tattoo part three

It was in these very hills that I got my first tattoo.

No.

But when people see my tattoo for the first time, they usually ask me what it says or what language it's in.


I say, "It's in Dnalsjian."

Saeshan ni'shou means water in the sand, and it's written in a language my brother created - actually one of many. Frank has created an entire world, with whole histories, maps, myths and folktales, ecosystems...

Seems like he's used every avenue possible in his ongoing fleshing out of this world. He's written stories, drawn creatures, plants and landscapes, made globes, written music - one time he took an old dining room table and painted the map of the world across it. The smaller lettering in my tattoo was taken from his writings.

Frank's latest medium is computer art. The picture at the top of my post is somewhere in the hills of Old Minzaron. Which, for all you travelers out there, is on the continent of Mersinoe, which is north of Dnalsj.

One of the things I love the most about his work, beyond the skill in it of course, is how he's able to create landscapes that seem equally real and alien.

Here's one more.


And here's what Frank says about the tasty treats in the picture:

"...their fleshy meat, though pungent, is considered a delicacy to many peoples in the region. Wealthy aristocrats from distant nations will pay exorbitant amounts to have it shipped great distances to be prepared at their courts....personally I'm not a big fan, but then again, I have simple tastes."

These small images don't do the pieces justice, of course. Click to enlarge and really see the detail. Then visit his Renderosity page here.

tattoo part two

I got my first tattoo from a guy named Salt Rock. He spelled his name with a dollar sign.

I'd been a bit obsessed with tattoos for a while and when I finally made the decision to go under the needle myself, for my thirty-fifth birthday, it was a kind of walk in off the street thing. Saw a place, went in, made an appointment for the next day. The place was called Evil Mind, and it was the luck of the draw whether I got $alt Rock or Tortilla Ted.

$alt Rock had a dollar sign the size of a jujube on his forehead and the letters of his tattoo nickname spelled out all Night of the Hunter on the backs of his fingers. And one of those big shaded tattoo hearts or roses - something red - along with the name of his wife or girlfriend (ex-girlfriend? one-night-stand?) on the back of his hand. When he said he'd done that one himself, I felt very at ease about my little lettering design.

When I look back on it now, the thing that sticks in my mind is the moment I could have let it all go wrong. That's the thing about the person I was then - and try not to be now. The first time he positioned the design on my ankle (he took a xerox of it, got it damp and pressed a transfer against my skin) - OK, I spoke up, I said he'd put it too high. Fine. He took a wet cloth and wiped my leg off and started over. But the second time, he had it on there crooked. The lettering, instead of slanting down, went straight across.

I couldn't believe I was going to have to tell him a second time that I wanted him to redo it. And this was not some sort of crusty bulldog tattoo guy - he had a big red heart (rose?) and the name of a beloved (once-beloved? once-be-lusted? imaginary?) woman (shih tzu?) on the back of his hand - there was no reason for me to be afraid to say something.

I stared at myself in the full length mirror - intrepid Amazon warrior woman out to get her boss tattoo - but it took $alt Rock being pulled away to the counter to schedule some piercings for two probably twenty year old girls - for me to work myself up to saying, uh, yeah, see, if you didn't mind...

And he didn't. And he said, sure, hey, no problem. And then without wiping the crooked stencil off and repositioning it again, he turned and started the tattoo machine into whirring.

Oh my god, what the hell. I do not want to have to say something again.

For one idiot moment, my brain actually decided that maybe he could straighten it out freehand. It was that important to me to not have to speak up.

He brought that buzzing electric needle over and pointed it at my skin and I finally said

"Um?"

Apparently when I'd said to him, see, the tail of that N should be pointing straight down, he figured he could just leave the rest of it the way it was and adjust the tail. When I think of all the time I schemed and mulled and reveled over (in?) that design, and then I got so close to letting it sit wrong on my skin

forever

Egads.

tattoo machine

Another window display for the month of August. I'm going to stick with the top part of it so that the picture doesn't lose the cool tattoo machines the author let me borrow to include. I have to say, it was a little exciting just having those things in my hands. Ooooh, dangerous! And shiny!

(OK, there aren't any needles in them.)

The book is Tattoo Machine - a memoir that is full of brash and hilarious and fascinating and flesh-crawling and at times poetic stories of a crazy tattooing life. Jeff Johnson, the author, lives here in Portland and owns Sea Tramp Tattoo Company, the oldest tattoo shop in the city.

I wanted to include a snippet from the book - in fact, I had in mind a certain story that made me laugh out loud, but

I just can't.

It's just too

I think my fingers are too wussy to transcribe the story of the Cleveland Puke Walker.

Wow, I just said puke in my own blog.

(Heck, if Shakespeare can say it, I can.)

One of the fascinating things about tattoos, of course, is their permanence - or mostly-permanence, anyway - and even Jeff Johnson has made choices he regrets. To set this up, Jeff has gone to another tattoo artist, Matt Reed, to see if Matt can cover up a tattoo on Jeff's arm, that he wishes he hadn't gotten.

"I've got good news, and I've got bad news," Matt Reed said.

"The good news had better be that you can cover this up," I said.

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"That is the good news," he replied. I sighed with relief.

"The bad news is that it's going to be a shark biting an anchor."

I wish I could include the whole story of the origin of the tattoo Jeff had to have covered up with the shark biting the anchor - I will say it did involve a Las Vegas Elvis wedding chapel - but what I really want to put out there is his lovely musing on the subject. Tattooing someone's name on your body forever...

Beware the meathead dork who won't tattoo names. Art is an exercise of the imagination. If an artist can't imagine that a perfect stranger might have a chance at happiness, then I doubt they can imagine very much at all.

and

At the time I got the tattoo underneath the shark biting the anchor, it seemed like a good idea. My mind recoils from any deep probing of that period, like a tongue poking around a shattered molar hole, but a hazy overview summons up a feeling of general well-being and happiness associated with that time. I was having fun then. It was a lighthearted period eventually made sober by fanatics and by growing up. I was that young person. Things change, but history is real and permanent. I can lie to myself all I want, but there on my arm is a shark biting an anchor, a memento of failure and poor judgment, impermanence, and the worthlessness of personal fiction. Maybe we all need such a totem.

Nice.