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INKEDblog takes you beneath the skin of today's tattoo culture. Our mission is to celebrate tattooing as a modern art form which incorporates art, fashion, style, and pop culture. While paying homage and respect to the past, we look to present a contemporary take on the present and future of skin art.
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Wednesday Sep 21, 2005
Justin Pelegano's Tattoo Stories - "Um…ouch"
Um…ouch
Ah yes, the tattoo wing man. Or, of course, wing woman. The friend we drag along to the studio to keep us company, share our pain, and keep us in the chair while we ink. They’re an invaluable resource, and here’s to ‘em. But going it solo brings its own perks. It’s empowering and intimate. And on those bigger pieces, during those longer sessions, sitting alone for a tattoo artist inevitably leads to a slew of fascinating stories and conversations. Unless, that is, you’re content sitting in silence like a cloistered monk. I never am.
Hour two into a go-it-solo three-hour session at Scared Tattoo down on Canal Street. And the tat artist MB is putting the finishing touches on my back piece. Over the whirl of the machine I’m learning the dangers – and I mean dangers capital D – of self-tattooing. MB got his start in the rough house parlors in Philly where back in the day the shops were run by bikers. Cue surly tat-itude. Turf wars were the norm, and it wasn’t uncommon for the new studio on the block to get a welcoming brick through its window. Competition and all.
“I was working in a mean little place that sold ink and other less legal substances. And there were bikers everywhere. I was the runt of the litter, but I got along okay. And there was this dude who just constantly hung out at the shop, and he was always high. And he was always nagging at the artists to teach him how to tattoo. So one day, totally fed up, one of the artists hands him a self-starter kit and tells him to go into the bathroom, pick a part of his body and tattoo himself, and maybe they’ll give him a job. They were messing with the guy. They knew he was whacked out on something and that tattooing yourself isn’t even a smart move sober. Your own adrenaline makes it nearly impossible to keep the needle steady. Like an hour later, the guy comes out of the can with his pants down, and everyone in the place busts out laughing. The moron had tattooed a shark – or what was supposed to be a shark – ‘down there.’ It was all bloody and the tat looked foul. A giant blue blob. They never saw him again.”
Enough said.
Sacred Tattoo is in Chinatown, NYC.
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