{"id":240,"date":"2023-05-03T22:19:04","date_gmt":"2023-05-03T22:19:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/shoeleathermagazine.com\/2023\/?p=240"},"modified":"2024-09-04T17:23:12","modified_gmt":"2024-09-04T17:23:12","slug":"the-new-tattoo","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/shoeleathermagazine.com\/2023\/the-new-tattoo\/","title":{"rendered":"The New Tattoo"},"content":{"rendered":"

The pages of Pili Ojos Magnificos\u2019 notebooks are filled with abstract shapes, jarring colors and jagged lines \u2014 daring depictions of another dimension. Sitting in their bedroom, gesturing toward their forehead and opening a metaphorical third eye with their fingers, Pili describes the process by which they channel their tattoo designs from the cosmos.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI feel like I\u2019m a funnel,\u201d the Baltimore-based tattoo artist says, as their fingers trace a cone-like shape above their head, nearly touching near the crown and widening as they ascend. \u201cSomeone comes to me and they\u2019re like, \u2018I have this image, I want this,\u2019 so I translate it into my style. I listen to their story \u2014 I listen for what medicine they need.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\"Tattoo
(Courtesy of Pili Ojos Magn\u00edficos)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Pili is a tattoo artist, but the label doesn\u2019t begin to encompass the work they do. Alongside a number of other <\/span>artistic endeavors<\/span><\/a>, Pili has taken the traditional American tattoo experience and flipped it on its head. They see tattooing as a ritual, a return to the Indigenous or familial roots of their clients. They want their customers to walk away not just with new ink, but also with a new sense of self-confidence, rooted in their ancestry and background.<\/span><\/p>\n

The self-taught artist\u2019s creative process begins long before they actually tattoo, gaining momentum during a nearly hourlong, \u201ctherapy-based\u201d consultation over Zoom. Pili referred to these exchanges as \u201cvetting calls.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

During the calls, the artist and prospective client \u201cexchange energy\u201d and discuss their respective ancestral lineages. Pili wants to know what their clients are going through and how that\u2019s informed by their background \u2014 something they said leads to clients sharing heavy, intimate facts about their lives.<\/span><\/p>\n

This sentiment translates to the aesthetics of Pili\u2019s tattoos, too. Non-personalized designs are not enough for the artist. During the tattoo ritual, they aim to open what they call a \u201cblood portal,\u201d a point of passage to past generations, and an opportunity to provide an offering to this distant, oft-forgotten family. Seeing into that portal allows Pili to create a design that speaks to the client\u2019s wants, needs and ancestral trauma. They then explain the design\u2019s meaning to the client and make any necessary adjustments.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are you at? Who are your people? What do you remember?\u201d Pili asks, chronicling the questions they ask their clients during the pre-tattoo exchange. \u201cIt\u2019s so important to understand the emotional state. If I only focused on designs, I would start to forget my clients.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\"Collage
(Courtesy of Pili Ojos Magn\u00edficos)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Pili\u2019s practice is multi-dimensional, informed by their Colombian ancestry, Miami upbringing and New York City schooling. The young, self-taught, fairly new tattoo artist is forging their own path in the industry \u2014 but not alone. Their tattoo ritual, which focuses on consensual and trauma-informed care, is part of a larger movement in the tattoo industry, one that centers the client\u2019s and artist\u2019s emotional wants and needs.<\/span><\/p>\n

The tattoo experience is moving away from the kind of transactional exchange that one typically associates with modern tattooing \u2014 a quick, stenciled design, a gesture to the ATM in the corner and a swift push out the door. Pili, at the center of an innovative Baltimore circle, is leading the way in including the client in the process, from before the tattoo is designed to days after it is completed, often establishing long-term relationships along the way.<\/span><\/p>\n

A growing group of artists have also come to terms with an often-unacknowledged emotional burden taken on by tattoo artists, and are equipping themselves with the tools they need to protect themselves, along with their clients. As a result, the level of care they offer goes far beyond an ink-to-skin exchange. Clients seek this new level of care, many having sought the service in the traditional space first before turning to the alternative.<\/span><\/p>\n

But within an industry that\u2019s steeped with history \u2014 from prohibitions to pin-up girls, over hundreds of years \u2014 many traditionally trained artists long for the heritage that, to some extent, is being left behind by new generations of tattooers. Others are grappling with the reality that new shops attract a new clientele, diversifying an already burgeoning industry into something they have trouble recognizing. Some of these artists question whether new artists teaching themselves how to tattoo might compromise a staunch connection to tattooing\u2019s cultural background.<\/span><\/p>\n

Many new tattooers like Pili, in part by choice and in part due to the impacts of COVID-19, forgo traditional tattooing apprenticeships and teach themselves instead.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI’ve had a lot of backlash because I’m self-taught, and I think that it\u2019s very colonial and gatekeeping,\u201d Pili said. \u201cWe should not shame people who feel inclined to prick their skin with ink \u2014 like, that’s so human. It’s very natural for people to experiment with those things \u2026 Being self-taught is a grind that people really underestimate.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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A Trauma-Informed World<\/i><\/strong><\/h4>\n

An artist based in Brooklyn, New York named Tamara Santiba\u00f1ez is at the forefront of the movement toward trauma-informed tattoo. A queer, transgender, multi-medium artist, Santiba\u00f1ez works out of a collective studio that they share with a handful of other tattooers. With a long career of tattooing behind them, and experience constructing oral histories of the industry, they know what the traditional tattoo world looks like \u2014 and they\u2019re sympathetic to its faults.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI think the big reason that tattoo artists were so notoriously bossy or authoritarian in their spaces was developed as a tactic to resist real danger,\u201d they said. \u201cTattoo shops used to be places where people were at a higher risk of being robbed, or of violence, or of people behaving really badly.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Several years ago, Santiba\u00f1ez worked closely with the Women\u2019s Prison Association, which provides recovery services to women who have been impacted by the criminal justice system. It also offers a free, trauma-informed tattoo cover-up service to imprisoned women with unwanted tattoos. The organization\u2019s website features the testimony of a woman who was <\/span>branded with her abuser\u2019s name<\/span><\/a>. Over 85% of imprisoned women have been sexually assaulted, and this is just one example that serves as evidence of the impact that unwanted ink can have on one\u2019s mental health. After tattooing women with the Women\u2019s Prison Association, Santiba\u00f1ez knew something had to be done.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIn that instance, it was kind of an immediate need \u2014 people had been tattooed in a way that was violent,\u201d Santiba\u00f1ez said. \u201cHow could we tattoo them again in a way that would empower them and remind them, every step of the way, that they were in control, and it was toward their own agency and empowerment?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Santiba\u00f1ez\u2019s work with the Women\u2019s Prison Association inspired them to create a free, point-by-point guide for tattooers wanting to incorporate trauma-informed care into their own practice. Working with artist K. Lenore Siner, who was featured on the reality television show \u201c<\/span>Ink Master<\/span><\/a>,\u201d Santiba\u00f1ez developed their Client Bill of Rights. The <\/span>downloadable resource<\/span><\/a> covers everything from the importance of maintaining a sanitary tattoo environment, to promoting open communication between artist and client, to providing accommodations for people with disabilities.<\/span><\/p>\n

Published in 2021, \u201cTattooing as Liberation Work\u201d is perhaps Santiba\u00f1ez\u2019s most impactful mark on the tattoo industry. Described on the artist\u2019s website as \u201cpart manifesto, part love letter, part workbook,\u201d their bright orange pamphlet covers straightforward concepts like consent and how the physical space of a tattoo shop is arranged. It goes further, though, delving into more complicated conversations about transformative justice and intergenerational trauma \u2014 all of which, Santiba\u00f1ez argues, present themselves in the tattoo space. And the artist has made trauma-informed care profitable too, offering <\/span>online workshops<\/span><\/a> for $45 and <\/span>one-on-one consultations<\/span><\/a> for $120, both services catered toward tattoo artists hoping to transform their practice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"tattooing
The cover of Tamara Santiba\u00f1ez\u2019s \u201cTattooing as Liberation Work.\u201d<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Santiba\u00f1ez admits there are issues with using the term \u201ctrauma-informed,\u201d though, noting that trauma and its treatment can mean many different things for different people. Because of this, they said they centered the book, and several of its chapters \u2014 which include \u201cAn Intersectional Theory of Client Care\u201d and \u201cModeling Community Accountability in a Shop\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u2014 on liberation and justice, rather than trauma. Their goal is to empower customers and artists to implement the practice, not bind them to a strict set of guidelines that may feel overwhelming.<\/span><\/p>\n

To create a comprehensive guide to incorporating trauma awareness in the tattoo world, Santiba\u00f1ez thought about those who deal intimately with clients\u2019 bodies across other industries \u2014 think sex workers, yoga teachers and acupuncturists \u2014 and interviewed them.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Their community outreach doesn\u2019t end there, though. At the beginning of the pandemic, they also hosted a discussion group with other tattoo artists, aiming to create an avenue of support for those whose work was altered significantly by the advent of COVID-19.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe spoke about tattoo ritual, magic, working to divest from capital, utopian visions of tattoo futures, long-distance tattoo science fiction fantasies \u2014 topics that felt miles away from what the mainstream tattoo industry was attuned to,\u201d Santiba\u00f1ez wrote in their book\u2019s introduction.<\/span><\/p>\n

Santiba\u00f1ez represents a growing subsection of the tattoo industry that has adopted trauma-informed care, but the practice has spread across the personal services industry as a whole.<\/span><\/p>\n

Trauma-informed or trauma-aware practitioners, from tattooers to social workers to \u2014 believe it or not \u2014 <\/span>gardeners<\/span><\/a>, acknowledge the near-constant presence of trauma in their clients\u2019 daily lives. They recognize their ability to influence people\u2019s responses to trauma, and the potential for their treatment to be both healing and re-traumatizing. Incorporating a trauma-informed approach looks different in every industry, but can be as simple as asking for consent before touching someone, or offering them a glass of water during a tense moment.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe have to always be mindful that the person across from us might be impacted by trauma, and that there are many things that we can do unintentionally that can trigger and re-traumatize them,\u201d said James Rodriguez, a longtime social worker who is the senior director of clinical initiatives at New York University\u2019s McSilver Institute for Poverty Policy and Research. \u201cThat could be anything \u2014 it could be the tone of my voice that reminds someone of an abusive parent, or the smell of my cologne that reminds them of an abuser.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The idea of managing trauma isn\u2019t a new phenomenon, and encompasses an area of research transformed by the 1995 <\/span>Adverse Childhood Experiences study<\/span><\/a>, Rodriguez said. Researchers from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and Kaiser Permanente studied the prevalence of adverse childhood experiences, or ACEs, which include abuse, neglect, domestic violence, economic stress and exposure to a family member who struggles with addiction.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In the research, which altered the field of psychology, they found that more than two-thirds of the population was affected by at least one ACE \u2014 and that these traumatic experiences led to toxic stress and, therefore, a host of negative physical and mental health outcomes. After the study illuminated the prevalence of trauma in the general population, principles of trauma-informed care gained popularity, though mostly within a clinical, psychological setting.<\/span><\/p>\n

Just after the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, Rodriguez moved to New York City, and immediately got involved in administering trauma treatments for children who had been affected by the tragedy. He said that 9\/11, as was the case for other mass tragedies, gave a boost to the newfound focus on trauma-informed treatment within health care, and made more people aware of the prevalence and impact of traumatic experiences.<\/span><\/p>\n

Inching closer and closer to the mainstream, this wave of trauma-informed care doesn\u2019t seem to be slowing down. Rodriguez said that widespread issues like COVID-19 and heightened political divisions in the United States have created an <\/span>increased demand for therapeutic services<\/span><\/a>, and an overall need for empathy and trauma-informed care.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf you were to ask me what a trauma-informed world would look like, it would look a lot more compassionate,\u201d Rodriguez said. \u201cIt would look like people are more concerned about each other’s safety.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

In his work with NYU\u2019s McSilver Institute, Rodriguez offers training and technical assistance to both mental health clinicians and people working across a number of other industries who want to incorporate trauma-informed care in their workplace. Rodriguez said that, to him, incorporating trauma-informed care within the tattoo industry makes a lot of sense, and even has the potential to increase practitioners\u2019 profits \u2014 whether that\u2019s the artist\u2019s intention or not.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt involves being close to people, it involves injecting people, it involves pain for people, so there’s all these factors that are involved and can potentially be re-traumatizing to folks,\u201d Rodriguez said. \u201cFor the tattoo industry, I can understand why being careful, being gentle, being mindful of how you’re talking to folks \u2014 but also your proximity to folks \u2014 all of those kinds of things can make a difference.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Though fairly new, Santiba\u00f1ez\u2019s book, which focuses on many of these considerations, has circulated within Brooklyn, and to artists across the country. Artists who are aware of trauma-informed tattooing know who Santiba\u00f1ez is, and often have a copy of their book sitting on a table in their studio space.<\/span><\/p>\n

Preparing for a day of tattooing, Brooklyn artist Stephanie Tamez was sketching designs alongside her wife, tattooer Virginia Elwood. Tamez said Santiba\u00f1ez\u2019s book has informed her practice considerably, calling it \u201cgroundbreaking.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Elwood agreed, saying that her work, too, has shifted significantly over the last couple of decades \u2014 informed both by her own intuition about customers\u2019 needs, and by Santiba\u00f1ez\u2019s resources. She said that while 20 years ago she would have just rolled up a client\u2019s sleeve herself when she needed access to the area, now she asks for consent \u2014 she ensures the client is comfortable by asking if they\u2019d rather roll the sleeve up themselves.<\/span><\/p>\n

Many clients appreciate the new level of care practitioners like Elwood provide too \u2014 whether they\u2019re directly influenced by Santiba\u00f1ez or not \u2014 and many actively seek it out. One such client is Terra Marzano, a private practice social worker from Oregon. Marzano knew that whoever she paid to do her next tattoo had to express a level of inclusivity and sensitivity she rarely saw advertised by traditional shops.<\/span><\/p>\n

Marzano had previously had positive experiences at traditional American tattoo shops. She has a small, impulsive tattoo on her foot, but wanted more for her next addition \u2014 a large piece which was to span her sternum and cross under each of her breasts. Marzano, 48, got the large tattoo two years ago, and said she was nervous about the vulnerability it would require, at least in part due to her age. Older than the models that most tattooers feature on their websites or social media accounts, she made a conscious effort to find an artist that showcased tattoos on different body types, and on people from marginalized communities. This indicated to Marzano that the artist was \u201csensitive to different human experiences.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She said that when she arrived at <\/span>Desert Sun Collective<\/span><\/a>, a studio in Portland, she was greeted at the door by her tattooer, Mia Celeste, and welcomed in.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGet stabbed with a needle \u2014 enjoyable??\u201d the collective\u2019s website reads. \u201cYES! With a chill environment, mellow music, and artists who care about your well-being, you\u2019re sure to walk out of the studio with a lovely piece of art and memories of a good time!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The employees at Desert Sun made a conscious effort to make her feel comfortable, but not in a \u201crehearsed\u201d or \u201csterile\u201d way, she explained. Although there were male tattooers present \u2014 one of whom came over to look at the tattoo\u2019s progress midway through \u2014 Marzano recalled that she did not feel self-conscious at all.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI was on a table with my top exposed, and they were just really patient with me and patient with everybody in the space,\u201d Marzano said. \u201cIn very subtle ways, part of what I experienced is real, genuine openness: \u2018We have a lot of time, there is no reason to rush. If you want to take a break, let’s take a break. If you’re not sure, let’s take a break anyway.\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Marzano\u2019s preference for trauma-informed care does not just present itself in tattooing \u2014 she has developed an appreciation for the practice throughout her time as a therapist. She noted the <\/span>financial burden<\/span><\/a> and time commitment often required to implement trauma-informed care. Whether the shift requires longer appointment times or renovations to a clinical space, Marzano emphasized the importance of sacrificing these disruptions for an elevated level of care.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere’s a wide range of artists available, and thinking about who I would support felt important to me,\u201d Marzano said. \u201cIt matters who gets the bigger platforms, and whose work is elevated, so it felt for me like this was an opportunity to find somebody \u2014 it’s sort of like voting with your dollars.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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If Jay-Z Died Tomorrow<\/i><\/strong><\/h4>\n

The appeal of the trauma-informed model isn’t immediately clear to some old-school tattoo artists. Many haven\u2019t even heard of the phenomenon. Maintaining successful practices themselves, they have stuck to the ways in which they always tattooed, and have kept their seasoned clients while also gaining new, young, diverse customers. However, some take issue with the new wave of budding tattooers, lamenting the loss of traditional training, old-school values and the history of the art form.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tucked away inside a red-doored apartment building on First Avenue, in the heart of New York City\u2019s Lower East Side, lies Fine Line Tattoo \u2014 one of the city\u2019s oldest tattoo shops. Now owned and operated by Mehai Bakaty, trained by his late father, Mike, Fine Line found its start in the younger Bakaty\u2019s childhood home, at a time when tattooing was illegal in New York.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\"tattoo
The interior of Mehai Bakaty\u2019s tattoo studio, inside of a studio apartment on First Avenue.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

New York City\u2019s tattoo ban was <\/span>instituted in 1961<\/span><\/a> and lasted nearly 40 years. The city claimed the prohibition was due to an outbreak of hepatitis, but the true reason behind the ban is <\/span>hotly contested<\/span><\/a>. Shortly before it was finally lifted, Mike and Mehai signed a lease on a storefront for Fine Line, and Mehai now operates out of a studio apartment behind the original space<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFor allowance money, I would clean the tattoo shop, stuff like that,\u201d he said of the makeshift studio his father had built inside their Lower East Side loft. \u201cI’d get home from school, he’d be working, and I\u2019d take a nap to the sound of the tattoo machine. The first tattoo design I ever drew, I think I was about 10 years old. I just kind of plastered a couple of things together. He ended up putting that design on the wall, and I thought, \u2018Oh man, that is fucking cool.\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Because of his family ties to tattooing, Bakaty\u2019s apprenticeship didn\u2019t quite match the blueprint. He started informally at a much younger age than most, and didn\u2019t have to seek out a shop \u2014 he had one built in. But he represents a generation of artists who had to learn much of the process manually, with exclusively word-of-mouth knowledge and limited equipment. Bakaty said that there were only about two tattoo supply houses in the entire country at the time \u2014 now, he said, there are hundreds. Because tattoo equipment was so hard to find, it was accepted that artists would make their own needles, ink and machinery.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDad would go and buy packs of bicycle spokes, and we\u2019d sit there and bend the needle bars by the loose needles and tack them together with solder,\u201d Bakaty said. \u201cYou know, buy the powder pigment for inks, and mix them all together. That’s a traditional apprenticeship.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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A shrine to the late Mike Bakaty, hanging on the wall inside Fine Line Tattoo.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Though an apprenticeship traditionally lasts five to six years, give or take, Bakaty said he\u2019s noticed that changing. Now, largely because information on how to tattoo is easily accessible online \u2014 <\/span>TikTok<\/span><\/a>, <\/span>YouTube<\/span><\/a> and other platforms host free, instructional videos and showcase people documenting their learning experiences \u2014 and people have the ability to order nearly anything you\u2019d need to open a tattoo shop off of Amazon, anyone can learn to tattoo.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Though artists like Pili Ojos Magnificos find that to be liberating, a sign of inclusivity, Bakaty thinks some things can\u2019t be taught online.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPainters in the Renaissance used to have to know how to make their own brushes, they used to have to know how to mix their own pigments,\u201d Bakaty said. \u201cNow you can go to the art supply store and buy everything pre-made, pre-packaged. You don’t even have to know how to cook to survive anymore. You just get Blue Ribbon or whatever. You know, follow the instructions. And that’s it. We live in a very well-packaged society these days.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Mehai Bakaty\u2019s workspace.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Bakaty said he frequently comes across young artists who aren\u2019t even aware that in the very recent past, the craft was banned in the city they\u2019re working out of. Many artists also no longer have mentors to educate them on making their own needles and ink, and don\u2019t learn about the figures who, as he said, \u201ccarried the craft through the years.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe heroes, the tattoo gods, are falling by the wayside, and that\u2019s a shame,\u201d Bakaty said. \u201cIt\u2019s just sad. It\u2019s sad to see, having grown up like that. It\u2019s like if Jay-Z died tomorrow and nobody knew who he was in 10 years, or cared. Which is probably what\u2019s gonna happen.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Bakaty is in agreement with Pili and Santiba\u00f1ez on at least one front, though: the political power of tattooing. He takes issue with the sentiment that the craft\u2019s power to liberate is new, though, tracing this capacity back thousands of years. He said that tattooing has always been tied to trauma and selfhood, and expressed reluctant gratitude that the art form\u2019s politics have come back into conversation. He\u2019s just less inclined to talk about trauma explicitly, unless the client goes there themselves.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The tattoo chair at Fine Line Tattoo, lined with flash designs.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

\u201cI think very much that tattooing is often desired by people going through severe trauma, or just coming out of some trauma, and they need that thing to anchor them back in their own body to take control,\u201d he said. \u201cI’m not trying to demean anybody’s work, but to me, it kind of goes without saying, and it’s almost a little gauche to go there. In my experience, a lot of the time people are getting cathartic tattooing, they don’t necessarily want to talk about it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Nearly every day, Bakaty experiences the same emotional burden discussed in Santiba\u00f1ez\u2019s book. He said that, often, clients will \u201cunload\u201d their traumatic experiences onto him. His father used to describe being a tattoo artist as \u201csomewhere between being a therapist, a prostitute and a shaman,\u201d alluding to the many, sometimes-unnamed hats that a tattooer wears while a client is in the chair. But, as he says, taking on that load is \u201cnot necessarily what my job is.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI’m not a therapist. I am not a clinical technician. I’m an artist. I’m a tattooist,\u201d he said. \u201cThere is a psychology to it. But to go out of the way to suggest that that’s the service you’re offering? You’re drawing on people. Let\u2019s keep that clear.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Mehai Bakaty in his studio.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Bakaty still knows artists who don\u2019t care to listen to their clients \u2014 artists who will put headphones in while they work, closing themselves off to the interaction altogether \u2014 but he admits that the industry has changed drastically, from \u201crough and tumble\u201d to \u201celevated\u201d and \u201cartistically minded.\u201d He said he sees some of this shift as a business strategy, an excuse to charge more for what he sees as largely the same service.<\/span><\/p>\n

Though tattoo pricing varies significantly, often depending on an array of factors \u2014 including time spent drawing, the complexity and size of the tattoo, the colors used and the time spent on the table \u2014 old-school artists like Bakaty have taken issue with the fact that newer artists may be charging more for their tattoos, which are given in a boutique space, and offered alongside a host of additional services.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Prices aren\u2019t typically disclosed until a client discusses the design and expectations with the artist, and generally don\u2019t account for an added tip. Standard minimum rates fall around $100-120, but these can increase significantly if a therapy-like discussion or more ritualistic practice is included.<\/span><\/p>\n

Although Bakaty takes issue with many younger artists who, because of their self-taught status, have sacrificed much of the traditional tattooing knowledge, there is a significant portion of the tattooing community that has experienced both sides of the industry \u2014 the old-school, traditional apprenticeship model, and one of their own making. They\u2019ve learned within the intense, every-man-for-himself craft, but have actively decided not to impart that model to their prot\u00e9g\u00e9s.<\/span><\/p>\n

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I Had to Fight<\/i><\/strong><\/h4>\n

Newly in labor, soon to give birth to her first child, Kristel Oreto pulled out a pen, scrawled out a quick message, and stuck it to the door of the tattoo shop she was working in \u2014 a notice to her colleagues and clients that she was unavailable, on her way to the hospital. Oreto, then just 18 years old, was tattooing clients until that very day, and returned to the shop less than a week later. As a young woman trying to make her way in a notoriously unforgiving industry, she felt as if a day off could compromise her career.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now in her late 30s, the artist said she \u201csold her soul to tattooing.\u201d. When she was 15, she got her first tattoo and sat in on another friend\u2019s appointment. During her friend\u2019s session, the shop\u2019s owner was out for the day, so the tattooer let her assist with the process. He then encouraged her to attend a convention taking place in Florida two weeks later, showcasing only the work of female tattoo artists. By the time she was 18, Oreto was tattooing full time.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know that women could tattoo,\u201d she said. \u201cAt this point, there\u2019s less than 500 lady tattooers in the world. I decide I\u2019m gonna go. I go, and I\u2019m locked in. I felt like I actually belonged somewhere, and I was like, \u2018I\u2019m gonna do this.\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Despite Oreto\u2019s resolve, her entry into the tattoo world was no easy feat. She set out to find an apprenticeship, but was turned down again and again, thrown out of countless shops because she was a woman.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOne guy actually told me the only reason a woman should be in a tattoo shop was either sucking dick or answering the phone,\u201d she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

When she finally found a mentor willing to teach her, another male tattooer working in the shop threatened to quit. Luckily for Oreto, her mentor resolved to teach her anyway, and the disgruntled colleague packed his things and left. Though she had finally found an apprenticeship, Oreto said she felt as if she had to work harder than her male colleagues to prove her worth. And she wasn\u2019t the only one.<\/span><\/p>\n

After hearing that many of her colleagues and friends had experienced much of the same treatment, including what she described as \u201cthe common things, a little bit of sexual harassment,\u201d the artist eventually decided to open her own shop in Philadephia \u2014 one that would cater not just to women, but to anyone who felt excluded by the traditional tattoo space. With Now and Forever Tattoo, she wanted to transform the tattoo experience, facilitating for artists and clients a more welcoming space than the one she grew up with.<\/span><\/p>\n

After wrestling her way through the trials and tribulations of old-school, traditional tattooing, she decided to take a stand against some of its flaws, instead creating a women-led, inclusive atmosphere and hiring young, self-taught artists. Physical services are important to Oreto, but so is a general atmosphere of inclusivity. The identities of her two children \u2014 a 21-year-old transgender son and a 20-year-old queer son \u2014 have helped fuel her desire to create a safe space. And for some, these efforts seem to resonate.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOreto is a magician,\u201d wrote one reviewer, who said that they and their partner have been getting tattooed by the artist for over a decade. \u201cAs a trans person, tattoo shops can feel intimidating, but Kristel has always been professional, welcoming, caring and knowledgeable.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Now and Forever Tattoo opened in 2022, funded by the money Oreto earned from her X-rated OnlyFans profile that helped sustain her and her family during the height of the pandemic, a time when many tattoo artists were put out of work completely. The shop is situated on Philadelphia\u2019s bustling Front Street, marked by a larger-than-life black candy heart design plastered to the storefront\u2019s floor-to-ceiling window. The interior is brimming with life and color.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The exterior of Now and Forever Tattoo, on Philadelphia\u2019s Front Street.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Now and Forever differs drastically from the traditional tattoo shop, still reminiscent of the bikers and punks that once dominated the scene. Heavy metal music, pictures of nearly naked women and harsh language may come to mind when picturing the traditional tattoo experience \u2014 and for a long time, this was not an incorrect characterization.<\/span><\/p>\n

At Oreto\u2019s shop, though, vintage furniture upholstered with bright shades of velvet forms a living room-like huddle, and gilded gold mirrors line the walls. Ceramic animals \u2014 a leopard, a parrot and at least two tigers \u2014 are scattered throughout, and a taxidermy gazelle, deer and moose join the bunch. A vintage gumball machine filled with flowers, and ornate stained glass lamps radiating multicolored light add finishing touches to the already sense-shattering, yet somehow quite calming, space. The tattoo chairs almost feel like an afterthought, here and there throughout the multi-level studio.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Now and Forever Tattoo.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

But this is merely the backdrop for the new level of service offered by Oreto and the artists who rent her space. None of them are professionally trained in trauma-informed care, and they don\u2019t advertise it. However, Oreto said that the principles are constantly front of mind and integral to her practice.<\/span><\/p>\n

At Now and Forever, clients are offered pillows, privacy screens, and drinks and snacks from a full service kitchen. Oreto\u2019s learned how to make herself feel comfortable when getting tattooed, with over 20 years of experience in doing so, but wants new clients to feel at ease during the painful process too. She recognizes that not everyone will know how to care for themselves during the process.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI’m constantly checking on my person,\u201d she said. \u201cWhen I go get tattooed, no matter what shop I go to, I’m rolling with a goodie bag \u2014 I got snacks, I got a drink, I usually got a gummy, I got a joint rolled. I am ready to go. But somebody else coming in might not be as prepared as I am. It definitely makes the process easier on everybody \u2014 It’s an intimate process regardless.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Decor, including flash designs, inside of Now and Forever Tattoo<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Like Bakaty, Oreto acknowledged that the traditional apprenticeship model is observed for a reason, but thinks it should be a lot quicker than the five-to-six-year model Bakaty referenced. She said that apprenticeships have gained a bad reputation, based at least partially on <\/span>rumors<\/span><\/a> and partially on lived experiences. Now, she said, the industry is in an \u201cin-between world,\u201d with some still enduring the status quo and others, perhaps impatiently, resolving to learn how to tattoo on their own.<\/span><\/p>\n

She agrees that much of traditional tattoo knowledge is lost in this shift \u2014 from practical skills like how to respond when a client passes out in the chair, to the historical and cultural knowledge that old-school artists like Bakaty yearn for. She feels disrespected by young artists who don\u2019t care to learn about artists like her and her predecessors, who painstakingly paved the way for today\u2019s tattoo artists\u2019 ability to work freely.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI had to fight to get where I was, like literally fight,\u201d she said. \u201cNot knowing that history of it is terrible \u2014 you have no idea where any of this started, or where it came from \u2026 If you’re going to do this and dedicate your life to it, then you should have enough respect for the craft to find out how you were able to do this.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Some younger artists, even those who have not undergone traditional apprenticeships, still understand and appreciate what the old-school model imparts. They aren\u2019t necessarily dismissive of the tradition, as some old-school artists assume, but simply found that it does not work for them. For instance, Marcella Harvi, who works under the name \u201cMothMommy,\u201d taught herself how to tattoo. Starting in 2018, she was tattooing from home, but she met Oreto last spring and opted to join Now and Forever.<\/span><\/p>\n

Harvi\u2019s feelings about traditional apprenticeships are complicated. Because the pandemic coincided with her beginnings as a tattooer, she didn\u2019t have the opportunity to complete a traditional apprenticeship at the start of her career \u2014 something she, to some extent, regrets. She said that even if COVID-19 hadn\u2019t impacted the trajectory of her career, though, she may have been hesitant to start out in an old-school shop, referring to traditional space as \u201ctrad.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere’s sort of this \u2018trad\u2019 attitude of like, \u2018Oh, you have to earn your spot, pay your dues. I went through this, you have to too, this is just the way it is,\u2019\u201d Harvi said. \u201cIt’s like, sure, learn, but you don’t have to be abused to do this job. You don’t have to go through all that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Harvi said that the industry has shifted a bit, allowing self-taught artists like her to enter the traditional scene to an extent, and for women and nonbinary folks to feel more comfortable. Although she\u2019s proud of her self-taught status and feels lucky to work out of an inclusive shop like Oreto\u2019s, she sometimes wishes she had a more old-school upbringing. She said that, at the beginning of her tattooing experience especially, she did some work she isn\u2019t incredibly proud of. The permanency of the work she did while learning weighs on her to this day.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI’ve come to respect the traditional way to do it so much more,\u201d Harvi said. \u201cPart of me is like, \u2018Damn, I wish I was trained traditionally,\u2019 because as there’s so much that I don’t know, and I have been just kind of like fucking around my entire career and just being like, \u2018I don’t know what I’m doing, but I guess this is right.\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Since starting at Now and Forever, Harvi said she has learned a wealth of information and wisdom from Oreto. She appreciates the safe space the more experienced artist has created, and leans into the resources the arrangement offers, including some of the trauma-informed practices.<\/span><\/p>\n

Rachel Stover, another tattooer who started working at Now and Forever within a few months of Harvi, is also self-taught, and runs into the same conflict: Do the benefits of being self-taught outweigh the costs of losing out on a traditional apprenticeship?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Stover, who can be found online under the name \u201ctuffbabytatts,\u201d said they think traditional tattoo culture is still a \u201cboys club,\u201d recalling male tattooers their friends worked with that were, as they described, \u201cfucking mean.\u201d But Stover, too, sees the industry changing, opening up to more people like themself.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Before starting at Now and Forever, they exclusively did stick and poke tattoos, done without the electric tattoo gun found in most shops. They learned how to use the machine with Oreto\u2019s help, and said they were grateful for the uniquely supportive environment they found at her studio.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPeople want to share information more now, and part of it is from this healthy place of seeing that people are going to tattoo no matter what, and wanting them to have the knowledge of how to do that better or more safely,\u201d they said. \u201cIt\u2019s wanting to impart that information so that people can grow more quickly and do less damage to bodies, because you can screw people up really quickly if you’re tattooing with less precise techniques or the wrong equipment.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Stover said that this change is a win-win, allowing younger artists to forge their own paths in the industry by offering a level of care, concern and safety they don\u2019t find when visiting \u2018trad\u2019 shops themselves.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf [Oreto] gives us the space to work more safely, and also the opportunity to learn how to do what we do even better, that\u2019s a mutually beneficial situation,\u201d Stover said. \u201cNobody loses.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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You Tell Them to Shut Up<\/i><\/strong><\/h4>\n

Just a few miles south of Now and Forever sits one of the city\u2019s oldest tattoo shops; Philadelphia Eddie\u2019s Tattoo. The shop was established by Crazy Eddie Funk, whom the still-standing shop\u2019s <\/span>website describes<\/span><\/a> as \u201ca legendary tattooer and a fierce friend.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Crazy Philadelphia Eddie,\u2019 born Edward Funk, sprang from the beer-and-blood soaked tattoo parlors of Coney Island, New York, circa 1952, to dominate the Philadelphia tattoo scene so completely that he took the city\u2019s name as his own,\u201d reads a 2004 Philadelphia Inquirer article written ahead of his retirement at age 67.<\/span><\/p>\n

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A young Crazy Eddie (Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Eddie chose his career path at age 15, and never looked back. When the tattoo ban hit New York City, turning most of the market underground, Eddie moved to Philadelphia and set up his own shop. He sold supplies from his own company, United Tattoo Supply Co., and traveled the world to tattoo. At the time, tattooing was reserved for rebels, military men, gangsters and bikers \u2014 biker culture is still inextricably linked with the tattoo scene, with large groups of Harleys <\/span>still flocking<\/span><\/a> to tattoo conventions across the country.<\/span><\/p>\n

Eddie, a biker himself, adopted a wild life as well. In a <\/span>2016 documentary<\/span><\/a>, he said he\u2019s been married four times \u2014 two of them were sisters, and one of them he married twice, something he described as \u201ca real fuckin\u2019 no-no.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSince I was a kid, people called me crazy,\u201d Eddie said in the documentary. \u201cI didn\u2019t give a fuck.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

His influence went far beyond the stencil, too. \u201cI only drink screwdrivers because Eddie drinks them,\u201d one young artist said to the Philadelphia Inquirer at a toast for the legend\u2019s retirement.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The entrance to Philadelphia Eddie\u2019s Tattoo shop.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Though the industry longstay passed away in 2016, he sold his shops to tattooers that worked for him, and his legacy lives on in two shops \u2014 one in the city\u2019s Chinatown neighborhood, and another on South Fourth Street. One member of the original crew, who goes by the name Eastcoast Charlie, still tattoos regularly from the Fourth Street location.<\/span><\/p>\n

Though most of the crew has passed on and dispersed, some younger artists have joined and taken on the shop\u2019s history. Clay William Willoughby, who works at the Chinatown shop, has been tattooing for nearly 20 years. In a conversation that took place on a scratched-up, wooden church pew pushed against the shop\u2019s side wall, Willoughby shared some glimpses into the studio\u2019s rich and rocky history, including a story about one tattooer who died in the shop\u2019s lower level.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Philadelphia Eddie\u2019s Tattoo on Arch Street, in Philadelphia\u2019s Chinatown neighborhood.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

\u201cHe had a heart attack or stroke in the basement or something \u2014 he was actually living down there. It’s full circle,\u201d Willoughby said. \u201cIt started out as one of those rough shops. Eddie was with the Pagans or the other motorcycle club that was around, I forgot their name. He was crazy Philadelphia Eddie, and this is his shop.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Eddie\u2019s shop atmosphere is much more traditional than Now and Forever. The space is awash in loud music and the faint smell of cigarette smoke, both blending with the sound of buzzing tattoo guns stationed throughout the fairly small space. The walls are lined with oversized flip books and frames of flash tattoos \u2014 pre-drawn designs that are typically framed to display artists\u2019 work and spark inspiration for walk-in customers who aren\u2019t sure what to get permanently impressed onto their bodies.<\/span><\/p>\n

One wall features flash branded with \u201cSailor Jerry\u201d stamps, a reminder of one of the tattoo industry\u2019s most influential figures. Unknown to most outside of the tight-knit traditional tattooing sphere, Jerry is behind many of the traditional American tattoo designs, seen everywhere in shops, but less and less on people\u2019s bodies.<\/span><\/p>\n

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A wall of classic Sailor Jerry flash designs at Philadelphia Eddie\u2019s.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Born Norman Keith Collins, Sailor Jerry enlisted in the U.S. Navy at 19 years old. While mostly tattooing men in the Navy, he traveled to Southeast Asia where he picked up inspiration for many of his signature designs. He was known for drawing nude pin-up girls, anchors, snakes, dice and bottles of alcohol, and many old-school artists adhere to his designs, or new iterations of them, almost religiously.<\/span><\/p>\n

Eddie\u2019s shop remains an old-school institution, but even the artists it employs have noticed a shift in the industry. The intimidation factor of traditional shops \u2014 ripe with the residue of biker culture and heavy metal music \u2014 has begun to fade, giving way to shops more like Now and Forever. The pillows, complimentary snacks and constant communication offered at Oreto\u2019s shop don\u2019t exist at Eddie\u2019s \u2014 and it doesn\u2019t seem as if they ever will.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou give them a beer, give them a number, and, you know, make friends with them,\u201d Eddie told the Philadelphia Inquirer, of his customers, in 2004. \u201cAnd you tell them to shut up.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Willoughby doesn\u2019t have a problem with the new types of shops, though he described them as more \u201cspa- or boutique- related,\u201d with a sigh. He recalled being frightened by the typical tattoo shop when he was first starting out, describing the scene as \u201ca bunch of bikers and burly burly-looking dudes\u201d who were \u201calways in a bad mood.\u201d Information \u2014 like how to make equipment or where to buy supplies \u2014 was not accessible, and the industry was based on skill alone, not inclusivity or feeling.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhen I started, there was no information\u00a0\u2014 you had to get everything through apprenticing at a shop, hoping the guys you\u2019re working with are giving you real information, not disinformation,\u201d Willoughby said. \u201cBack then, the goal was they wanted you good enough to take little walk-ins but not good enough to be better than them. What took me a year to figure out, people can do in a month, because it’s all at your fingertips.<\/span><\/p>\n

Willoughby said a market still exists for traditional shops and, though his clientele has shifted a bit, he\u2019s been able to navigate the industry as it changes. Though he doesn\u2019t want new artists to go through what he did, he said much of the tradition of old-school American tattoo is being lost with a new generation of tattooers and their ideas.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBottom line is, the traditional part of tattooing is to have fun and make a dollar,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019re an artist, but you’re not restrained by the art world. You don’t care about whose gallery show is where, because you’re making art every single day. And people have to live with it. It\u2019s the only canvas that talks back.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Martin LaCasse, who\u2019s been tattooing at Olde City Tattoo \u2014 a shop just a couple miles from Eddie\u2019s \u2014 for 22 years, had a similar experience as an apprentice. He recalls being forced to trace flash designs that were hung where the walls met the ceiling, all the way around the shop. When he finished one row, the shop would pay him $10. Then, he would start again.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Though the multi-year apprenticeship was taxing mentally and physically, he stuck with it, in hopes of becoming a full-fledged tattooer. \u201cI wanted to do it really, really bad,\u201d he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Olde City Tattoo\u2019s storefront.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Of trauma-informed or therapy-based tattooing, LaCasse wasn\u2019t too sure.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI did not know that people were trying to do this, and make it with this therapy thing,\u201d he said. \u201cNot my style \u2014 will never go along with that. But to each their own. I’m sure there’ll be a clientele for it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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The interior of Olde City Tattoo.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Although he does have clients who want to talk about their trauma \u2014 he said he\u2019s done tattoos where a client will bring a deceased relative\u2019s ashes and he\u2019ll mix them with the ink \u2014 it isn\u2019t his style to engage.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI just kind of let them talk \u2014 sometimes it’s just them talking,\u201d LaCasse said. \u201cI’m not really listening. I’m like, I’ve got enough problems on my own here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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The Re-Indigenization of Tattoo<\/i><\/strong><\/h4>\n

Though much of the trauma-informed and new age tattoo trend caters to younger generations, in a sense it can also be seen as a return to the past of tattooing \u2014 one that began long before tattoos arrived in America. Tattooing has been practiced in nearly every culture, going back thousands of years, the first discovered tattoo dating back to at least 5,000 B.C.E. Lars Krutak, who identifies as a \u201ctattoo anthropologist,\u201d described the ritual nature of tattoo across Indigenous cultures, one which is reflected, at least in part, in some of the newest tattoo trends promulgated by artists like Pili and Santiba\u00f1ez.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAcross the Indigenous world, tattooing was almost universally ritualized because it reenacted ancestral practices and mythic traditions, binding each tattoo recipient to a deeply felt collective history,\u201d Krutak said in an interview. \u201cIn turn, tattooing traced a pathway through the world that individuals navigated in the attempts to acquire new knowledge of themselves, their cultural past, and their position in the world.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Much of this Indigenous tattoo practice continues today too, with artists around the world carrying on their cultures\u2019 ink-based traditions. Holly Mititquq Nordlum, a traditional Inuit tattooist from Alaska, works out of her home, giving friends, family and community members traditional chin and knuckle tattoos, each of which is rooted in I\u00f1upiaq folklore. A short, two-part documentary she co-produced in collaboration with the Anchorage Museum, titled \u201cTupik Mi,\u201d explores her connection to the craft and the emotional charge behind these traditional tattoos.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIn Inuit culture, art isn’t a separate thing. It’s part of everyday life,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd it has a lot more to do with spirituality \u2014 honoring everything, and finding everything beautiful, and representing that in some way. And then the tattoos, of course, are a natural extension of that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

In the documentary, an Inuit woman named Eva receives a tupik chin tattoo \u2014 a mix of several full and dotted lines emanating from just below the lips to the bottom of the chin \u2014 from Nordlum. She looks in the mirror and tears up, quietly contemplating the new addition. Nordlum, too, said that she was struck by the feeling she experienced just after getting her own.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tattooing is about community and connection for Nordlum. Though the artist identifies as a \u201chealer\u201d and acknowledges the importance of emotional repair through tattoo, especially when tied up by so much ancestral history, she knows her limits.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI can’t bear the burden of each story, right?\u201d she said. \u201cSo, when they come in, I listen. I care. I love, I cry, I hug \u2014 it’s all wonderful. Then, they leave, and I don’t remember shit. Like, I just can’t take that on. I mean, I have to, I am a product of trauma as well, so I don’t need more of it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

This connection to the tattoo world, which <\/span>reaches back much earlier<\/span><\/a> than the dawn of American tattooing, isn\u2019t lost on some of the new-school artists creating a place for themselves in the industry. Pili, the artist working in Baltimore who aims to reconnect to this kind of practice, doesn\u2019t see what they\u2019re doing as new \u2014 their practice is merely a return to the work Nordlum and other Indigenous artists have been doing for centuries. They see their spiritual work and Santiba\u00f1ez\u2019s trauma-informed work as a reminder of what tattooing has lost, and a celebration of what it can become again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAll of this is part of a larger re-indigenization process of tattooing and a remembering, a revisiting, a revitalizing of the original intentions behind tattooing, which is not specific to any people,\u201d Pili said, explaining the vast array of cultures that tattooing has presented itself in over time. \u201cThis is something that we all had a connection to, and that we all still feel really called to. I think it\u2019s a really special portal.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

For Pili, the potential for the growth of this kind of tattooing is limitless. Nordlum, a native Alaskan who now lives in a largely Republican state and neighborhood, recognizes the backlash her traditional tattoos, often very visible on the chin and knuckles, can sometimes cause. \u201cEvery white dude and every white, old lady’s gonna give you a dirty look \u2014 that is a given,\u201d she said.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Pili, who said that they used to be nervous that their tattoos would hold them back in society, recognizes a political power laden in this sentiment.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTattooing, for me, is a way of having these decolonial, radical discussions and creating a safe space for people to really remember who we were before fear separated us and made us betray one another, and betray ourselves,\u201d they said.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The New Tattoo?<\/i><\/strong><\/h4>\n

Whether a new phenomenon or simply a reconnection with tattoo traditions tracing back thousands of years, trauma-informed tattooing \u2014 and trauma-informed everything \u2014 doesn\u2019t seem to be going anywhere. But even though it\u2019s impacting artists and clients alike, it\u2019s unlikely to disrupt the tradition of the old-school tattoo shop entirely.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPeople aren\u2019t just paying for tattoos, they’re paying for an experience,\u201d said Dusty Kiskaddon, a sociologist and tattoo artist who works in Portland. \u201cThey’re paying for a chance to have a certain kind of interaction with someone, and to leave that interaction with something they’re inspired by.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

While completing his Ph.D., Kiskaddon became a tattoo artist. His dissertation, \u201cBlood and Lightning: The Embodied Production of a Tattooer,\u201d investigated the \u201cembodied labor of tattooing,\u201d or the ways in which tattooing impacts artists physically, mentally, emotionally and morally. The work, which Kiskaddon will elaborate on <\/span>in a book<\/span><\/a> set to be published next year by Stanford University Press next year, was largely informed by his experience as an apprentice and work as a tattooer. He tattooed over 400 people as part of his ethnographic research, and said that one of his favorite parts of the tattoo industry is its versatility.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEven in the same neighborhood, you could have a biker shop, where no one in there is going to ever have discussed consent in the way that you would talk about it in the shop that’s like six blocks away,\u201d Kiskaddon said. \u201cIt’s really awesome that there’s a sort of plethora, or rather an ecosystem, of tattooing that can kind of cater to some experiences in a way that it’s almost specialized.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Kiskaddon said that, in his experience, trauma-informed tattooing has allowed people from previously excluded backgrounds to get tattooed and find a real place within not just a shop, but in the industry as a whole. \u201cThat discourse matters \u2014 it’s important that people are talking about bodies, about race, about trauma, about identity, about fatness,\u201d Kiskaddon said.<\/span><\/p>\n

But, as he added, tattooing doesn\u2019t always have to be like this. Sometimes artists should stick to their roots.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPeople like to go get tattoos too, it doesn’t have to be all meaningful and intense,\u201d Kiskaddon said. \u201cThere\u2019s room for everyone \u2014 some tattoos are done over beers while listening to loud music, because someone wanted to have, like, a really rad Saturday.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Abby graduated from New York University with a degree in Journalism and English Literature in 2023. During\u00a0her\u00a0studies, she worked with New York City publications including NY1 and the New York Daily News, and served as the Managing Editor of the Washington Square News. Over the past year, she worked in lifestyle journalism with Better Homes & Gardens and Homes & Gardens, and she is now pursuing a master’s degree in Investigative Journalism at City, University of London.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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