Tattoo you
By
Phil LaMancusa
I don’t mind that they hurt like the
Dickens, like a shard of burning, jagged broken glass being scraped into your
skin with a feel and sound of an electrically short circuiting combined buzz
saw and drill bit, and the blood that’s being wiped away signaling the
permanence of that ink as it’s buried beneath and on your skin…forever. You
walk in, flashing virgin epidermis and walk out with the Chinese symbol for
“Light Starch” tattooed to your chest; it sounded like a fine idea at the time,
you dreamt that you’d be reincarnated as a shirt and didn’t want the world to
be too hard on you.
Physical evidence going back over five
thousand years has shown us that there’s not much new under the skin, as far as
inking goes; or the variety of people who adhere to the processes. Priestesses
and pirates; soldiers, sailors and carnival workers; criminals and tradesmen;
Samurais and slaves; religious pilgrims and whores all have had something to
show on their skin that set them apart from the unadorned. Headhunters and
circus showmen; Popeye the sailor and Lydia the Tattooed Lady; The Illustrated
Man and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. The Rose Tattoo, The Crying Heart
Tattoo. From Siam to Siberia and Samoa; ink under the skin set sects apart --from
ordinary citizenry --bringing luck and the protection of the Gods. 17th century
seamen used tattoos as identifying marks to avoid unlawful impressments and as
body identification in case of shipwreck. “Songs
are like tattoos, you know, I’ve been to sea before”.
When I was a kid in the fifties, we
had fake transfer tattoos. I got my first real tat in 1962 in Hamburg Germany,
another in the shadow of the Panama Canal; a Janis Joplin Rose from Lyle
Tuttle’s studio in San Francisco; the word ‘Mentirosa’ (Liar) on one
shoulder to commemorate love lost; my
daughter’s name on a forearm and yes, I’ve got “ROSIE” on my chest.
Back in the days of my youth, it was the
bad boys, the tough guys, the outlaws that sported ink; men got them in the
military, women had showpieces in special places and --unspoken but
understood-- all tattoos stayed clear of the face, neck and below the cuff line;
a man with a tear tattooed to his face is said to have killed someone (two
tears… two some-ones etc.), LOVE and HATE on the knuckles signified someone
ready to use their fists, my mother’s first husband had FFFF on his knuckles
signifying the Four F (Find ‘em, Feel ‘em Fu*k ‘em and Forget ‘em!) club. Back
then, you could read a person by the pictures they had on their body because,
yes, it hurts, it’s permanent and most times semi-thought out, but, your tattoo then became part of
your identity and persona. I have my initials on my wrist from the needle,
thread and India ink method used when I was incarcerated once; jailhouse tats
are notorious in their complexities and stories.
Back then a tattoo parlor had books of
pictures that you could have put on your body and they charged by the illustration
that was chosen; today, tat artists will charge by the hour and are capable of
Michelangelo grade work in scope and concept plus there is an epidemic of
amateurs that just need some friends to practice on. Ink has gone from Subculture
to Pop Culture and it is a lot easier to get inked today; also, in some cases,
a lot more expensive. Some of the better artists can cost between $300.00-
$500.00 an hour (and up), in some parlors there’s an apprentice standing by to
take the overflow just for the practice. In all cases you get what you pay for
and then pay for what you’ve gotten.
It is said that getting tats got goosed
in 2005 with a TV show called Miami Ink and was further propelled into
mainstream with social media , tattoo artist super stars and super stars that
started sporting tattoos, but, I’m not quite sure if that statement is completely accurate; I was kinda busy
with hurricanes that year.
Putting aside deviance and decoration,
today’s tattoo cult got its start in the 60’s with the Hippie and Biker cultures
and went into full bloom with young women in the 80’s having lower back and
nape of neck decorations, quite sexy at the time. Sports stars got into the act
and younger kids wanted to emulate their heroes. And then it happened that
bigger and more better became better and
more bigger.
That’s not to say that there aren’t a
myriad of unprofessional (bad, naïve, inexperienced, homemade) tattoos out
there that have a body wondering what a person must be thinking, or not
thinking, to have something silly or less than wise permanently put on their
skin such as the folks that look like someone has taken a Sharpie marker and
doodled on them, or a name or saying that will mean nothing to the person five
years down the road or that person that had neck and facial ink that will be a
logical cause for limited employment opportunities.
Be that as it may, personally, I love
tattoos, on myself and on other people; when I spy someone with tattoos, I want
to go up and find the story behind them. Unfortunately, with the plethora of
ink on bodies, I have this pessimistic fear that some people get inked ‘just
because’. Perhaps they become addicted to the experience; perhaps they have too
much money. I myself have a story with each of my renderings; they’re like
pieces of art hung on the gallery of my body and I want more, except, I find
that I can’t afford them.
Would I recommend a person getting a
tattoo? Yes, but with the caveat issued by Carlos Torres, a world renowned ink
artist: “Think long term.” (I say:
“think nursing home!”) So, I’d shy away from Zombies, Herman Munster, a
portrait of someone you (believe you) know/love, cat butts, Jesus playing
basketball, ANY politician, sex organs, anything in old English lettering or above
your collar line and for heaven’s sake, check
all grammar and spelling so you don’t wind up with “Never Don’t Give up!”
or “No Regerts”.
