ritual celebration by prisoners that happens every time one of their cartel bosses is released. On his journey, he saw men who fought with knives and, later, played football against each other in the prison yard, and women inmates who practised the tango and did synchronised fitness exercises in their breaks. He was pelted with bags of urine by outraged prisoners who objected to his camera, held captive with a knife at his throat, and had to flee another prison fast after an Italian inmate warned him he was in danger.
“Some prisoners had prepared a syringe of infected blood for me. Another time, a smiling guy came to me and, in front of the guards, put his arm around my neck, pulled out a knife and asked me in a sarcastic way if I was enjoying myself by taking pictures there. But I have to say that there were even more positive episodes that happened to me during those long 10 years photographing in these places.”
Bispuri’s images are steeped in a black and white documentary tradition. “Prison doesn’t have colours,” he says, “there are only grey shades or strong black and whites.” He captures several moments of vulnerability, often shooting faces though smashed cell windows or bars. But there are also hints of the violence and aggression that defines everyday existence in many of these prisons. He shoots men showering in a filthy concrete room and women cooking joyously in a communal kitchen. In one unforgettable image, shot though a gridded security fence, he photographs two young women dancing, hands raised, one perhaps teaching the other a step. Only occasionally are there hints of intrusion as when a female prisoner wakes from sleep in her cell as his shutter clicks.
“I strongly believe that what makes the difference in reportage is the intimacy you can only reach through time spent in a space,” he says, “but you need to balance that with the emotions you’re experiencing.” Was it difficult to shoot in often dark, confined surroundings ? “Yes. Light can be very strong in the yard and almost zero in the corridors and the cells. Then there is the fact that prisoners often came up very close to me or they were moving continuously. I chose to trust my instinct, and I shot the way I was feeling, without looking inside the camera at all.”
There is heartbreak beneath almost every image, not least those of the female inmates with young children. Mothers are allowed to raise them in jail until they reach their fourth birthday, when the youngsters are taken into care. Was it less threatening to work in all-female prisons? “No. Women prisons are as violent as male prisons, sometimes even more so. Women are not allowed to have intimate visits from their partners as men are. I think this is a reason for the aggression in women’s prisons. I did notice that their attitude towards me was more physical: they touched me, they whispered in my ear or they asked me to go to the toilet with them. Once in Colombia one of them invited me to see her cell. She shut the door and she and three other prisoners started to dance and get naked. Another time, in Ecuador, a 24-year-old girl called me into the prison library and suddenly kissed me behind the bookshelves. It was a quick kiss, but very intense. Then she thanked me.”
One of the most affecting photographs is of an empty corridor lined with heavy steel doors with slots, from which a row of arms extends, reaching out as if grasping the air for comfort. It is an image of desperation and despair, made all the more so by the knowledge that most of the younger inmates will be released to return to the life of brutal survivalism that brought them there in the first place.
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