Travis “Leo” Leonard recently spent 30 hours tattooing an elaborate Japanese-inspired artwork on a customer at No Joke Tattoo Studios in White Bear Lake.
The large tattoo, done mostly in black, fills most of his customer’s back. It features two skulls, a spiked mace and the Japanese characters for “balance” written in red.
Travis Leonard shows a cellphone photo of a tattoo he is working on. (John Autey / Pioneer Press)
Leonard, 28, said the process took almost two days. “We took one four-hour nap, and that was it,” he said. “It was impressive for me, but, honestly, it was more impressive for him because that’s very painful. It’s spine, ribs, lower back. He’s a skinny guy, too. I couldn’t sit for a 30-hour back piece, that’s for sure. This guy is tough.”
Leonard became a licensed tattoo artist while serving time at the Minnesota Correctional Facility-Stillwater in Bayport. He and fellow inmate Corey Schuck, 41, were part of a Minnesota Department of Corrections tattoo pilot program designed to reduce the spread of bloodborne diseases and to provide inmates with work experience.
Both men are now out of prison and working at No Joke Tattoo Studios.
“It shows change is possible for guys like us,” said Schuck, who got out two months ago. “Us getting into art is changing our whole world, our whole life. We can do what we love to do.”
Talents honed in prison
Corey Schuck, an artist at No Joke Tattoo Studios in White Bear Lake, talks about the opportunity he’s been given from owner Chris Calvillo on Friday, Nov. 7, 2025. (John Autey / Pioneer Press)
Each of the men has his own station, and their artwork hangs on the walls of the shop.
Schuck’s station includes drawings he’s made of a lion, a bald eagle, a loon, a cheetah, the Grim Reaper and a Shrek-like character, which he calls “Schruck.” Like Schuck, it’s missing a front tooth.
“I’m really comfortable here,” Schuck said. “I’m all set. I’ve got a lot of supplies, good lighting. It’s a really great space.”
Leonard’s station, just across the room, is filled with his artwork, a talent he discovered and honed while at Stillwater.
“I was writing letters to my wife and daughter, and I started drawing in them and writing poems,” Leonard said. “I just started really enjoying drawing. It’s cool to create something out of nothing, especially in an environment where your creativity is kind of constrained — or at least your body is constrained. I kept drawing every single day, and I kept seeing progress, and then I started getting really addicted to that progress.”
Leonard, released in June, heard about the job at No Joke from Schuck, he said.
“It’s nice being able to work with my brother again because we worked well together in the program,” he said. “It kind of just feels like home, working with him again. ”
First graduates of program
Tattoo instructor Justin Jimenez, center, gives guidance to inmates Corey Schuck, left, and Travis Leonard during a class in the Stillwater prison tattoo shop on May 7, 2024. Schuck and Leonard earned their tattoo licenses in prison, were released and now work at a studio in White Bear Lake. (John Autey / Pioneer Press)
Leonard and Schuck were among the first four tattoo artists in the state to receive a license while incarcerated. The men were picked to participate in the program based on their artistic talent and temperament.
Two other inmates, who remain incarcerated, also have received their licenses, said Shannon Loehrke, the DOC’s director of communications.
Because Leonard and Schuck have both been released, applications are being accepted for new apprentices, she said.
DOC officials worked for about two years to get the program, which launched in 2024, up and running. It was one of the first prison tattoo programs in the country.
More than 300 inmates have been tattooed at the prison’s tattoo shop, which is located in a back room in the prison’s laundry area. Each tattoo session costs $25 and inmates must pay for their own tattoos — and have a record of good behavior for six months prior.
The program was developed to reduce health risks associated with unregulated tattooing, particularly the transmission of hepatitis C, which has long been an issue in prisons, said DOC Commissioner Paul Schnell, who noted that the Stillwater prison has reported a significant decline in infections since the program started.
In 2024, there were 138 cases of hepatitis C treated at the prison. There have been just 66 cases reported so far this year.
“Knowing that we had a long and historic problem with unregulated tattooing and unhealthy and unsafe tattooing, this just made a ton of sense to try to reduce those numbers,” he said. “Hepatitis is a real issue that we have, and the state has an obligation to treat it, and for people who have it in prison, it’s very costly. When you piece all this together, it makes good business sense.”
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The initiative also provides participants with marketable job skills that can be used to help inmates find lawful employment upon their release, he said.
“Just look at the popularity of tattoos today,” said Schnell, who said he is considering getting his first tattoo — on the bottom of his right forearm — at the prison shop. “One of the things that struck me when I came in early on (at the DOC) was the incredible and immense artistic talent of many of the people who are in prison. This helps these folks succeed when they get back out into the community, and I have no doubt that based on the talent of these folks, that they’re going to do well when they go out and work in these shops.”
In order to become licensed tattoo artists, Leonard and Schuck had to work with a mentor who’s been licensed for at least two years and to complete 200 hours of actual procedure time.
Once the 200 hours were completed, the men received their licensure through the Minnesota Department of Health. They can now work anywhere within the state of Minnesota.
‘Benefits everybody’
Plans call for the program to remain at Stillwater until the prison closes in 2029. Eventually, it will move to another facility, Schnell said, and the program may be expanded to other prisons as well.
Chris Calvillo, owner of No Joke Tattoo Studios in White Bear Lake, talks about his mission on Friday, Nov. 7, 2025. Calvillo takes pride in mentoring tattoo artists and providing them a safe and supporting place to grow. Several artists working for him are former inmates. (John Autey / Pioneer Press)
No Joke owner Chris Calvillo, who served time at Stillwater in the early 2000s, said he was thrilled to learn the DOC had launched an in-prison tattoo shop and apprenticeship program there.
“The first time I read about it, I didn’t believe it,” Calvillo said. “I was like, ‘This should have happened a long time ago.’ I wish it was in place when I was going through the DOC. It benefits everybody on every level.”
“It gives (inmates) something to work hard for and to stay out of trouble for — both in prison and when they get out of prison,” he said. “Tattooing really helped keep me on the right path. The guys are thanking me every day for doing this, and I’m like, ‘You know, it works both ways.’ I really, really love being a part of this.”
Six of the nine artists who work at the shop are former inmates, he said.
“We are in the process of everybody changing their life due to art,” he said.
Calvillo opened the shop six years ago, “starting it from zero,” he said. “It’s been my passion ever since I was in prison. I just kept striving for it.”
‘Been there’
From left: Artist Corey Schuck, owner and artist Chris Calvillo, artists Travis “Leo” Leonard, Bryan Penrose and Justin Lonnquist pose for a photo at No Joke Tattoo Studios in White Bear Lake. (John Autey / Pioneer Press)
His first hire, Bryan Penrose, also served time at Stillwater. “I met him and I loved his story on what he was doing because it reflected on my own,” Calvillo said. “He’s a single father, and he wanted to change, and this was the way to do it. I gave him a chance here, and he’s excelled. He’s got his own space here. It just shows how much the guy wants it.”
Penrose, the father of a 4-year-old son, drives each day from Lakeville to White Bear Lake via Belle Plaine, where his son’s child care provider lives. “Unfortunately, we lost his mother to a fentanyl overdose almost three years ago, so it’s just been me and him chucking away,” he said.
Penrose said he plans to continue working at No Joke even after he and his son move to Cokato. “That’s how much I love this place,” he said. “It means that much to me. It’s a good environment. Supportive. It’s like we all have a similar past, and we’re all going the same direction. We all feed off each other and build each other up.”
Back when Justin Lonnquist, 33, was serving time at Stillwater, he and other inmates used guitar string, Green Magic hair grease, a Norelco shaver motor and a Bic pen to tattoo one another, he said.
“We would take the soot and make ink out of it,” he said. “Back then, we all tattooed in the cells, and you’d get in trouble for that stuff, but that was the start of the journey.”
Lonnquist, who got out on Nov. 11, 2011, said he wishes the program had been in existence when he was in prison.
Schuck had the “opportunity to do it the right way and learn from a real professional,” he said. “He came out and was able to get into a shop like this where we get to help each other and learn from each other. It took me years and years and years to get to a good shop with the skills that I have now, whereas he was able to utilize his time, do it the right way and get out with a skill and then not have to go through all of the re-entry problems that I went through. I had to learn the hard way, and I had a bunch of bad habits.”
Recidivism rates will fall as a result of the program, and “that’s good for the community,” Lonnquist said. “Guys will get to rebuild their life in a positive manner. Everybody wins. You get these guys that get out, and they get to have a purpose in life now.”
Calvillo provides art supplies and easels for Lonnquist and the other tattoo artists to continue to hone their art skills. In their free time, they work on portraits of people who have died by suicide to give to grieving families, he said.
Calvillo credits local artist Michael Bellotti, who also served time in prison, for inspiring him. Bellotti uses his artwork to honor people who have died of cancer, he said.
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“Michael has set the path for me,” Calvillo said. “I just mimicked what he was doing, and it just worked out. It got me this far.”
Schuck said he hopes to help other inmates in the future — just as he’s been helped.
“I’m very grateful for everything and everyone around me,” he said. “We understand each other’s struggles and the things we’ve been through. A lot of it was self-inflicted. Live and learn, you know? But we’re helping each other grow, and maybe one day I can help (someone) learn from my mistakes, and he can teach the next man and pass it on.”
Calvillo shakes his head with wonder as he listens to Schuck talk about his plan for paying it forward.
“These guys that are here, coming out, we’re all here for each other, and it works so well,” he said. “People say, ‘You’re blessed. You’re blessed.’ I just want to help, you know, because I’ve been there.”
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