ABSTRACT
The minute I walked in the joint, I could tell this was going to be an experience distinct from any other. Approaching the gate was like approaching the border control of a foreign and forbidden country. I knew that on the other side of this arbitrary line everything would be different: the language, the customs, the currency. And I knew it was not a difference of nations but of jurisdiction. I stood there with my passport in hand and my innocence somehow in question knowing that while many of its citizens were hoping, if not struggling, to get out, there was a real possibility that I would not be allowed in. Any challenge of authority, even the slightest unconscious gesture or uninvited joke, could send me home with all my bags, cameras and anticipation in tow. Even after I gained entrance to this strange land, I felt as if I was always approaching the gate. Every door had a key, every action had a
protocol. Each individual had her own language, each encounter required an exchange of currency and each hour of a workshop, no matter how carefully planned, could be turned inside out if not turned away. It was true. We weren’t doing drama we were doing time. Everything was based on what we had right there, in that moment, in that room. Nothing was guaranteed, only the possibility of time.
