Dane saw my camera and asked if I wanted to take a picture of him. I was trying not to stare too much at the art on his arms so I said, “Can I take pictures of your ink?”
I failed to ask any of the details I’m now wondering. For instance, how long did each one take? How long has he had them? Why’d he choose this one or the other? Where’d he have them done? I think I may have to go back to Home Depot.
Tats are not my thing but some of these were real works of art.
He certainly is not shy about getting his photo taken.
I understand that it is a cultural practice in some societies, yet I do not think it is a qualifying art form in our society, except in certain circles. Yes, it often displays art-of-somekind, but I often wish that a different canvas was used. Perhaps it is just a generational thing, and I am way behind the times.
I don’t understand “ink”, never have. I always suspect the owners will feel different about that body art 40 years on. But it does bring to mind a poem by one of my favourite poets, Ted Kooser, called, of course, “Tattoo”.
I don’t understand why anyone would do this. If you need wonderful art, hire an artist, have him/her paint a picture and hang it on your wall. I also read recently that that ink has some long-term negative effects, but I didn’t finish the whole article so can’t say for certain what that means! đŸ™‚
He’s definitely committed to that!
Seems there is always someone interesting around – and you find some of the best. Great photos.
Wow, at least his face is clean from ink. I’ve seen people with tattoos on their faces and on their head. Fast forward 20 years and I wonder if they would still like their tattoos.
Because I am playing “catch-up” today I have been back-tracking on your blog and reread the comments. I am familiar with Ted Kooser’s poems (and have taught them in the past), but was unfamiliar with this one. I found it and here it is:
Tattoo, by Ted Kooser (it is pretty neat!)
What once was meant to be a statement—
a dripping dagger held in the fist
of a shuddering heart—is now just a bruise
on a bony old shoulder, the spot
where vanity once punched him hard
and the ache lingered on. He looks like
someone you had to reckon with,
strong as a stallion, fast and ornery,
but on this chilly morning, as he walks
between the tables at a yard sale
with the sleeves of his tight black T-shirt
rolled up to show us who he was,
he is only another old man, picking up
broken tools and putting them back,
his heart gone soft and blue with stories.