TAKING CONTROL. Tattoos.

The past. Part 2.

17 Dec 2024

My first real act of rebellion was to get a tattoo as soon as I was able to. I don’t remember if I was 18 or 21, but it was likely the latter, because like everything else in my life, I had to work and save up that money to pay for the small little silhouette of a cat on a moon. It was real and unreal - it reminded me of my favourite childhood Disney movie – the Aristocats, and one specific scene of the two cats seated on a wall, backs to the audience, tails swishing in the moonlight. I chose to get it on my left shoulder blade, visible when I wanted it to be, and not when I didn’t. I don’t really remember the location of the artist’s studio; I think it was someplace near a theatre complex in the West of the suburban part of the city I just began to frequent, because I was dating a wannabe filmmaker/scriptwriter, who’d just moved to the city and was renting a space in what can only be described as a converted garage. For obvious reasons, this art was named ‘The Cattoo’.

The tattoo artist I chose was wet behind the ears… but the design was straightforward and fit into my fixed budget, plus he needed the experience, so it worked out. I do not remember very much, but I can tell you the tattooing was a pleasurable, pain-riddled experience. I will also tell you that having to travel home on a crowded train with a square of saran wrap held together with duct tape on your newly minted wound was not what I’d foreseen. In those days, I did not plan five steps ahead. I ‘lived in the moment’. There wasn’t anything to base my plans on.

My second tattoo came as soon as I moved to a new city, exploring my life as a single person. I was most pleased to FINALLY live alone… which came about after two disastrous flat mate experiences, but I digress. The freedom that came with that move is indescribable! I packed a lifetime of experiences in the short time I lived in this city, and I’ll need a few chapters to detail some of those adventures with the characters that peppered my existence and added colour to my life.

Going back to the tale of the tattoo - I chose a painful part of my body for this one – the inner part of my ankle, just below my protruding ankle bone. It didn’t weather well, this one, and even on the first day with fresh ink, it looked all kinds of weird to me, and the dude I went to the studio with. I had to twist my head to see it for what it was supposed to be, and if you didn’t, it could either manifest as a Viking ship or a very strange dragon/snake. I decided there would be no rectification, and I would go through life with that as a reminder of a mistake made in haste, and thus it stays to this day. It is now worn out, faded, dull, like a threadbare counterpane left out in the sun for years. I don’t look at it anymore, except when I tie my shoelaces or wear shoes with ankle straps, or right now, as I stare at it, trying to describe it to you.

In this new city, I met people with tats – my editor with a cool piranha, the art director with a massive Celtic freeform piece of art on his left bicep, the senior artist with her own art on her arms, a fellow editor with a cartoon on his forearm and a new writer with art on her foot. I remember meeting a very aloof lady – some employee’s wife, who had her own name tattooed right atop the stope of her left boob. I always thought that was a bit strange… but maybe she just loved herself more than anything and wanted to immortalize it. Who knows?

I loved that I was part of this tribe of ‘cool people’, with our little pieces of art that were not-so-secret. We’d party together, hang out, work at the same office, attend work events, date the same circle of people and listen to the same music. It sometimes felt that we were one organism, but we weren’t. We were a bunch of insecure young adults trying to find our way in the world, trying to be unique, trying to make a mark in the world of music. Trying. 

Tattoos were still oddly taboo during this period in my life, and you’d be looked at ‘funny’ if you walked about with a massive arm sleeve.   

A few years later, I moved countries and learned that my boss had a tramp stamp and was very proud of it (I didn’t know how to react to her drunken revelation). The itch to get a new tattoo was strong, and having learnt from my past mistakes, I researched artists and went to a person who had good reviews and got a small inner wrist tattoo that was both scientific and personal. A few years later, I fell in love with water colour art and found an artist who immortalized a line from my favourite T.S. Eliot poem on the inside of my upper arm in a splash of colour. The same artist also tattooed the next one on my ribs, which was far less painful than the inner arm. I had two different friends accompany me to these inkings; the first ghosted me and walked out of my life without an explanation, and the second has taken a familiar path laid out for him, and is now an online personality who preaches about a ‘positive mindset’, has a blue tick, a podcast, two published books, and only messages once a year, if that. He has no tattoos because his religion forbids it.  

Many life changes, and ten years after getting my inner wrist tattoo, I decided to add to it and I found an artist who did delicate floral work to create a bracelet for my wrist. I thought to myself, “I survived the most painful inner arm tattoo. What could be worse?” Tattooing around my wrist was worse. Much, much worse. The art wrapped around bone and sinew and refused to stop swelling for three weeks. I remember thinking that I might have to cut my hand off if this doesn’t sort itself off soon. I went to work, cooked, and attempted to not work out while the wrist was healing. “Keep it clean, don’t stretch it or move it too much and don’t let it get infected” (it was on the most exposed part of the body). It was the toughest thing I had to manage, even though it seemed pretty easy and straightforward.

About 15 years after getting my first tattoo – The Cattoo, I decided I should cover it up. I had grown as a person, evolved, changed, devolved, built back up again. The artist sketched my ‘death and rebirth’ tattoo – a magnificent (Japanese) fire-breathing dragon that emerges from a gentle Koi swimming upstream. If you look hard enough, and you know what you’re looking for, you might be able to spot the Cattoo beneath the clouds from which the dragon emerges. Unfortunately, this was to be my last major piece of art. It covers the entire left half of my back and took six hours to do, but is incomplete, due to an annoying medical condition that came to the fore as a result of the needles’ relentless art-wound creation.

Life is unpredictable… I’m not pleased that ‘rebirth’ is incomplete, but I’m glad I’m alive to tell this tale.

Six years after this partially finished ‘Rebirth’ artwork, I got my partner’s initials tattooed on my forearm to mark our five years as a couple, while on a trip to Santa Barbara. This was the only time I remember fearing the needle, anticipating the pain that was to follow. I negated to tell you that ‘Rebirth’ caused me to black out with the pain, and the vastness of the tattoo meant my body went into shock after four hours of being jabbed nonstop by the artist’s needles at the first sitting. Ignoring this, I returned for the second sitting and endured a further two hours the week after, and suffering another blackout, I realized something is amiss, and had the sense to stop the session, walking away with art that’s always going to be 3/4th complete.

I experienced the last three tattoos alone. It was a meditative, out of body experience with clenched teeth and fists, no space for thoughts, just the thrum of the pain receptors firing nonstop and the buzz of the annoying machine for company.

Through the years in this big city, I’ve met many friends, each with their own tattoos and tales behind them. My best friend has a number of tats and a massive one that has an octopus tentacle that crawls up her thigh has a gnarly story behind it.  My partner has a massive, spiritual, and deeply personal full sleeve tattoo that has taken over 20 hours to complete over a few months. He added to his initial artwork on his forearm twice over ten years, each in honour of a very personal milestone. This full sleeve tat is his personal story of belief, love, religion, faith and mythology. Sadly, I don’t think I will ever be able to experience or endure that level of pain, even if I am committed to the art.

It’s been 21 years since my first tattoo, and while the motivation behind all the art that came after was the same, each was also a little different. Every piece was tied to a significant moment in my life and when I think about each one, I can tell you the exact time of day, the angle of the sun in the studio and what the table I lay on smelled like. I remember the only tattoo I’ve ever got while hungover was the one on my ribs when I fell asleep.

SIGH. Yes, I regret the ankle tattoo and I can’t wait for it to fade into oblivion, but I have fond memories of my mother helping me sanitise and clean my first tattoo, while she was supremely upset that I’d ‘defaced’ my body.

Recently I’ve noticed my watercolour tattoo has a slow ink bleed situation that I can’t fix, and ‘Rebirth’ triggered fibromyalgia. I would like to add to the art on my arm but I don’t think I would live to tell the tale.

I sometimes wonder about things like - Can my skin be separated from my body and can the art be preserved once I die? Will the ink bleed out with the blood if one sustains a cut to the area?

I guess I’ll never know.