DALLAS (AP) — Tiny paper patches of red, lavender and turquoise were the only flashes of color in the locked room except for the gray and green outfits mandated by the state.

Art class has finagled its way into the Dallas County Jail.

Resolana, a North Texas nonprofit, shows up at the jail several times a week — bringing more than colored pencils and construction paper to female inmates. The group is changing the way some of the women view their self-worth. It's also a testament to the state's philosophy shift away from basic retribution toward rehabilitation in an effort to curb Texas' spiking incarceration rate.

Kristi Dawdy, hiding behind her smile at a recent class, said the sessions have prompted her to talk about the drug problem that led her to put a child up for adoption.

"They help us break through the face," said the 27-year-old as she completed a colorful abstract mosaic with the theme "rebirth." ''We get to come here and talk about things that we wouldn't talk about in the tanks, like the guilt that I have. I want everyone to think I'm OK, but I'm not."

Resolana — a Spanish word that refers to the sunshine-laden sides of houses that tempt both rest and conversation — attempts to establish a support network through art and dance.

It's a population that's grown nationally at almost double the rate of men since the early 1980s. Texas imprisons the most females.

Bette Buschow and her cadre of more than 50 volunteers intend to thwart those numbers.

"Many of these women have been told they're worthless much of theirs lives and they believe these stereotypes," said Buschow, who started the nonprofit about two years ago after attending a prison graduation. "For some, this is the only time they have had where they aren't just trying to survive."

Since inmates cannot keep the pieces they create, Buschow has a house filled with two years' worth of artwork. She recently shared the pieces at "Not Who You Think I Am," an exhibit intended to display the layers of incarcerated women.

More than half of imprisoned women in the United States say they've been sexually or physically abused before prison, according to Bureau of Justice statistics.

"If they don't stop the cycle of incarceration, we as a society have lost an amazing group of talented and valuable society members and probably their children," Buschow said.

Stricter drug law enforcement has fueled much of the jump in female incarceration in recent decades, said Ryan King, a Policy Analyst for The Sentencing Project, a Washington-based research and advocacy organization for criminal justice. The number of women in state and federal correctional facilities has increased by more than 20,000 since 2000.

In Texas, a drug felony bars a person from food stamps and prevents them from jobs that require a license.

"I've never seen any other state that has so many barriers to re-entry," said Ana Yanez-Correa, the executive director for the Texas Criminal Justice Coalition. She applauded the state's recent efforts to decrease probation terms and focus on drug treatment programs.

But if the programs are to succeed, she said, they need to become gender specific.

Women are "often used as mules to transport drugs, and they get longer sentences because they don't have anything to snitch on," Yanez-Correa said.

In Dallas County, about 900 female inmates are in short-term confinement, said Yolanda Lara, assistant director of inmate programs at Dallas County Jail.

"We get them in the stage when they know they messed up, know they need help and are listening," she said.

Nonreligious therapeutic groups are rare, and the jail has never before hosted an organization like Resolana.

At least 50 women are waiting to be in the class, which is limited to about 20 women a session.

The art provides an outlet, but the companionship holds equal value, said Mandy Roberts, a former meth addict and alcoholic who spent seven months at Dawson State Jail for two felony possession charges. Three years later, she now works as an administrative assistant in Carrollton and volunteers with the group.

"Once you walk out those doors, the only thing you can hope for are the tools to make the right decision. And the more you have somebody to reach out to, the better chances you have," said the 30-year old, who'd gone through the common cycle of a dependent relationship and physical abuse.

She also discovered she was pregnant in jail.

"The majority of women do want to change their lives, but the minute they walk out those doors it all comes crashing down," Roberts said.

Dallas County inmate Shawne Alexander couldn't verbalize her desires at a recent class, but she could draw them. Blue paper tiles stretched across a black canvas as she created a mosaic of wind and rain.

"We get so caught up in this world, in the glitz and gold, but we can't put a price on weather," said the 40-year-old, who has been at Dallas County for almost a year on drug charges. "You can sit on the balcony and just see nature."

She dipped her Q-tip in a plate of glue and examined it.

"It's nice to know that someone cares," she added. "We made a mistake, but we're not bad, not all of us. We just have bad habits."

Then she turned in her finished piece and waited for the buzzer to announce the opening of the door.