The tattoo’s imprint on the skin of culture has certainly gone through some changes.
The indelible mark on the small of my back stands as a testament to these changes. I got the tribal design when I was 16 — a Samoan doodle or Rorschach kind of inkblot that, if you really use your imagination, might evoke fantastical comic book weaponry or two stylized dragons in a romp together.
Recently, though, it’s come to my attention that the tribal tattoo doesn’t signify my lifelong membership in some enigmatic ethnic group, though I thought it did. These days, ass-proximal sissy markings like mine bring to mind the sort of bimbos who liked to give their men a little cheeky art to admire when made love to from behind.
That’s why, a decade after I’d gotten what is now widely considered a “tramp stamp,” I found myself revisiting the man who cattle-branded me so I could forever be reminded of graffiti that said “Youth (and Stupidity) Wuz Here” (and how much of a cultural wasteland the late ‘90s were).
“So, do a lot of old clients now in their mid-20s come crying to you to erase the evidence of their youthful ignorance?” I ask Gene Testa, whose eponymous studio has endured on the third floor of Robinsons Galleria’s Essenses wing for 14 years now.
“Medyo. Pero more of para sa work nila,” Testa tells me of the sorts of cases where one’s profession gets in the way of epidermal self-expression.
“Mas nagiisip na talaga ang tao, hindi yung basta’t naiinggit siya, kukuha din siya ng tattoo,” he continues. “Although may mga ganon pa rin. Pero pumipili na talaga kung saan sila magpapagawa ‘saka may alam na sila sa gagawin nila. Less ang mga nagsisisi after 10 years.”
The friendly neighborhood tattoo parlor
Tattoo artists like Testa can’t deny that skin art appreciation and education came about because of a reality show that had a group of big, bad tattoo artists wearing their inked hearts on their sleeves. Miami Ink exposed the general viewing public to the sunny and soap operatic lives and times of characters once considered on the outs with society. Due to the show and its interstate — and even international — spin-offs (LA Ink, London Ink), the tattoo artist has made the leap from counterculture to pop culture, making even Bible Belt moms less squeamish about what was historically a pagan practice.
The perception of tattoo parlors as gateways to hell — grimy joints that suggested death metal debauchery, criminal hideaway, or drug den (the tattoo needle not too far from the hypodermic needle) — would soon perish. After all, what were now increasingly recognized as tattoo studios had flatscreen TVs on the wall. The place where your body-as-a-temple got desecrated had gone upscale, something you looked upon like the filthy rock star’s slick pad on MTV Cribs.
A proliferation of friendly neighborhood tattoo establishments would reveal that Manila was watching Miami Ink. Making the glitziest entrance was P & P Tattoo Studio in Makati’s Bel-Air Village. Here was a glorified tat retreat co-owned by the son of Philippine cinema’s Action King, launched with a party of boldfaced names, and carrying top-tier tattoo paraphernalia like black gloves, green soap, and the same ink used on Miami Ink. “Skin bling” was how owner Ron Poe described P & P’s wares, heralding the tattoo’s local transition from battle scar to status symbol. That P & P wasn’t just a studio but a lifestyle shop hawking hoodies, sneakers, hookahs, and even scented candles also proclaimed the shift of a once-deviant art into the realm of casual commerce — especially with the gimmickry of X-Box gaming as you got poked and prodded, flatscreen viewing included, of course.
Then, following the refinement and reintroduction of tat culture in Manila was the concept of the tattoo café. Setting up coffee shop and studio in Makati was Vice Ink, which attempted to make the buzz of an electric needle as everyday as a coffee buzz. Although the café was soon shuttered due to patronage that came more for the ink than the drinks, evident as an indiglo etching on skin was the tattoo’s ascent into a premium product.
Almost out of nowhere, even more prominent was the celebration of the local skin art industry via the big brand-sponsored annual Dutdutan festival. There were also fine femmes like former beauty queen Maggie Wilson and rock darling Sarah Gaugler who soon proudly bore branded skin for magazines. Last year, I’d even gotten word of a tattoo parlor and spa. And while it has become possible in this day and age to treat yourself to a skull and crossbones imprinted on your chest in the same way you would a pedicure, the tattoo’s ubiquity was duly affirmed by companies using skin ink to communicate cool to the masses — a Globe Tattoo campaign here (with yes, Sarah Gaugler as an endorser) and a new line of tat-patterned Twinkle Ferraren for Freeway bikinis there.
Capitalization, yes; saturation in society, maybe not. But what the new renaissance in tattooing has exhibited is that customers aren’t just patrons and curators of their skin art. The increased accommodation of tattoo culture has evolved both client tastes and artistic techniques, leading to greater collaboration between the two. “Ten-plus years ago, when I used to get tattoos the old-school way, you’d give your design and it was kind of a pressure situation. What we’re trying to do now is let the client be part of the artistic process, from working out the size to throwing ideas around,” says co-owner of Vice Ink Raoul Olbes of ye olde days of tattooing, when even traditional powder-based ink limited both vibrancy and artistry. “The inks now are so good — they’re made to last, to stay black rather than turn green. And so there’s been a transition from markings — the Kalinga or Maori tattoos — to art. People are applying skills and techniques that are used in oil and canvas, watercolors and pastels, but it’s on your skin.”
The (Permanent) mark of a man
Back then, even just the act of walking into a tattoo studio required a bit of daring, imploring your self-need to be so damn bad. I’m reminded of something the actor Ryan Reynolds once said about tattoos being “the Walmart of rebellion” and how he needed them to show the world how much of a serious person he was. In a daze from the hippie electronica (a.k.a. chillout music) of 1999, my 16-year-old self had picked his tat design out of one of the clear books lying around in Gene Testa’s shop, simply intent on giving the world a crude “F-You” that’d go with a nice tan. Oh, the irony of getting inked to show how indifferent you were.
People may be more enlightened about what they’d like to exhibit on their epidermis these days but, more often than not, what drives to actually get a tattoo remains the same. It’s about caring enough about something — a sign, an image, a phrase — to stick by it for the long haul. On the tenth anniversary of my tattoo, I’d come to Testa to make my former self disappear — all for quadruple the price I’d paid to get it done.
Still, that 16-year-old in me had something to say. And though it wasn’t as profound or vivid as what your design blog-educated hipster kid would have had emblazoned, it was something he was passionate enough about to stain his skin for.
Tattoo trends change. We change. But when I hit the beach this summer and someone asks me about what the marking/art/what-have-you on my back represents, I’ll smile and say, “Oh, that? Not so much a representation but a reminder not to forget this crazy kid who helped me get to being here — to being me.”
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Go to www.sqwander.blogspot.com for a Q&A with skin art pioneer Gene Testa, who talks about the needling tattoo artist scene, backstabbing tat artists and all.