[Th]Inking Outside the Box

On tattoos, freedom, and the radical art of owning your own skin.

Honey, would you put a bumper sticker on a Bentley? 

Well, if I liked the bumper sticker. Yeah, I most definitely would. 

My sister and I have nine tattoos between the two of us. And I have plans for many, many more. This comes as somewhat of a shock and disappointment to our parents, who have, for my entire life, strongly advocated against this form of permanent body art. It was never an act of rebellion against them, however. My sister and I are also both extremely fond of jewellery. Always have been, too. Rarely do I leave the house without at least eight rings littering my fingers, long and chunky earrings swaying in the breeze or four necklaces layered around my neck, inevitably getting tangled in my hair or jumpers. I am of the definite opinion that tattoos are a kind of permanent jewellery. And, while there has been considerable growth in the tattoo industry over the past century, the stigma has yet to disappear entirely. 

So I ask: why is it that, after thousands of years of tattoo traditions across hundreds of cultures, jewellery is still far more accepted in today’s society? Perhaps modern Western culture simply fears permanence, favoring fleeting consumerism and insubstantial trends over ancient tradition. I digress. 

I suppose then, in some ways, tattoos could be interpreted as a kind of quiet, subtle rebellion against societal expectations, particularly in our world, and particularly for women. I could go into the history of heavily tattooed women in the 19^th century who chose to tattoo their whole bodies because it gave them autonomy not only over their bodies but also over their lives. In a period of history when a woman could not make a living for herself without being married, having an inheritance, being indentured, or being a courtesan, these women carved their own path. By choosing to cover their bodies in tattoos, they were essentially proclaiming that they would rather be marginalised, ostracised, viewed and ogled as freaks than suppress their nature; their personality. They recognised what so many critics still miss: that altering the body isn’t a desecration, but an act of sacred ownership. 

Our bodies are temples, many people say. Well, then, I ask: is Angkor Wat lacking in impressive sculpture and idolatry? Does the Sistine Chapel not house one of the most famous and treasured frescoes of the Renaissance? Does the Hagia Sophia not bear mosaics of the utmost detail and devotion? I could go on and on.

Our bodies are sacred; I do not deny it. But sacred does not mean that we should withhold them from experience, from artwork, from decoration. In some ways, I express the love I have for my body when I bestow decoration upon it, whether that be with cloth, metal, or ink.

All this being said, I am in no way arguing that everyone should drop whatever they’re doing right now and rush to the closest tattoo studio. I am arguing that the decision belongs to the person whose skin it is. Furthermore, as a tattoo lover and a somewhat impulsive young woman, I do think careful consideration is crucial. And by ‘consideration’, I don’t mean that every piece of ink must carry a profound, soul-shattering thesis, so to speak. If society is to accept tattoos, it does so with a demand that they justify their existence with grand, tragic, or monumental backstories. Something ‘significant.’ But significance isn’t always heavy; sometimes meaning is just joy. A tattoo can mark a deep memorial, yes, but it can just as validly mark a favorite flower, an inside joke, a trip taken on a whim, or simply a piece of art that made you feel alive when you looked at it. The meaning lies in the act of choosing. Whatever you etch into your skin becomes a living time capsule of who you were in the exact moment you sat in that chair. And that self-authorship, silly or profound, is meaningful in itself.

I am not arguing that everyone should tattoo themselves. So, I’ll leave it here, with a little letter to all the parents who feel they have the right to dictate what goes on their daughter’s bodies:

To my darling parents,

My tattoos do not make me unprofessional. They do not make me ugly. They do not render me stupid. They are beautiful, as I am. They make me, me. 

Sincerely,

Your daughter.

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