How our art chooses us
Ever notice something about yourself that you had forgotten all about? Like a freckle on your arm that you are surprised to see but remember vaguely from the last time you were surprised to see it? I have this reaction to my ankle tattoos often. It might be mostly because I don't see them as much as I see my other work (though I see them slightly more than my newest tricep work and far more than I can see my back plate...). But every time I see them, I think oh, how nice. I love those. What a great thing to have.
And I do love them. They were the first tattoos I got: I was 20 and we all lived in Madison for the summer. I was working a part-time job, the only one I could land after applying for and not getting calls back from 35 others. I made just enough money to pay rent for three months, buy food, and get tattooed. Oh, the simplicity. Ah, the halcyon days. I went to a parlor that seemed popular (for all I know it still is, though I'd patronize another establishment there now) with an idea in my head. An artist who wasn't busy met me at the counter and asked what I wanted. Now, I asked for a pair of black bands around my ankles, but that wasn't what I thought I'd been planning to get--what I'd envisioned, for months up to that point, having inked into my skin. I'd never told anyone what I was planning, so this statement, when I turned on a dime and changed my mind about what I needed, was the first out-loud mention of my plans. And these plans turned out to be different than what I thought I wanted.
Needed. When I spoke it to the artist, I'd told him not what I thought I wanted but rather what I suddenly knew I needed. Maybe our art chooses us. Maybe that's a serious conceit. But maybe I was saved from a bad tattoo (the design for which I still have not divulged to this day) and set on the path I'm on now, the path I know is right.
So after some brief misunderstanding (him: "okay, here's some ankle band flash, with some vines or flowers or stuff." me: "no, solid black. like electrical tape." him: "what?" me: "solid black bands on both ankles, like electrical tape.") I made an in-45-minutes appointment. We worked on placement for 45 minutes and inked for about an hour or and hour and a half, and it was over. Cash money changed hands, aftercare sheets were handed out, and I had a pair of beautiful black tattoos.
I love those. What a great thing to have.
And I do love them. They were the first tattoos I got: I was 20 and we all lived in Madison for the summer. I was working a part-time job, the only one I could land after applying for and not getting calls back from 35 others. I made just enough money to pay rent for three months, buy food, and get tattooed. Oh, the simplicity. Ah, the halcyon days. I went to a parlor that seemed popular (for all I know it still is, though I'd patronize another establishment there now) with an idea in my head. An artist who wasn't busy met me at the counter and asked what I wanted. Now, I asked for a pair of black bands around my ankles, but that wasn't what I thought I'd been planning to get--what I'd envisioned, for months up to that point, having inked into my skin. I'd never told anyone what I was planning, so this statement, when I turned on a dime and changed my mind about what I needed, was the first out-loud mention of my plans. And these plans turned out to be different than what I thought I wanted.
Needed. When I spoke it to the artist, I'd told him not what I thought I wanted but rather what I suddenly knew I needed. Maybe our art chooses us. Maybe that's a serious conceit. But maybe I was saved from a bad tattoo (the design for which I still have not divulged to this day) and set on the path I'm on now, the path I know is right.
So after some brief misunderstanding (him: "okay, here's some ankle band flash, with some vines or flowers or stuff." me: "no, solid black. like electrical tape." him: "what?" me: "solid black bands on both ankles, like electrical tape.") I made an in-45-minutes appointment. We worked on placement for 45 minutes and inked for about an hour or and hour and a half, and it was over. Cash money changed hands, aftercare sheets were handed out, and I had a pair of beautiful black tattoos.
I love those. What a great thing to have.
Labels: narcissism, tattoo
posted by Nora Rocket at 6:57 PM
2 Comments:
This is like a corporeal version of "What do Pictures Want" by WJT Mitchell, a book you should check out. Also, I 'member when you got those black bars---a landmark of sorts.
Hi Robin!!! Sorry I haven't said howdy earlier, but work has been crazy, which has severely cut into my web surfing time (um...yeah...always hard at work). Anywho, I hope all is well in Bahstan (that's how they talk, right?).
I think the same thing when I see the turtle on my arm. Actually it was my 2nd tattoo, but my first serious one, and is out in the open so I see it everyday. The interesting part, however, is watching it evolve over time. It is fading and the ink is spreading, but that's why I love it. While it serves as a specific marker of time, it reminds me that change is constant and inevitable. And if you cannot accept the change and adapt, what really is the point?
By the way, I've a new book to send you, what's your address?
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