Art for Art's Sake

Today I went tattoo shopping with my friend.

I’m not talking about those water-based jobs you get with a stick of bubble gum; I mean the real deal: getting a tattoo artist to insert ink under the skin using an electric needle.

The only thing was my friend didn’t know who to do it, where to do it, or what she even wanted to do.

I’ve long considered getting a tattoo myself, but as I haven’t found a design that I’d be content to take to my grave, I am yet to allow someone else use my body as a canvas. (Mind you, I have 4 tatts already, if you count eyeliner, so I'm not that scared of the process.)

The other big decision is where exactly to put the thing. There’s a lot of talk about which part of the body looks best, hurts worst, and what sort of image will stand the test of time. (Last thing you wanna do is turn up at your nursing home with “we’re here for a good time not a long time” plastered across your wrinkled old hide.)

I would never put one anywhere near the buttock region. Aside from the indignity of having to drop one’s pants in a public place, the thought of having a stranger’s face that near my rear just doesn’t sit well with me.

I’ve heard that the stomach and inner hip are popular, but I’ve also heard the tale about the lass who got a dolphin done, gained a little weight and ended up with a whale.

I simply fail to see the point of getting your favourite image etched on your shoulder or down the bottom of your back. Despite the fact that they’re colloquially called ‘tramp stamps’, you’d need to be a contortionist to see it yourself, and isn’t that the reason you pick a picture- because you like it?!

Necks and arms might be hard to hide in certain social circumstances. I can just imagine my mother going every shade of red if I rocked up to a family function with the full sleeve job (one of my aunts discovered a little pink pig strategically placed upon her daughter when they were getting ready for a wedding and it was pretty much “wah wah wah” all the way home).

The best value tattoo I think would be one in the vicinity of the chest, at least for females anyway. My theory is, it starts up here, give it a few years and it ends up down around your hip. Et voilà- two for the price of one!

But I’d never go there, for the reasons outlined above, about the bottom.

So you can see why I’m still only thinking about inking at this stage of the game.

But my friend is ready and raring to go, and so we hit the trail of the local tattoo parlours to see what they offered, and how.

First place we went into gave me an instant headache. While signs everywhere declared that drugs and alcohol were not permitted on the premises, their standards weren’t obviously as strict when it came to bodily odours and death-metal music.

Trying to stand upwind of the crew alongside us checking out the portfolios of pictures, I came to the conclusion that even if the perfect pic did jump out at me, I couldn’t possibly stand the sounds screaming out of the speakers for the time it would take to do the tattoo. So I for one wouldn’t be lining up for any artwork there. My friend came to the same conclusion, with the bonus of being more than a little concerned about the choice between baring her butt to some fairly large fairly hairy gentlemen, or a lady of questionable sexual preferences. She chose to go with none of the above.

The next place was cleaner and quieter, but the artists seemed to be computer geeks taking a plunge into grunge- only with an ‘80s backing track- so the atmosphere was a little odd to say the least.

It was third time lucky at the next tattoo studio. Not only was it clean and bright and smelt like it met all the OH&S criteria, but my friend finally found the piece of art that said it all (and worked out where to say it too). In spite of the manager’s warning that screaming was not allowed during the procedure, she booked an appointment, and then booked me to come along for moral support. How well she handles it may be the deciding factor whether I continue my search for an image to grace my skin. Or not.

And despite my Beloved not being overly fond of the idea of me getting a tattoo too, he did come up with a suggestion…

He said that if I truly wanted to do something about global warming, I could get a little sapling scrawled across my butt. His exact words were: “as you get older and fatter, the tree will grow and that’s gotta be good for the environment.”

If he’s not careful, he’ll find himself with a permanent mark of his own- the imprint of my boot on his backside. I wouldn’t even charge him for the privilege.

Jx
©2009