This spring, a poignant exhibition at the Boise Art Museum, titled "The Last Supper," offered a profound meditation on capital punishment through the lens of final meals requested by 1,000 individuals sentenced to death in the United States. Over a span of 22 years, artist Julie Green meticulously rendered each request, translating it into an image painted in cobalt blue on found ceramic plates, subsequently fired to permanence.

Green’s artistic journey into this somber subject began in 1999 while she was teaching at the University of Oklahoma. A local newspaper article detailing the execution of Norman Lee Newsted, a 45-year-old man condemned for murder, caught her eye. The account highlighted a specific, arresting detail: Newsted’s final meal consisted of six tacos, a half-dozen glazed doughnuts, and a Cherry Coke. This detail, so seemingly ordinary yet profoundly final, resonated deeply with Green, prompting her to clip the article and file it away. Six months later, another death penalty story surfaced, this time describing the final moments of Malcolm Rent Johnson, a 41-year-old convicted of rape and murder. Johnson, the 20th person executed in Oklahoma since the reinstatement of capital punishment in the 1970s, had requested a meal comprising three fried chicken thighs, a pile of shrimp, Tater Tots with ketchup, two slices of pecan pie, strawberry ice cream, honey and biscuits, and a Coke.

"So specific. So personal," Green later reflected, explaining how these details humanized death row for her. Viewed from a distance, Green’s vast mosaic of plates, arranged on gallery walls, evoked the delicate charm of antique blue-and-white Dutch pottery. However, upon closer inspection, each plate revealed intimate portraits of yearning and comfort: the simple plea for bologna and cheese sandwiches, the sweet solace of butter pecan ice cream, the comfort of fried green tomatoes, the refreshing tartness of cherry limeade, the nostalgic appeal of apple pie.

The exhibition served as a powerful catalyst for self-reflection, prompting an acknowledgment of how abstractly capital punishment had been perceived for most of the writer’s life, confined to the realms of moral reasoning and philosophical debate. A few years prior, while researching for the book In Light of All Darkness, a closer, more visceral understanding of the death penalty was gained through the lens of a single, devastating crime: the 1993 kidnapping and murder of 12-year-old Polly Klaas. Her killer, Richard Allen Davis, has spent three decades on death row in California, a state that, like 26 others, retains capital punishment but is among only four with active moratoriums on executions. Davis, it is widely expected, will likely die in prison of old age rather than by state-sanctioned execution.

The extensive research into Davis’s case brought a stark awareness of the profound suffering one individual can inflict. In the exhaustive case records, a search was conducted for any trace of humanity in Davis’s past—a small act of kindness, any evidence of love or connection. Tragically, none was found. This led to a profound internal questioning: what would be the emotional response to sitting down with Davis, to potentially feeling empathy? Such a feeling would be deeply unsettling. Conversely, the absence of empathy might be even more disturbing. Could one look another human being in the eye and wish for their death? This hypothetical scenario remains untested, as Davis has not responded to requests for an interview.

Standing before the assembled collection of last suppers, a fundamental realization emerged: food is inextricably linked to love and comfort. In the immediate aftermath of a devastating tornado, the writer witnessed firsthand the restorative power of shared meals, observing church groups cooking in makeshift parking lot kitchens for those who had lost their homes. Similarly, during a family funeral, the instinct to soothe grief manifested as a desire to prepare cherished family recipes, like the elder’s Japanese comfort food, okazu. The act of cooking, in these contexts, represents kindness in action—a small measure of control in the face of overwhelming powerlessness. While the pain of loss may be insurmountable, the fundamental human need to eat persists, a simple yet profound reminder of life.

The Boise exhibition featured two plates specifically representing Idaho. One depicted the prison’s "Daily Special" on November 18, 2011: hot dogs with sauerkraut, baked beans, veggie sticks, and a gelatin studded with fruit, accompanied by a "special treat" from the prison chef—strawberry ice cream. This was the final meal of Paul Rhoades. The second plate documented the meal of Keith Michael Wells, consumed on January 6, 1994, featuring a whole lobster, a rack of prime rib, two pints of black walnut ice cream, a 2-liter bottle of Coca-Cola, and a half-gallon carton of milk.

Approximately nine miles south of the Boise Art Museum, eight men currently reside on Idaho’s death row, with a ninth individual, the sole woman, housed in a correctional facility in Pocatello. These individuals were brought to mind particularly in light of a new Idaho law set to take effect in July 2026, which designates a firing squad as the primary method of execution. This development places Idaho among a small group of states—Mississippi, Oklahoma, South Carolina, and Utah—that permit execution by firing squad. However, Idaho is unique in establishing it as the primary, rather than an optional, method. This choice, even in a state with a strong tradition of gun ownership, struck many as a regressive and "barbaric" step.

The writer’s attention was further drawn to the case of Thomas Creech, a 74-year-old serial killer and Idaho’s longest-serving death row inmate, who has been incarcerated for over 50 years, with 46 of those spent on death row. In February 2024, Creech was scheduled to receive his last supper—fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, corn, rolls, and ice cream. The following day, he was placed on a gurney in the death chamber, awaiting execution. However, three Idaho Department of Correction employees were unable to locate a viable vein after multiple attempts, reportedly poking him eight times in his hands, feet, and legs, causing his veins to collapse. After approximately an hour, the execution, the state’s first in 12 years, was halted.

To gain further insight, a call was placed to Kevin Fixler, a reporter for the Idaho Statesman who had interviewed Creech following the failed execution. Creech recounted to Fixler, "I laid on that table and fully expected to die that day." While the execution is slated for rescheduling, Creech’s legal team argues that a second attempt would constitute "cruel and unusual punishment" and therefore violate constitutional protections.

The difficulty in carrying out executions, even by methods once considered routine, raises profound questions. Fixler noted that "Lethal injection drugs have been increasingly hard to get," explaining that pharmaceutical companies are reluctant to be associated with executions. This has led some states to enact shield laws, protecting the identity of drug suppliers to facilitate procurement. However, the administration of these drugs remains problematic, as most physicians refuse to participate due to ethical conflicts with the Hippocratic Oath. Consequently, the task often falls to prison employees who may lack the specialized training and experience of medical professionals.

Seeking an alternative perspective, a conversation was held with Craig Durham, an attorney specializing in death penalty cases in Idaho. Durham posited that execution by firing squad could potentially be a swifter and less agonizing method than a cocktail of lethal substances, which can fail in unpredictable and excruciating ways. Many states employ a multi-drug protocol for lethal injection: a sedative to induce unconsciousness, a paralytic agent, and a drug to arrest the heart. If one drug malfunctions, the others may mask the prisoner’s suffering, making the ordeal less visibly disturbing to observers but not necessarily less painful for the condemned.

Durham also raised a point that had not previously been considered: the potential for firing squads to increase public awareness of executions. He argued that because this method is perceived as more visceral and less sterile, it is inherently more controversial. If the state is undertaking the act of killing on behalf of its residents, shouldn’t the public be fully aware of the process—and compelled to engage in serious contemplation about its implications?

This very question lies at the heart of "The Last Supper" exhibition. Artist Julie Green, who used her art as a vehicle for advocacy, stated, "I paint to point." The exhibition’s power lies in its ability to compel viewers to think deeply about capital punishment without dictating a specific conclusion. It encourages introspection, prompting an examination of personal assumptions and fostering meaningful dialogue.

One such conversation took place with journalist Joshua Sharpe, whose reporting was instrumental in exonerating an innocent man convicted of murder, a story he chronicles in his new book, The Man No One Believed. Sharpe’s accounts of wrongful convictions—a phenomenon far more prevalent than commonly realized—helped illuminate why the death penalty process in the United States is often a protracted and astronomically expensive undertaking, involving millions of dollars and decades of legal proceedings before an execution can be carried out. Sharpe, based in Detroit, engaged with Green’s exhibit remotely, viewing the collection online where the details of each last meal are meticulously cataloged. He observed that Green’s work "add(s) dignity to this concept of publicizing the last meal," effectively "taking that information and putting humanity back in."

In September 2021, as Green was completing the 1,000th plate for "The Last Supper," she was battling advanced ovarian cancer. A few weeks later, at her home in Corvallis, Oregon, Green utilized the state’s Death With Dignity Act to end her life with physician assistance. Notably, Green’s obituary in The New York Times did not specify her own last supper.