Hi, My name is Sean and I am a tattoo artist... “Ok cool, so you are a tattooist?” you ask.I am no more a tattooist than Van Gogh was a painter. Though, that may be a bad analogy, because he was literally just a guy who painted and cut body parts off, and I am a guy who stabs people incredibly fast to place ink below their skin. The fact that people look to differentiate between art and tattooing feels so demeaning. It stymies the possibility. You wouldn't get Michaelangelo (the painter, not the ninja turtle) to paint your skirting boards would you?
We look at art with the scope of possibility; what it represents, what it could be. So why do we keep other creative processes grounded firmly in reality? Why do we not let them stand shoulder to shoulder with what we would see in a gallery? Pollock is great and all but the reality is that the guy just spilt some paint. Does not sound so magical now, does it?
Much like the difference between paint (the reality) and a work of art (the magic), I am talking about a tattooist and a tattoo artist. Similar callings with very different goals. A tattooist may not care about the difference in terminology but for an artist? The moniker is akin to barbed wire. For them the distinction is as harsh and clear as night versus day; those who work with art and those who create it; a calling versus a pay-check.
Artists believe that people see getting a tattoo as a form of tradition, but is this true? I have been getting tattoos now for decades, and much longer than I have been able to get them legally. I remember this “tradition” and I am not sure it was something to hold on to. Getting a tattoo, especially for us teenagers desperate to fit in, was a rite of passage - a coming of age ritual of sorts. As soon as you approached the age of 18, you would get a tattoo to represent your truest self, and wildly parade that tattoo hoping that the lads would want to be you, and the ladies would want to be with you. I am fairly confident however, that no 18 year old girlie has ever been impressed by a tattoo of a lion and a clock on a hairless forearm.
Getting a tattoo is so commonplace now that it has also become an item for bucket list inventories - with elderly women hitting the front pages of newspapers and Facebook walls with their very first tattoo of a dolphin on their shoulder at 86. A far shout from the hormone- fuelled lust for coolness of teenage boys, or visual CV of accomplished sailors. I remember my first tattoo; it was a nautical star on my wrist. In the early 2000s, I needed that star to let everyone know how much cooler and into my scene I was than everyone else - as if the studded belt, fingerless gloves and excessive fringe wouldn't tip them off. I remember my dad losing his shit and threatening to use a belt sander to remove my new prized piece of artwork. Don't worry though, dear reader, I still have that star and no belt sanders were required. In truth, I now have it hidden under several newer tattoos. It might be asked whether the art still there even after it has been covered up. After all, it is not like the ink disappeared, and when the light hits it just right, I can still see its lines and forms. Yet this is a question for another time.
Enough about me though. Recently I was talking to my dad about his experience with tattoos. For the longest time he had a singular tattoo, he hated it and he never wanted anyone in his presence to EVER have one! For him, the whole thing was embarrassing. He got it one drunken night out with friends who thought it was funny to tattoo an ex-partner’s name on his arm, Of course, my mom wasn’t too pleased about it, since they were actually dating at the time. Though it became even more embarrassing for him when he had to find a seedy back street shop to cover it up. I always laugh when he tells the story of the tattooist saying, “you can have an eagle or a panther because that is all I can draw”. Yet it also makes me reflect upon how much the industry has grown. That was a tattooist, or at the very least, a very, very niche artist.
Initially, I assigned meaning to my tattoos. One represented my love for music, while another, an Ouroboros on my elbow from an anime cartoon, symbolised my belief, so I claimed, that I was a successor to a deceased God. With time, and the blessing of no longer being 18, I realised that my tradition was not one of meaning or embarrassment. I did not need my tattoos to convey my likes and wants, like some weird hieroglyphics with my body as the canvas.
For me it is the enjoyment and thrill of collecting art and to be able to permanently take it with me. We often talk about the meaning of art, whether through semiotics, iconography or ideology but sometimes those conversations happen on the subconscious level. You may love the command of the subject and the composition of the piece or you may just really love Campbell soup. Whatever the reason is, you know you like it, and I am confident that if some gallery would let you take it home, for a price that would not require a sizeable remortgage, then you would hang it on some neglected and uninspiring wall in your home.
The ease of access when it comes to tattooing could be seen to erode its artistic element.
After all, if it is mass produced and everyone has one, then is it really art? You can spend less than your weekly shop and buy everything you need to tattoo on Amazon today. With next day delivery you could be tattooing a hastily drawn symbol on your friend's arm and throwing in a free staph infection as a thank you. What I am getting at is that art is easy to see; someone hangs it on a wall with a plaque next to it, telling you it is art and how the art was made.
They might also give you a few fancy words that you can reel off to impress your art buddies the next time you sit down and talk about art over an impressively expensive imported Sushi (one no different to what you would get from your local supermarket). We want to cling onto something special; something unique. When everyone can do it the act no longer magical - it is just a Thursday. It took a long time for me to realise my true love for tattoo art. I adored the lines and the colours from the beginning but it took some time to understand the purpose of placement. On a canvas it is easy to see if the subject is central, and is positioned in a way to fully display its glory but what does that look like on a body?
The canvas shifts constantly, even after tattooing it, so placement is crucial. It demands knowledge of anatomy and how the body moves naturally. A perfectly positioned tattoo is indescribable; you only notice when it is not there. For anyone who wants to argue this point; do you also get a text tattoo backwards on your chest so you can read it in the mirror? Of course not, that would be stupid. You see my point?
“Sean, what are you trying to tell me?” I'm trying to confirm all the thoughts we have, and questionable truths we tell ourselves, in order to put paintings on pedestals and keep tattoos in the back alleys where they belong (spoilers: they don't). At the end of the day, I'm humorously telling anecdotes of my own experiences. At some point I’ll find my voice and the whole world will go “My god! He was right all along! Yeah, this Monet is great but have you seen this Sailor Jerry tattoo flash sheet?”
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