I have no tattoos. Not even a tramp stamp. I'm an artist, yet never felt so strongly about an image that I wanted someone to permanently draw it into my epidermis. Starry Night on my nails, sure. I like to watch the mini masterpieces fade over the course of the week, chipping here and there until it resembles nothing like the intoxicating view outside Vincent's sanitarium. But never, ever a tattoo. It's not that I'm afraid of the pain -- maybe the commitment.
I had a friend in high school, who decided to get his favorite band scribed onto his forearm. That band happened to be Tool. No imagery from the videos, or posters or CD booklets..but just the four letter band name in a blue rectangle. To anyone unfamiliar with the Los Angeles area rock band from the 90s, this young man had labeled himself a complete tool. Even the most hardcore Tool fans amongst our friends found this comical. That young man went on to become (from what I see on FB posts) quite a good tattoo cover-up artist and has surely covered up his own unwise teenaged choice. But that's not even why I don't have a tattoo.
What does a tattoo really mean? It is, mostly something to be seen. To be shown to others, so that they may admire, comment, question. I, for one, do not like talking to others. So wearing a conversation piece does not interest me. Does this make me uncool? Most definitely. If cool means being impressive to others, then yes, I most certainly am not that. Do I like cool stuff? Do I feel like my interests are worth sharing? Perhaps. Who knows. It really has nothing to do with me spending money on writing on my skin. Flesh rots into the dirt or burns into ash. You can even survive without it, as many burn victims do. I let life scar me, and wear my art in my personality. In the eternal scheme of things, my skin is ephemeral and I accept this. Made of cells both living and dead, the beauty is already there, no need for frills.
