Tattoo Artist Quotes

Remember it all, every insult, every tear. Tattoo it on the inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I've told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to.

Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)

I know what you are learning to endure. There is nothing to be done. Make sure nothing is wasted. Take notes. Remember it all, every insult, every tear. Tattoo it on the inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I've told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to.

This is so cool," I said loudly as Dad walked away. "Have you met the tattoo artist? Is he hot?" "He's a she," Mom said. "Is she hot? Cause I'm still young, you know. My sexual identity isnt fully formed." "Your father can't hear you anymore, Maya." Mom sighed.

If you look closely you'll find all my lovers inscribed on my skin.

I’m not Jet so I can’t write you a song that makes you understand how important you are to me.  I’m not Nash so I can’t find a building and paint you a mural that makes see that it all starts and ends with you for me. I’m a tattoo artist, I’ll probably always be a tattoo artist (...) Here’s my heart Shaw.  You have it in your hands and I promise you’re the first and last person to ever touch it.  You need to be careful with it because it’s far more fragile than I ever thought and if you try and give it back I’m not taking it.

I'm not a cop. I'm just a tattoo artist. I'm just a guy who used to be in love with a girl. I'm just a fool who's been fooled too many times before. I'm just a man who's finally getting his revenge.

This is so cool,” I said as Dad walked away. “Have you met the tattoo artist? Is he hot? “He’s a she,” Mom said. “Is she hot? Cause I’m still young, you know. My sexual identity isn’t fully formed.

Tattooing, when understood in its entirety, must be seen as a religious act. The human being brings forth images from the center of the self and communicates them to the world. Fantasy is embodied in reality and the person is made whole.

Hell, if a neighbour were to stick their head out their window and see a tattooed god ramming a chick in the neighbour’s backyard all lit by romantic lights, they’d probably watch. I’d watch too.

Just make sure nothing is wasted. Take notes. Remember it all, every insult, every tear. Tattoo it on the inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I've told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to.

Not that it was a crazy complicated skill, but operating an espresso machine during high traffic could be added to my repertoire along with card tricks and how to fire a Colt .45. (Quote taken from ARC, subject to change)

Tattoos were self-expression at its rawest and most permanent form. They weren’t for one set of people or another.

I’m no tattoo artist, but I do have a knife. And I’ll cut to the chase and say I use it every night. The first letter of your name Starts with an “L” So I keep drawing them lowercase All over my shell. People ask why I cut myself, I say, “I’m just writing.

Memory, all-night's bedside tattoo artist.

George was an atheist, and so am I. But how I long now for an afterlife - a world of light or of deep dazzling darkness, where he and the others we've lost reside, unscathed, forever accessible - to have tea with, to talk nonsense with, to reinvent the world with

Let us not neglect the forbidden. Let us not sophisticate ourselves out of the cheap thrill and chill of it: the story told for perversity's sake, and all the better for that; the image created because an artist gets tired of reasons sometimes, and wants to dredge up some picture he's been haunted by, and parade it like a new tattoo. I go with it, readily.

The greatness of the tattoo artist lies in her ability to gauge the degree to which she can push her art before the art kills the canvas.

I know what you are learning to endure. There is nothing to be done. Make sure nothing is wasted. Take notes. Remember it all, every insult, every tear. Tattoo it on the inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I've told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to.

The tattoo artist inflicts pain and I take it. With each breath I count to one again. Each inhale, each exhale, time passes in the smallest of pieces, and pieces still smaller than those. This is how you count a life. This is how you go through it. Each second of hurt is a second that's already passed, one you never have to go through again. I have counted in pieces that small, when walking from the bed to the fridge seemed an insurmountable goal. I have counted my breaths, my steps, my eye-blinks, my hiccups, the tiny pulse in my thumb. And when I started getting tattooed, two of the things I used to need were gone: to write on myself, and to find irrelevant things to count. A second of intense pain is the most profound thing you can live through. And another, and another, and another, and then you know what it is to feel, and to struggle through that feeling one small agonizing increment at a time, and if you know that, you know what it is to live with mental illness.

I’m surprised you don’t have any tattoos. I thought that was part of the artist uniform.” “Who says I should be that much of a cliché? I’m naturally a masterpiece.

Death is a unique opponent, in that death always wins......There's no shame in surrender when it's time to stop fighting. --- Kal (the tattoo artist)

Don’t make me tattoo your ass before sending you off. Because I’ll do it. Big ol’ tramp stamp in Comic Sans that says ‘Tristan Wuz Here’ with an arrow pointing down.” I snorted. “Oh my god, that’s heinous. I don’t know where to even begin. Comic Sans? Surely you jest. Do you know who you’re talking to?” “Not only that, but I’ll bribe the tattoo artist extra to make sure it’s a little off center and the word ‘here’ is spelled h-e-a-r just for good measure.” “Fuck you. Now I’m going to develop a tic just thinking about it.

He had seen her painted sign by the road: Skin Illustration! Illustration instead of tattoo! Artistic!

I’m a tattoo artist, I’ll probably always be a tattoo artist and I don’t know how that plays into your future or the future you have planned after school and frankly I don’t care. This is what I have to offer you Shaw and just like you let me be your first, I’m letting you be mine,” I covered her entire palm with a detailed drawing of a sacred heart, it matched the one I had inked on the center of my chest. It had flames dancing up the back, a crown of thorns on top of it, a spray of roses along the bottom and in the center I drew a scrolling banner with my name in the center. “Here’s my heart Shaw. You have it in your hands and I promise you’re the first and last person to ever touch it. You need to be careful with it because it’s far more fragile than I ever thought and if you try and give it back I’m not taking it. I don’t know enough about love to know for sure that’s what this between us is, but I know that for me it’s you and only you from here on out and I can only promise to be careful and not push you away again. Life without you in it is doable, but if I have a choice I want to do it with you by my side and I’m telling you I’m not running away from the work it takes to make that happen. Shaw I’m not scared of us anymore.

I like proving people wrong, and we all know how much I adore being different. So when the haters expect me to whip off my shirt and reveal a scrawny torso scattered with careless ink, but they instead find me ripped as hell, draped in intricate, artistic tattoos… I can’t help but feel smug.

Find 'em hot, leave 'em wet," he murmured. "Well known firefighter maxim.

This wasn't the work of a cheap carnival tattoo man with three colors and whiskey on his breath. This was the accomplishment of a living genius, vibrant, clear, and beautiful.

Even though being a good speller has lost its ranking in school, we can hope there is one group of artisans that still finds spelling important…the tattoo artist

Families are overenthusiastic tattoo artists. You make a tiny mistake just one time, and it’s like they immediately ink that thing onto you forever.

He was covered with ink, but this piece stood out to her. The script that flowed over his forearm said “If I could, I would. Baby, I swear I would.” She looked the words up later, thinking they were song lyrics, but found nothing that matched. Maybe the tattoo artist had meant to do lyrics but had gotten it wrong. Or maybe she was misremembering, or maybe they were pathless, lyrics to nothing.

Try telling the boy who’s just had his girlfriend’s name cut into his arm that there’s slippage between the signifier and the signified. Or better yet explain to the girl who watched in the mirror as the tattoo artist stitched the word for her father’s name (on earth as in heaven) across her back that words aren’t made of flesh and blood, that they don’t bite the skin. Language is the animal we’ve trained to pick up the scent of meaning. It’s why when the boy hears his father yelling at the door he sends the dog that he’s kept hungry, that he’s kicked, then loved, to attack the man, to show him that every word has a consequence, that language, when used right, hurts.

Unscripted, unedited, and wholly authentic people are almost universally admired, especially if they have flaws, are not afraid to make live, red-blooded mistakes, and rather than trying are busy simply being. Which is something you should consider hiring a tattoo artist to script across the palm of your hand: Be, Don’t Try. “Oh my God, I can’t do that. I would totally mess up.” You better pray to the corn god that you do. Messing up is how you tell other people, “It’s okay to like me, because I’m just like you.” Everybody feels a bit like a dented can inside. Even the slickest, most polished person you can think of is more aware of their shortcomings and flaws than their talents and gifts.

The desks were white and waiting for spills and scratches and stains. They might hurt as they went on – like tattoos – but they would make each of the tables unique, and for the dying artists they would be poignant reminders of hands that held and painted and cut and inked.

I know what you are learning to endure. There is nothing to be done. Just make sure nothing is wasted. Take notes. Remember it all, every insult, every tear. Tattoo it on the inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I’ve told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to. Mother

Rumor had it TC was black though it was hard to see any trace of skin through the work of his tattoo artist. The obscure ink images blanketed almost all available somatic sites. Body piercing too appeared to be more of a lifestyle with TC than a hobby. The man looked like a nightmare version of Mr. Clean. Myron

His anger seemed out of proportion to the crime. Men. Give them an orgasm and they want...well, probably more orgasms.

Sometimes the hardest battles only exists within ourselves, our mind fighting amongst the demons of thought within our own head.

In tattooing, linework is arguably the most important element. Lines form the basis of our sketches and the stencils used to apply the artwork to the skin.

You always have my attention. When you're in the room, you're my sun.

It's a love story about confessional poets and thwarted playwrights, about sad rock stars and tattoo artists who are fighting with their kids, about messy bisexuals and untidy queers and evangelical Christians who make podcasts about art and girl who write beautiful songs in their bedrooms. About old lovers, new lovers, friends. I think it's a story worth telling.

See . . . um . . . the thing is, I met with Lisa a few days ago. She wanted to apologize for . . . Halloween, and not calling . . . Thing is, her previous story . . . um . . . She wanted me to read it. She . . . wanted to explain her issues. She was jealous . . . of you and me becoming friends and . . . kinda lost it, I guess. My point is, um . . . she used the story to put it into words . . . I think she is writing messages. . . to you.

Adam's gaze quickly shifted from the full tattoo on my face, to the V-neck of my T-shirt and the glimpse of tattooing across my collarbone, down to my palm, which was also covered in the same filigree tattoo. "I didn't know vampyres were getting additional tattooing done. Is your artist here in Tulsa?" I grinned. "Yeah, sometimes. But mostly she's in the Otherworld." I could see he was trying to process what I'd said, so I took the opportunity to blurt, "Hey, you said you don't have a girlfriend, but how about a boyfriend?" "Um, no, I don't have a boyfriend, either. At least not currently." Adam glanced at Damien, who met his gaze. /Success!/ was what I was thinking.

This goes out to all the Rag Tags and the negative shits and anyone else who resents people who have the courage to follow their dreams, and not only that but to show their dreams to somebody else. The planet needs more writers, artists and musicians. More tattooed storytellers. Why so many people seem to resent the storyteller is beyond me. We’re not raging against the machine, but we do want the opportunity to show our art to as many people as possible. What’s so wrong with that? And believe it or not, we won’t go away.

The thing was,I knew exactly how I had survived.Mary had been on to something with her anchor theory,but she was a little unclear on the logistics. Jack told me he dreamed of me every night, and it was as if I were really there. I was in a dark place,and he helped me see. Now Jack was invading my dreams every night. Not a dream Jack,but the real thing. I know this because during one of the first dreams, he told me what the tattoo on his arm said. Ever Yours. The next morning,I rushed to draw the image from memory, and then I researched it. The symbols were artistic versions of ancient Sanskrit words.They stood for eternity and belonging. Ever Yours, just as Jack had said. There was no way my subconscious could have come up with that explanation on its own. I'd finally found the connection Meredith had longed for,the tether from an anchor that kept a Forfeit alive. They were bound together through their dreams,sustaining each other during sleep. When I was asleep,Jack would come to my bedroom and sit on the end of the mattress and face me.He came to me every night,talking about his uncle's cabin, the Christmas Dance, how my hair hides my eyes,how my hand fits in his, how he loves me.How he'll never leave. I spent the first few dreams saying "I'm sorry" over and over and over, until he threatened to stay away if I didn't stop.

As he looked,she did the same.So far she'd always seen him partially clothed,but now...The top part of one arm was a complete sleeve of interwoven Celtic designs that were so beautiful and intricate she could only imagine how long it had taken the artist to tattoo them.On his lower forearm was a Celtic cross with a circle around it and what looked like names scripted parallel to the circle.She'd noticed part of it before but hadn't wanted to stare at him.Now she was looking her fill.On his other upper arm he had the Marine Corps eagle,globe and anchor.

Some of the pain that clients experience is likely from not knowing what to expect. They approach their appointment with tension and nervousness, and they tend to hold their breath when they first get started. As soon as a client relaxes and breathes normally, the tattoo pain becomes minimal.

That night at the Brooklyn party, I was playing the girl who was in style, the girl a man like Nick wants: the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men—friends, coworkers, strangers—giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much—no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version—maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”) I waited patiently—years—for the pendulum to swing the other way, for men to start reading Jane Austen, learn how to knit, pretend to love cosmos, organize scrapbook parties, and make out with each other while we leer. And then we’d say, Yeah, he’s a Cool Guy. But it never happened. Instead, women across the nation colluded in our degradation! Pretty soon Cool Girl became the standard girl. Men believed she existed—she wasn’t just a dreamgirl one in a million. Every girl was supposed to be this girl, and if you weren’t, then there was something wrong with you. But it’s tempting to be Cool Girl. For someone like me, who likes to win, it’s tempting to want to be the girl every guy wants. When I met Nick, I knew immediately that was what he wanted, and for him, I guess I was willing to try. I will accept my portion of blame. The thing is, I was crazy about him at first. I found him perversely exotic, a good ole Missouri boy. He was so damn nice to be around. He teased things out in me that I didn’t know existed: a lightness, a humor, an ease. It was as if he hollowed me out and filled me with feathers. He helped me be Cool

…All prisoners with tattooing on them were ordered to report to the dispensary… After the prisoners had been examined the ones with the best and most artistic specimens were killed by injections. The corpses were then turned over to the pathological department where the desired pieces of tattooed skin were detached from the bodies and treated further. The finished products were turned over to Koch’s wife, who had them fashioned into lamp shades, and other ornamental household articles.

This tattoo hurts like Hel,” Bryce complained. “I can’t even lean against my chair.” Danika countered in a singsong voice, “The artist warned you it’d be sore for a few days.” “I was so drunk I spelled my name wrong on the waiver. I’d hardly say I was in a good place to understand what ‘sore for a few days’ meant.” Danika, who’d gotten a matching tattoo of the text now scrolling down Bryce’s back, had already healed. One of the benefits to being a full-blooded Vanir: swift recovery time compared to humans—or a half-human like Bryce.

A German inmate, Andreas Pfaffenberger, deposed at Nuremberg on this. …All prisoners with tattooing on them were ordered to report to the dispensary… After the prisoners had been examined the ones with the best and most artistic specimens were killed by injections. The corpses were then turned over to the pathological department where the desired pieces of tattooed skin were detached from the bodies and treated further. The finished products were turned over to Koch’s wife, who had them fashioned into lamp shades, and other ornamental household articles.78

and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version—maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)

Anyway, one of the most taboo of all tattoos is the Three Curses.” “The Three Curses?” Kenzo asked, feigning ignorance. “Surely you’ve heard that saying: ‘The snake eats the frog, the frog eats the slug, the slug dissolves the snake.’ At any rate, those creatures are the familiars of the three rival sorcerers. The sorcerer Jiraiya always appears riding on a giant toad, Orochimaru on a snake, and Tsunedahime on a slug. If anyone ever tattooed a snake, a frog, and a slug on one person’s body, the three creatures would fight to the death. That’s why such a tattoo is forbidden. Even if a client begged for that tattoo and offered to pay a fortune for it, the artist would be morally obliged to refuse.

the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: ‘I like strong women.’ If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because ‘I like strong women’ is code for ‘I hate strong women.’)

Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.

Here in Alpha City, we have a common saying: “What we call ‘sky’ is merely a figment of our narrative.” The most dreamy-eyed among us seem to adorn themselves and their aspirations in that proverb and you’ll see it everywhere: in advertisements on the sides of streetcars and auto-rickshaws, spelled out in studs and rhinestones on designer jackets, emblazoned in the intricate designs of facial tattoos—even painted on city walls by putrid vandals and inspiring street artists. There is something glorious about kneading out into the doughy firmament the depth and breadth of one’s own universe, in rendering the contours of a sky whose limits are predicated only upon the bounds of one’s own imagination. The fact of the matter is that we cannot see the natural sky at all here. It is something like a theoretical mathematical expression: like the square-root of ‘negative one’—certainly it could be said to have a purpose for existing, but to cast eyes upon it, in its natural quantity, would be something akin to casting one’s eyes upon the raw elements comprising our everyday sustenance. How many of us have even borne close witness to the minute chemical compounds that react to lend battery power to our portable electronics? The sky is indeed such a concealed fixture now. It is fair to say that we have purged our memories of its true face and so we can only approximate a canvas and project our desires upon it to our heart’s dearest fancy. The most cynical among us would ostensibly declare it an unavoidable tragedy, but perhaps even these hardened individuals could not remember the naked sky well enough to know if what they were missing was something worthwhile. Perhaps, it’s cynical of me to say so! In any case, we have our searchlights pointed upwards and crisscrossing that expanse of heavens as though to make some sensational and profane joke of ourselves to the surrounding universe. We beam already video images of beauty pageants and dancing contests with smiling mannequins who look like buffoons. And so, the face of space cloaks itself behind our light pollution—in this respect, our mirrored sidewalks and lustrous streets do little to help our cause—and that face remains hidden from us in its jeering ridicule, its mocking laughter at this inexorable farce of human existence.

Children displaced from their families, unconnected to their teachers, and not yet mature enough to relate to one another as separate beings, automatically regroup to satisfy their instinctive drive for attachment. The culture of the group is either invented or borrowed from the peer culture at large. It does not take children very long to know what tribe they belong to, what the rules are, whom they can talk to, and whom they must keep at a distance. Despite our attempts to teach our children respect for individual differences and to instill in them a sense of belonging to a cohesive civilization, we are fragmenting at an alarming rate into tribal chaos. Our very own children are leading the way. The time we as parents and educators spend trying to teach our children social tolerance, acceptance, and etiquette would be much better invested in cultivating a connection with them. Children nurtured in traditional hierarchies of attachment are not nearly as susceptible to the spontaneous forces of tribalization. The social values we wish to inculcate can be transmitted only across existing lines of attachment. The culture created by peer orientation does not mix well with other cultures. Because peer orientation exists unto itself, so does the culture it creates. It operates much more like a cult than a culture. Immature beings who embrace the culture generated by peer orientation become cut off from people of other cultures. Peer-oriented youth actually glory in excluding traditional values and historical connections. People from differing cultures that have been transmitted vertically retain the capacity to relate to one another respectfully, even if in practice that capacity is often overwhelmed by the historical or political conflicts in which human beings become caught up. Beneath the particular cultural expressions they can mutually recognize the universality of human values and cherish the richness of diversity. Peer-oriented kids are, however, inclined to hang out with one another exclusively. They set themselves apart from those not like them. As our peer-oriented children reach adolescence, many parents find themselves feeling as if their very own children are barely recognizable with their tribal music, clothing, language, rituals, and body decorations. “Tattooing and piercing, once shocking, are now merely generational signposts in a culture that constantly redraws the line between acceptable and disallowed behavior,” a Canadian journalist pointed out in 2003. Many of our children are growing up bereft of the universal culture that produced the timeless creations of humankind: The Bhagavad Gita; the writings of Rumi and Dante, Shakespeare and Cervantes and Faulkner, or of the best and most innovative of living authors; the music of Beethoven and Mahler; or even the great translations of the Bible. They know only what is current and popular, appreciate only what they can share with their peers. True universality in the positive sense of mutual respect, curiosity, and shared human values does not require a globalized culture created by peer-orientation. It requires psychological maturity — a maturity that cannot result from didactic education, only from healthy development. Only adults can help children grow up in this way. And only in healthy relationships with adult mentors — parents, teachers, elders, artistic, musical and intellectual creators — can children receive their birthright, the universal and age-honored cultural legacy of humankind. Only in such relationships can they fully develop their own capacities for free and individual and fresh cultural expression.

Its melancholy epigraph came from the Greek poet Constantin Cavafy, as translated by Phil Andros: Now and again he swears To commence a cleaner life, But when the night comes With its dark promptings, Its uncertainties and its enterprises When the night comes With its own dominion Over the body, he returns, lusting and searching, Lost, to that same morose delight.*

Jim Kane’s “slave” Ike Barnes was to have been that executor, but Barnes had developed AIDS and died just six months before Steward did. Without a sensitive executor, the contents of the bungalow might very easily have been thrown away, for the little house was a stinking, densely packed mess—and the new executor, Michael Williams, needed to sell the property relatively quickly in order to fulfill his immediate obligations to Steward’s beneficiaries.

The slightest brushing of my hand against my penis was not only a religious sin, but would lead to blindness and pimples, kidney disease, bed-wetting, stooped shoulders, insomnia, weight loss, fatigue, stomach trouble, impotence, genital cancer, and ulcers.” In fact, he so deeply internalized his aunts’ great fear of sexual “filth” that the unintentional discovery that his foreskin could retract (and the sudden sight of his filth-encrusted glans) shocked him so deeply that he passed out cold.

Steward was himself an able poet. His Italian sonnet “Virginia to Harlotta,” written at age nineteen, presciently describes a consciousness divided between virtuous chastity and thankless promiscuity: This is yours: to lie beside him all the night And feel the steady heat come out from him; The coolness of his hands, each slender limb Made restless by the absence of the light… To know the graceless touch, the never-quite- Sufficient kiss of lip on lip, or breast, And when the day comes, grey unwanted guest To see love’s death, each in each other’s sight. And this is mine: a solitary bed, And I so still…unwarmed, untouched, unkissed, With moonlight fingering flowers on my spread, And moaning trees and crying winds and mist… Weave me a spell, O bow-boy, so that he Embracing her sends his caress to me!

I hardly remember not hating my body. I got most of my seven arm tattoos when I was nineteen. I wanted to be able to look at my body and see something I didn't loathe, that was part of my body by my choosing entirely. Really, that's all I ever wanted.

I had the honour of being the first man to introduce to the public (through the columns of the Medical Mercury) the case of Matthew Stevadore, the most highly coloured and artistically executed individual known to science

It’d been difficult to make it as a female tattoo artist in the 1990s, but at that point, she wouldn’t have known what to do if she didn’t have to fight for her place in the world. Every taunt and incredulous look thrown her way was powder in the keg. She wasn’t going to be good. She was going to be explosive.

Because I can’t cross the line of wanting you underneath me if I’m just your friend. So, no, we’re not going to be friends.

She is mine, and only mine, and I will kill anyone who dares to lay a hand on her.

All you need to do is be your gorgeous self. I'll take care of the rest.

Trust me, we know how to share. Not to mention, anticipation only makes things hotter.

What are we talking about?” Tawny asked as Judd rolled a ball, knocked over a few pins, then frowned like he might knock the others over with his angry glare. “Aaron’s going to fix her tat,” Bailey explained while Cooper and Farah wandered off. “He’s an artist,” Tawny cooed. “He made this angel on Judd.” After Tawny showed me Judd’s arm, she put her hand back to where she had a gorgeous tattoo of a fallen angel. “He’s very talented,” she added. “I’m excited to get my butterfly finished.” “He’ll do a great job,” Bailey reassured, taking a ball from Vaughn and rolling it into the wrong alley. “Oops.” “Idiot.” “Be nice or I won’t be nice,” Bailey warned, glaring up at him. “I love feisty women,” he said, smirking down at her. “Not interested. Blond men are usually stupid. Just look at my brothers. Anyway, I don’t want a dumbass loser. I want a smartass winner.” “You deserve nothing less,” I said and Bailey smiled at me like I was amazing.

We lived under the shadow and cover of such naiveté.

He was perfectly formed, all steel flesh, so beautiful naked that it simply hurt to look at him. But she suspected it would hurt more when she no longer could.

Los was a tattoo artist and I felt that I deserved my symbol of respect whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Who is Aaron?” “He and I own a tattoo place,” Cooper said, wrapping me in his arms. “I shelled out the cash and he’s the artist. Known him since middle school. Solid guy and he’ll make sure you’re safe.” I wasn’t sure what my face did, but a smiling Cooper caressed my cheek. “He’s not scary. Yes, he’s sporting a snake up his neck and a shaved head, but the guy’s the real sensitive type. Probably writes poetry.

Open your eyes Harper.” The first thing I saw was his anxious expression in the mirror. He was worrying his lip waiting for my reaction. I inhaled quickly and his body locked up when I looked down to my left side. It was beautiful. There were four large orange lilies wrapped around my hip, and I couldn’t believe how amazing they looked. I stepped closer and took in the perfect shading and detail to each flower. From the sketches I’d looked at and his drawing of me, I had known Chase was amazing, but I’d never thought he could make something like this look so real. His forced swallow was audible, and I realized I still hadn’t said anything. But there were absolutely no words. First my ring, and now this? Did anything get past him? I turned to face him and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Please tell me what you’re thinking.” Unfortunately, I wasn’t. I crushed my mouth to his and he quickly deepened the kiss. Right away the other tattoo artists started hooting and yelling for us to get a room. I pulled back and knew there was nothing I could do about the deep blush on my face. Chase led me back to his table and put ointment and a wrap over my tattoo before fixing my shirt, he was all smiles. “What made you choose those?” He beamed his white smile at me, “I heard you talking to Bree and Mom about them being your favorite. And ever since that day all I’ve wanted to do was get you orange lilies, but I knew I’d probably get punched again. This was my way around it.” “It looks amazing Chase, thank you.” He shrugged, but he still couldn’t contain that smile. “I’m serious.” I grabbed his face with both hands and brought him close, “I love it, thank you.” Chase kissed me once and skimmed his nose across my cheek. “God, you’re beautiful Harper.” My phone rang then, Brandon’s name flashed on the screen. “Hey babe.” “Hey, how’s the tattoo look?” “Um, it’s not done yet, can I call you after?” “I’m going out with some buddies from high school, I’ll just talk to you tomorrow, kay? But send me a picture when it’s done. I love you.” My stomach clenched, “I love you too. Have fun tonight.” I pressed the end button and looked up at Chase’s closed off expression. “Chase –” “So you’ll need to go buy some anti-bacterial soap to clean it.” “Please talk to me.” “I’m trying. Look, here are some aftercare instructions. Don’t take the wrap off for at least an hour. If anything looks wrong give me a call.” He dropped the paper on my stomach and stepped back. “Chase!” “I have another appointment, and he’s waiting. I’ll see you later.” I looked into his guarded eyes and exhaled deeply, “What do I owe you?” “Nothing. It was a gift. But I’m busy, please go.

Harper, wait up!” He caught my arm and spun me around so I was facing him. “You’re not even going to say hi now?” “Hi.” My voice cracked and I kept my eyes to the ground. Chase gently placed his hand under my chin and lifted until I was staring at him through unshed tears. “Baby what’s wrong?” God I didn’t want to hear him call me that. Memories of our times together flashed through my mind and my cheeks instantly filled with heat. “Nothing,” I cleared my throat and blinked back the tears, “it’s just allergies or something.” His look told me he wasn’t buying that, but didn’t push that subject further. Stepping back he hung his head and sighed roughly, shifting his weight a few times, “I haven’t seen you around my house much. I know you don’t want to be with me, but don’t feel like you can’t be there, I won’t bother you and Brandon.” “That’s not why I haven’t been there. I um, I broke up with him.” Chase’s head snapped up, “You did? When, why didn’t you tell me?” He was failing miserably at trying to hide his elated smile. “A little over a week ago. But it hurt me more than I could ever explain to do it, and I need time to get over that. I can’t just rush back to you because Brandon and I aren’t together anymore.” He cupped my cheeks and hunched down so he was almost eye level, “I love you, I’ll give you all the time you need. Unless. Unless you don’t want me anymore?” I pressed my face harder into his left hand and closed my eyes, inhaling his clean masculine scent. “I’ve told you, I will always love you Chase, but I’m still not sure you won’t eventually leave me. Because of that fear, I don’t know if I can be with you. And some things have changed since we talked last, you might change your mind about me altogether.” “That’s not possible.” I pulled his hands off my face and wrapped his tattooed arms around my shoulders. After placing a kiss on his throat I buried my head in his chest, “I wish that were true.” My life had drastically changed in such a short amount of time. For obvious reasons, I’d had to break up with Brandon and now Chase and I were going to have a baby. Because of the turn of events, I found myself wanting a life with Chase more and more, I wanted him to be there for me and his baby. Here, wrapped up in his strong arms, I could almost let myself believe it might happen. But Chase was about to graduate college, he was a tattoo artist and spent most of his mornings surfing. I couldn’t see him settling down with me and our baby. “It is Harper,” his voice cracked when he said my name, and tears started falling down his face, “I love you so damn much, why can’t you see that?” Oh

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Cal opens a drawer, pulls out a sketch pad and charcoal and sets them down on a drafting table. 'Let's draw.' I smile the way I did as a child when receiving a fresh box of 64 Crayola crayons, unabashedly showing all my teeth. I remember how much I used to love to draw, and I wonder why I don't do it anymore. I write, I guess. I draw with words, but when I see Cal's pad and charcoal, I'm overwhelmed with the feeling that it's not the same. I use my words, my artist's charcoal to describe what I'm thinking. He draws with an imperfect fluidity, pausing only occasionally to shade the drawing with his thumb or brush the paper with the back of his hands. He listens and nods and doesn't interrupt. And when I'm done speaking he looks at the drawing, and his eyes get really big. Slowly, he turns his pad around for me to see. My heart stops and then starts. 'Yes,' I say. It's perfect. Alive with added detail and beautiful Inuit soulfulness I couldn't have even imagined sitting outside in my car. My fear is gone. There's a tingling in my skin, like I can feel the thousand needle pricks to come. I am alive.

And the artist, Jaume Plensa’s philosophy?” “No, not that.” Philippe continued, his voice becoming quietly intimate. “I read an interview with him that touched me deeply. The feeling he expresses through this work is that letters are like bricks. They help us to construct our thoughts. He described his belief that our skin is permanently and invisibly tattooed with the text of our life experiences, and then someone comes along—a friend, a lover—who is able to decipher these tattoos.” Biting

About half of them have spider web tattoos on their elbows, and the other half look mean enough to have killed the tattoo artist before he even loaded the ink in the gun.

It was as close as I had ever come to having power over someone, and I equated it with love.

Hey, Hayley,” I say as I sit down and pick up one of her action figures. She has Barbies, too, but she would rather play with her Legos and building blocks. Maybe she’ll be an engineer one day. Or maybe she’ll be an amazing tattoo artist like her dad. I make her action figure kiss her Barbie, and she giggles. “I think they’re in love,” I whisper. “Like you and my daddy,” she says back quietly. I nod. And emotion clogs my throat again. I turn my head and cough, and then I dump a box of Legos on the floor. “I think Barbie needs a fortress,” I say. She nods, and we start to build a plastic fortress together, because sometimes a girl just needs a fucking fortress.

Aztek Ink is one of the best high quality tattoo studios located just south of Chicago in Blue Island, Illinois. Get in touch to find the perfect tattoo for you.

You are truly terrifying.” “I fell in love with a heavily tattooed biker tattoo artist from the wrong side of the tracks and was disowned by family and friends. Then I raised an openly gay son in a community that’s sometimes intolerant. I learned sweet only gets you so far before you gotta cut someone off at the knees.” “Vicious.” “You fucking know it.” “How

Amanda Lee Manuel is a co-owner and manager of a tattoo studio. She is also an aspiring tattoo artist with a talent for alternative modeling and a gift for writing poetry.

This juicy, little punk ass ducky shoes nigger wants to be our girls' tattoo artist." Lamar starts flipping out. "OH, HELL NO!" They slammed the door on Yuan; he was left speechless. Just when he was leaving, they opened the door again. "Hey, pony white Kevin Hart midget. Get your ass over here. We tryna see what you can do. You fill me,

I’ve seen it all. Heard it all. Some days I wonder if I’m a tattoo artist or a fucking therapist.

Hailing from Vancouver, Canada, Amanda Lee Manuel is a dynamic figure with a range of professional roles. As a co-owner and manager of a tattoo studio, she showcases her artistic talent and commitment through meticulously crafted designs, reflecting her dedication to her craft.

If you ever look at a man the same way you look at me, I’ll kill him and fuck you with his blood around my hand.

I smile, but it falters when I reach his pectoral muscle and find a new tattoo in the spot he left blank on purpose. My hands freeze as I study the artistic patterns of the lotus flower and make out the elegant font beneath it that reads Property of B. King. He had it inked on the spot that he said was for something special.

19th century “Women’s doctor” named J. Marion Sims was the spiritual founder of the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center.  Sims received a very brief medical training before he began performing surgery.  While some tattoo artists develop their skills by practicing on the skin of pigs or even the porous skin of a grapefruit, Sims began his training on a group of slave women from the southern United States.

What Zoey had mistaken for tattoos on her arms and legs was actually henna. Some of it was dark brown, as if done recently, but some was lighter, almost the golden color of Charlotte's skin, like an impression left in sand. Her face was narrow, her eyes were large and blue, and her blond eyebrows were feathered into unruly wings at the tails. She was fascinating to look at, like a piece of art you had to stare at a long time before it made sense.

But then I remembered what it was like to have him destroy me, and no matter how easy it was to remember that high, it was impossible to forget that low.

Atelier Eva is a luxury tattoo studio in Brooklyn, NY, with an accepting atmosphere and safe space for people of all backgrounds, beliefs, and walks of life. Owner Eva Karabudak has gathered a family of talented fine line tattoo artists hailing from diverse backgrounds that form the foundation of their individual styles. Instead of conforming to one single vision, each tattoo artist is free to explore, express, and create in a spa-like tattoo experience that is transforming the tattoo industry.

With deeper awareness, our art reveals what energies we are bringing into our lives, as well as what we need to heal.

There was a brief flash of anger in Josie’s eyes. “I thought Sabrina kept my name out of it. She’d promised that she would.” “She kept her word, but you went with her to meet an artist. She wanted him to draw a sketch of the tattoo you saw on your attackers. He mentioned your name to me.

The first of these that we know of is the Löwenmensch. It is an extraordinary piece of work, around twelve inches tall, the figure of a man with a lion’s head, and an important piece in understanding our evolution. Of the artist, it shows profound skill, fine motor control and foresight in selecting the right bone and having a plan to carve this figure. It shows an understanding of nature, and reverence of the animals in the ecosystem that impact upon the lives of those people. Crucially it shows a willingness to imagine a thing that does not exist. The figure is a man, as determined by the genitals, and has seven stripes cut into the left arm, almost like tattoos. It was found deep inside the cave at Hohlenstein-Stadel in 1939, in an almost secret vault, a kind of cubbyhole that also held other objects – carved antlers, pendants and beads. The inference is that these objects were precious, possibly things with totemic significance. Nearby in the Vogelherd Cave, figures of a mammoth and a wild horse have been found, and the ornately carved head of a cave lion. Perhaps cave lions at this time were iconic of a ceremonial cult, and the cut marks on the arm meant something important on this mythical creature. Perhaps.

Pretension hung in the air like an unacknowledged fart, and at each show, I felt two tattoos and a master's degree short of fitting in.

Even in two-dimensional works you can convey the sense of touching a variety of surfaces by using implied texture. You can use line, value, color, pattern and contrast to create simulated textures on flat surfaces.

Minimize, or tone down, other compositional elements in order to bring attention to the focal point. Backgrounds can be made lighter or darker in value, crisper or softer in focus, or textured or not textured, to lend support to where you want the eye to go.

You can always go back after a tattoo has healed and add additional dark, but you can’t take it away once in the skin (short of tattoo removal). Thus, it is helpful to err on the side of too light when you are new to tattooing and let your client know to come back for a follow-up visit to adjust levels and possibly build up color.