Art in Other Places: Artists at Work in America’s Community and Social Institutions

Chapter 8

Arts-in-Corrections: Art from California Prisons

June Third

It is my Thirtieth June
one of the thirds of the many Junes of my life
being spent in a smothering cocoon
Of memory shrouded poems and
love letters tossed in a dust filled
cardboard box beneath my bed
the tight curls of my head hassled
me with non-cooperation
while the sun shone its way
Into the lacework of a sweet dream
I couldn’t remember while combing my hair
Years don’t flush down the toilet like
stray strands left in the cheap plastic teeth
they form haunting lines in the reflection
faced with a razor scraping black gray stubble
displaying the nicks and cuts of too many
June days wasted spent foolishly alone–

G. Diamond Woods III

PUSHING AND PULLING

"The meeting took place in the Directors’ Conference Room at the Department of Corrections.… For the program to survive and grow beyond its demonstrated success at Vacaville, we had to have a commitment of economic support from the Department of Corrections. I began by talking about the positive results we had had at the [Vacaville] Medical Facility and the possibility of permanent art programming at Corrections. [Deputy Director] Mr. Warner said, ‘No, we can’t make a place for arts programming in the Corrections budget.’ [Senator] Henry Mello said, in a very challenging way…and continued in that rather demanding way of his, ‘It’s a good program and Corrections is not known for its good programming. I think you should make a place for excellent programs of this kind.’ Not much more was said after Mello’s comment, but I drove home on a cloud. I knew in my heart that…eventually there would be an Arts-In-Corrections Program."

Eloise Smith

Eloise Smith’s 1978 meeting with Senator Henry Mello, Director Jerry Enomoto and Deputy Director George Warner of the California Department of Corrections, and Chairman Peter Coyote of the California Arts Council lasted only about 15 minutes. But behind it were two years’ work nurturing inspiration and beauty in a place that meant despair and drab routine for so many of its inhabitants: the California Medical Canter at Vacaville. Still to come were the 10 years of bureaucratic pushing and pulling, unlikely alliances, jockeying for funds and, most important, a statewide creative partnership between two people at the opposite ends of freedom: the artist and the inmate.

Smith says that the seeds for the successful experiment were planted in 1975, when, as director of the newly formed California Arts Council, she spoke to then Governor Jerry Brown about the CAC’s mission. "He stated that it should ‘affect other state agencies.’ …I asked at that time if he wanted the prison system included, and he said yes."

With this in mind, Smith traveled up and down the state, compiling a summary of arts activity throughout California. Included in her research were visits to the state prisons at Soledad and Vacaville. The Governor received her position paper on the subject, which "indicated that nothing of a (artistically) serious nature was going on in the prisons, and that…there was a wonderful opportunity to start programming through Arts Council grants." The governor agreed.

After Eloise Smith left the California Arts Council, the effort to offer artistic outlets to prisoners became two-pronged. The CAC established its Artists in Social Institutions Program in 1976, distributing grants for individuals and organizations to plan and carry out arts programs in various kinds of institutions, including prisons. At the same time, Smith and her husband, writer and historian Page Smith, designed a three-year pilot Prison Arts Project for the Vacaville facility. Their idea was simple: a small staff of professional artists, assisted by qualified inmate aides, would give weekly three-hour workshops in poetry, ceramics, painting, drawing, leatherwork, and jewelry making. The proposal provided concrete descriptions of workshops, personnel and administration. It also included a philosophical framework–a reason why–that strengthened the project then and in its later evolutions.

"To provide an opportunity where a man can gain the satisfaction of creation rather than destruction, earn the respect of his fellows, and gain recognition and appreciation from family and outsiders,…provide the professional artist as a model of creative self-discipline, and show the making of art as work which demands quality, commitment, and patience…furnish an alternative to idle time, gambling, dope, and other illegalities."

In a way, it was like a scientific experiment. Their hypothesis, influenced by M.C. Richard’s book, Centering, was that an inmate could improve his self-esteem, and thus his behavior, by replacing his lost physical freedom with an inner freedom gained through the discipline and rewards of art. This hypothesis would be tested in Vacaville and, later, in institutions up and down the state.

Through their non-profit organization, the William James Association, the Smiths submitted applications for grants from the California Arts Council’s new program, the San Francisco Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Law Enforcement Assistance Administration. Their proposals were met with enthusiastic responses. First-year funding for the Prison Arts Project, which began in September of 1977, totaled $70,000. The San Francisco Foundation made a conditional commitment for an additional $81,000 for years two and three.

ARTISTS AT VACAVILLE

Eloise Smith spent much of the summer of 1977 searching for an artist with "toughness" to coordinate the Vacaville program and to teach as well. In late August, she found Verne Stanford, a ceramist who had recently returned from a two-year stint as a resident artist in an Alaskan Eskimo village. After visiting the institution and being interviewed by the Smiths and members of the inmate art guild, Stanford was offered a position as the director of the Prison Arts Project. A few weeks later Stanford walked through the gates of Vacaville to begin work.

With Stanford came some outstanding artists in varying disciplines; some of the most popular classes were given by visiting writers. Many of the inmates had been writing on their own, but they had never received any instruction or encouragement. Poets like Gary Snyder, Jim Hall, and Bill Everson (who goes by the name of Brother Antonitus) helped the inmates strengthen their writing techniques while freeing their creative expression. Stanford, who has a penchant for symbolic confrontation, remembers the day that Brother Antonitus first walked down Vacaville’s "mainline" corridor:

"Bill entered the hallway wearing flowing white robes, with hair down to his waist and a big necklace of bear claws. He walked in long strides while his leather sandals made a flapping sound that caught everybody’s attention. He had rather severe palsy, so one arm was shaking, while under the other he carried a bulging stack of worn journals and notebooks and pencils. [He was] flanked on either side by his contingent of spit-polished guards."

Brother Antonitus began by asking the gathered inmate poets to read their work. The poems were powerful and intense but he knew that the poets’ egos were fragile. His feedback was gentle and encouraging. They were dealing with cosmic issues–love, bitterness, surrender. Brother Antonitus showed them how to refine their works: "Just tell me about love or giving with the smallest thought you have, in your cell, late at night. Give me the smallest thought that makes the biggest point."

DRIP

DRIP
     DRIP
MY LEAKING FAUCET IN NEED OF REPAIR
DRIP…DRIP…DRIP…
I’LL JUST (DRIP) LAY HERE A (DRIP) FEW MOMENTS
     MORE
DRIP…DRIP…DRIP…
MAYBE IT WILL (DRIP) DISAPPEAR
DRIP…DRIP…DRIP…DRIP…DRIP

      D-R-I-P
NO SWEET SLEEP TONIGHT
WITH THIS FAUCET DRIPPING AT MY EAR
DRIP…DRIP…DRIP…DRIP
I GOT TO RISE
     DRIP…DRIP…DRIP…
TO FIX MY FAUCET’S TEARS
DRIP…DRIP…
     GUARD…GUARD
I’VE GOT A LEAKING FAUCET I CAN’T BEAR
DRIP…DRIP…SO GET THE PLUMBER DOWN HERE
     ON 2ND TIER
DRIP, DRIP, DRIP
WHAT’S THAT YOU SAY?
DRIP…DRIP…DRIP…
THE PLUMBER ESCAPED?
DRIP…DRIP…DRIP…
THROUGH THE LOWER SEWAGE DRAIN GRATE
OH (DRIP) WELL (DRIP)
DRIP…DRIP…DRIP…

George Billingslea

"Most of our students were pretty rough characters. Guys with histories of broken families, parents who beat them, failed at education, failed in jobs, failed at marriage, even failed at crime…But through what I was able to teach them in my ceramics class, they began to get it that it was their own uniqueness that was important. By dwelling on that, and valuing that…they began to calm down.…

"I told them that their ideas were more important than their technique, and that they were going to have to work hard at both if they ever wanted to be any good.…After a while, there wasn’t anybody in there killing time, which is pretty strange for prison. Everybody wanted to be there. Everybody took care of the program. They protected it with their behavior."

Verne Stanford

ARTS-IN-CORRECTIONS

The pilot Prison Arts Program had won over a tough audience; inmates and administrators alike expressed their support, and its successes were gaining the support of some influential people. With Senator Mello’s backing, Eloise Smith felt that the establishment of a permanent arts program in the Department of Corrections was within reach. Despite Corrections’ initial rejection of Smith’s expansion proposal, Senator Mello introduced a $400,000 augmentation to their annual budget, to be used specifically for arts programming, during the 1980/1981 legislative budget hearings. When Governor Jerry Brown signed the final 1980/1981 State budget, the $500 million Department of Corrections appropriation included the full $400,000 to pay for an arts program with a program manager and six full-time civil service artist/facilitators.

In July of 1981, after a short stint with the California Arts Council as the state arts agency’s correctional liaison, Verne Stanford accepted an appointment as Special Consultant to the Department of Corrections.

His mission was to design and carry out the Department of Corrections’ new arts program. Knowing that it would be essential to "make friends" within the bureaucracy for this "wacko program," he began to walk the corridors of Corrections’ Central Office, introducing himself and the arts program to key administrative staff. He studied the history and concerns of the department, determined to design a program that fit.

That autumn, Stanford prepared to visit the 12 state prisons to sell the wardens on the program. It was not an easy job. Yet the positive example of the Vacaville program showed that arts activities could reduce tension and violence associated with inmate idleness. And since the dollars came from the department’s appropriation, it could be done without making a significant impact on the separate institutions’ budgets. Stanford was able to find some supporters in the prisons, especially among the staff at Vacaville and at the Correctional Training Facility at Soledad, the California Institution for Women at Norco, and San Quentin, all of which had previously sponsored resident artists on an individual basis. After weeks of travel and promotion, Stanford gained approval to start programs at these four sites, as well as at two more at the California Men’s Colony at San Luis Obispo and the California Institution for Men at Chino.

The search for six artist/facilitators to work in the prisons brought new challenges. The list of necessary characteristics in an ideal candidate ranged from proven creative talent with an established body of work to extraordinary patience and organizational skills. Plus, he or she had to be willing to work under stressful conditions in a potentially hostile environment.

Stanford enlisted the help of the William James Association to find the best candidates in the smallest amount of time. He and Eloise Smith mounted a statewide call for artists, traveling to each program site to interview local artists and art organizations. They found that in spite of the intimidating nature of the job, many artists welcomed the challenge of working with the inmates, especially since it offered the rare prospect of regular artistic employment with reasonable pay.

The six artist/facilitators who were chosen became the first resident artists to be hired into California’s civil service system. Painter/muralist Dick Crispo was assigned to CTF Soledad where earlier, as a California Arts Council resident artist, he and a crew of inmates had painted the world’s longest indoor mural along the walls of the institution’s quarter-mile mainline corridor. Ceramist Jerry Meek, who had succeeded Stanford at the Vacaville site, was picked to continue there. Kim Kaufman and Tom Skelly, both alumni of the Claremont College graduate program in painting, started up the programs at the California Institution for Women at Norco and California Institution for Men at Chino. The programs at San Luis Obispo and San Quentin were established by ceramists John Barrett and Gail Caulfield.

As soon as the artist/facilitators were in place, the design and manning of the workshops began. Each facility had different capacities and limitations, but Stanford and his staff soon found a general approach that worked in most situations: "Hire the best possible artists and, after a thorough orientation, give them their heads."

By November of 1981, 18 artists in the visual, performing and literary arts had been interviewed, cleared, and oriented and were working under the auspices of the Arts-In-Corrections program. Even some of the prisons without artist/facilitators had hired individual artists. As enthusiasm for the programs spread, the impetus for creating new and different workshops and projects shifted from the Central Office to the prisons themselves. Still, artist/facilitator Jerry Meek’s struggle for a toehold at Vacaville was typical of the problems that the artists faced.

"The acquisition and holding of personnel and space determined who had the power in the institution…After a while it got pretty ugly…because I was a ‘fish,’ a new guy, I’d make a mistake every once in a while. As soon as this happened, somebody would go off and whisper in the administrator’s ear that I was screwing up…they were banking on me hanging myself with some major mistake. You know, waiting for me to put my finger in a light socket so I would light up and draw attention to myself and get kicked out…I made sure I knew what I was doing, and if I was at all unsure, I’d ask. It was a hard lesson…but I learned."

Similar resistance to the program was encountered by all of the six new Arts Program Coordinators. In different ways, each confronted various correctional and administrative rights of passage during their first few months. It was essential, though, for each of them to learn to distinguish between real obstruction and everyday bureaucratic unresponsiveness. Patience, persistence, and a few showdowns eventually gave them the experience they needed to advocate effectively for their programs and survive the experience. Their hard work and commitment also earned them the respect of many who had originally opposed the program. Slowly, "art" and "artist" worked their way into the vocabulary of the California prison system and one-by-one the Arts-In-Corrections artist/facilitators graduated from the ranks of the lowly fish.

DIGGING IN

In spite of the skeptics, demand for workshops and projects swelled. Verne Stanford worked long hours finding new artists, researching and purchasing massive orders of supplies and equipment, negotiating program space, keeping up with bureaucratic paperwork, keeping the legislature and media informed and acting as the artist/facilitator for the six institutions who had not been assigned Arts-In-Corrections staff earlier.

In February 1982, I was hired to assist Stanford to administer the program. Like most new Arts-In-Corrections staff members, I had never stepped inside a prison. I, too, was a fish. However, having worked as the coordinator of the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts Commission’s Community Artists Program, I had spent the previous two years placing resident artists in schools, libraries, and other community sites using federal funding. I knew my "bureaucratese" and, as a professional musician, I knew the arts side of the job, too.

At this point, Verne Stanford decided that his impatience with the bureaucracy and his yearning to "turn back into an artist" had grown enough that he should resign. He felt that he had shepherded the program through its difficult beginnings and that he could now leave it in my hands.

I began my tenure as Arts Program Administrator the same way as Verne Stanford had when he was first hired as consultant: meeting with people, wading through paperwork and making a tour of the state prisons. For months, I argued for a contract that specified the hiring of artists based on subjective artistic criteria. I spent hours fielding inquiries from interested artists. Eventually I mastered the state’s contracting procedures and facilitated the writing of contracts with the William James Association (in Northern California) and UCLA Artsreach (in Southern California) to find and pay workshop artists for Art-In-Corrections projects.

However, the grind of debate and paperwork was more than balanced out by the satisfaction I felt upon visiting the prisons for the first time. Perhaps the three weeks I spent observing and participating in classes at Soledad were the most inspiring; they had established an arts community in one of the largest and toughest prisons in America. Dick Crispo’s mural crews were designing and painting away. There were two or three poetry classes. Musician Jack Bowers had all sorts of bands playing wherever they could find a place to practice. One group even used the gym bathroom as a studio. Even the staff was excited. Deputy Superintendent Alan Stagner literally took me by the arm and pulled me down to the Education Wing to show off "my art program."

We were all learning that these efforts added new dimensions to our own lives as well as those of the inmates. Artist Jonathan Borofsky expressed this feeling:

"Now you might wonder why I chose to go into prisons to talk to these people. What does it have to do with art? Why talk to them at all? They have robbed and killed and they create fear in our lives. Well, we are learning to be free. Not only can we learn from those who claim enlightened states of mind, but from those who are less free than ourselves."

The program’s early successes seemed to prove its founders correct; at every site, would-be students and artists outnumbered class spaces and the dropout rate was far lower than for other voluntary leisure offerings. The inmates were working hard and showing unusual commitment. I came back from my tour, however, knowing that Art-In-Corrections needed to solidify its position through a variety of means. In addition to successfully integrating the outside arts community into the program, we needed to prove ourselves further–to the Department of Corrections, to the legislature, and to the people of California. We had to show them that the program was well run and popular with the institutions, but more importantly, we had to show them how it affected them personally.

Senator Henry Mello’s enthusiasm for the program and his willingness to champion us with his colleagues was the single most important factor in our efforts. His membership on the Senate Rules Committee gave him a key role in approving the appointments of all wardens and superintendents. He made it a point to question every prospective Department of Corrections appointee about his or her position on Arts-In-Corrections.

The Department of Corrections staff was also realizing the difference Arts-In-Corrections could make. The various institutions were reporting back with praise for the workshops and the artists. In 1983, when the legislature mandated an Inmate Work Incentive Program, Arts-In-Corrections was able to help prison officials come up with much-needed job slots for inmates who wished to subtract time from their sentences by working. Muralist Dick Crispo suggested that Soledad hire his advanced painting students to create murals for the institution and the surrounding communities. Within four months, the department had accepted his proposal and had expanded the idea to create over 100 new jobs for inmates to produce public art and beautify their communities. Arts-In-Corrections could now offer inmates a rare opportunity to make a visible contribution to society.

MAKING THE CASE

As the program began to grow and attract increasing attention, it was clear that Arts-In-Corrections needed more than good word-of-mouth to survive. In 1982 I began a series of discussions with Ellen Davidson, the director of the William James Association, about how we could gather hard evidence of the program’s benefits and cost effectiveness. We determined to find an independent researcher to conduct an objective evaluation of the benefits of this program.

The William James Association hired Dr. Lawrence Brewster, a sociology professor from California State University at San Jose, who had had previous successes designing research projects sensitive to both statistical and anecdotal evidence. He agreed to undertake a cost benefit analysis of the Art-In-Corrections program at four northern California institutions that represented the various custody levels and conditions under which the program operated. With the help of the Department of Corrections Research Unit and some members of a graduate research seminar, Brewster began reviewing participant records, program activities, and other documents in order to compare the incidence and cost of disruptive inmate behavior before and during participation in the arts program. He also focused on the value of the institutional and community service artworks produced under Arts-In-Corrections auspices.

In 1983 Brewster published the results of his study. It showed that in the four institutions reviewed, Arts-In-Corrections produced $228,522 in measurable benefits as compared with a cost to the department of $135,885. He also found reduced incident rates of 75 percent to 81 percent among inmates who had participated in the program. No one in the program believed that the results of the study brought instant credibility or wished to rely entirely on the research to justify the program, but it was exciting to gain such a strong validation of our initial theories and subsequent experiences. The arts projects were more than an inmate "goody;" they could make a positive contribution to the Department of Corrections and to the people of California.

COMING OUT

Many people believe that artists are flaky, public arts projects are a waste of taxpayers’ money, and works of public art are of the "hey, my kid can draw a better picture than that" caliber. In view of this, we had thought it wise not to advertise Arts-In-Corrections’ successes until it had solid support within the department and the legislature and a few years of productive programming behind it. In the spring of 1983, buoyed by the finding of the Brewster study and secure in the support of legislators and departmental staff, we entered a new stage.

We had survived by keeping a low profile. Now we considered presenting the program for public scrutiny. If we courted public acceptance and were rejected, it could seriously damage the program’s hard-earned credibility. On the other hand, it was inevitable that Arts-In-Corrections would attract increased interest. We felt it was worth the risk. We decided to produce an art show that would present the program on our own terms. We also felt an obligation, as artists, to give the inmates’ powerful, hard-earned artworks a proper showing.

Arts-In-Corrections, The William James Association, and Artsreach agreed to co-sponsor a juried statewide visual art exhibition of works from prison. It was slated for the spring of 1984. The California Arts Council, Joint Legislative Committee for the Arts, and L.A. Theater Works later joined as additional sponsors. Coordinator Carol Tatro and curator Katya Williamson mobilized artists and staffers and, in just five months, over 600 two- and three-dimensional entries were judged. In all, 120 works were selected, prepared for exhibit, transported, catalogued, and hung in the halls of California’s Capitol building.

"Art from California Prisons" was an unqualified success. During its 45-day run, over 50,000 people saw the show and many more learned about the program through media reports or by reading the 20-page catalogue that accompanied the show. The quality of the artworks was the program’s best advertisement, however. The skill and vision revealed by the paintings, drawings, sculptures, and craftwork softened cynics and earned the program many new supporters.

On the opening day of the exhibition, the Joint Legislative Committee on the Arts held a hearing on the subject of art in social institutions. Here and at the press conference that followed, the results of the Brewster report were presented and discussed. Senator Mello convened the meeting with these remarks:

"For members of our society who are confined physically or emotionally, access to the creative process through the arts provides a vital link to self-expression and self-esteem; to productivity and potency. The need for art is most evident when participation in other activities in life are limited. A senior citizen who faces an array of special needs and who is facing the loss of productivity he enjoyed earlier in life can be greatly impacted by an arts program. Today we want to examine those State programs which bring art to the institutionalized populations. We hope to develop a better understanding of how the arts work in the institutions, the future of such programs, and steps the Legislature might take to provide improved services."

EXPANSION

In the winter of 1984, Senator Mello began a campaign to place artist/facilitators at more Department of Corrections facilities. He started by proposing a $1 million increase of the Arts-In-Corrections budget. In ensuing negotiations, Senator Mello made it clear that the program was important enough for him to use his position on the Senate Rules Committee as leverage. This was of particular significance to the department because the health of a recently initiated prison construction program depended upon the cooperation of the senator and his colleagues. After months of meetings, memos, and telephone calls, Arts-In-Corrections received a $375,000 budget increase. Part of the package were three new artist/facilitator positions and a commitment by the department to fund the establishment of an arts program at each of 10 new prisons as they were completed.

The go-ahead for expansion was a major milestone for the program. It was as though we had been holding our breath for three years. We knew that ours was an excellent program, but the department had grown dramatically and we had not expanded with it. With the addition of the three new civil service positions and new prison tie-in, our future was as solid as we could ever expect it to be. We had room to breathe.

RESULTS

During the 1988/1989 fiscal year, 43,000 hours of arts instruction were provided to 8,019 inmates by 279 professional artists sponsored by Arts-In-Corrections in 18 institutions. Prisoners were learning painting, modern dance, Native American basketry, ensemble jazz, video production, juggling, papermaking, improvisational acting, poetry, songwriting, raku ceramics and 104 other creative disciplines. Inmates and outside professionals presented over 200 music, dance, and theater performances to a total audience of 32,119. Included were concerts or lectures by the Kronos String Quartet, B. B. King, Sarah Elgart Dance Company, Lorren Hollander, Carlos Fuentes, Jonathan Borofsky, and Robert Bly. Arts-In-Corrections writing programs produced 22 chapbooks and anthologies, and Artswork crews completed 56 murals and three sculptures for their institutions and surrounding communities. Works of art created by inmates and their instructors were exhibited in 21 California cities. Nine of these presentations were a part of the critically acclaimed traveling exhibition "Light from Another Country."

In August of 1987, Governor George Deukmajian appointed James Rowland as the new director of the Department of Corrections. Having seen the program’s products and heard its plans for the future, Director Rowland expressed his support:

"The mastery of arts skills requires patience, self-discipline, and long term commitment. These attributes are basic to an inmate’s ability to function responsibly upon release.…Through programs such as Arts-In-Corrections we have a greater chance of making a productive citizen out of a probable repeat offender. Salvaging one felon means one more person who will commit no crimes, with no future victims and no future economic loss."

Statistics bear out this viewpoint. In 1987, over 50,000 inmates were paroled or released back into California communities. These re-entered citizens spent an average of 3.5 years in California prisons at an average cost of $19,452 per year. Within 24 months of their release from prison, over 58 percent were returned to prison for committing a crime or violating the terms of their parole. A 1987 study showed that rate of return reduced by 51 percent for parolees who had participated in Arts-In-Corrections programs for at least six months while in prison. And the cost of the program? In 1986, Arts-In-Corrections spent approximately $19.21 for each hour of professional instruction it provided to an average class of 13 inmates.

These figures gain even more significance when we look at the future of California’s prisons. In January 1989, the Department of Corrections housed 76,171 inmates in 18 prisons. By 1992, there will be a projected 120,000 prisoners vying for space in overcrowded increasingly overcrowded facilities. It is estimated that the Arts-In-Corrections budget will grow from its 1988/89 level of $1.86 million to approximately $2.8 million in 1992–less than one tenth of one percent of the Department of Corrections’ annual budget.

Arts-In-Corrections has come a long way since Eloise Smith’s first visit to Vacaville. In 10 years, it has grown from a tiny pilot program in one prison to one of the largest institutional arts programs in the world.

Thousands of prisoners and parolees can now think of themselves as something other than a con, a thief, or an illiterate. Claude Finn, a one-time Corrections Assistant Director, perceives a new vocabulary emerging among inmate artists. He says, "They are redefining themselves and their attitudes. Words like ‘work,’ ‘commitment,’ ‘student,’ ‘beauty,’ and even ‘time’ have taken on new meanings for them." There is now a place in prison where, in the words of one inmate, "You could forget where you were…where the blacks and browns and the whites put their ‘shanks’ aside and not mess it up for a change."

Sunset

Dan slaved hunchback on his knees, probed
the trowel, pried out a weed’s intrusion,
admired his garden’s order, rushed
to water.
The only emotion he understood was gratitude;
his expression of love, perfection.
He never learned
love is lifestyle of forgiveness
not a reward for things done correctly.

William K. Murphy