About a tale of three tattoos

That title would have been much better if I'd stuck with two, but my life wouldn't have been.

A while back my friend Katie commented that one of the reasons she didn’t think she’d ever get a tattoo is that everyone has one now. The flood of availability has soaked the subversion right out of it; sure, it’s still associated with plenty of subcultures, but the chances are that your pal’s pretty botanical scribble has nothing to do with any of them.

All that is true. It’s just as well I didn’t get mine to be different. (And, I mean, different from what? If I join a small group I might stand out from the norm but I’m still wearing a uniform, albeit a niche one. As humans we’re all depressingly—or mercifully—similar; sorry.) I just like art, and symbols. And stories.

Because there is a story behind each of my tattoos. These days if you ask about someone’s ink you’re just as likely to get a shrug and a “I don’t know, it just looked nice” as a slice of someone’s psyche. That’s fine by me—but I like a good story. People still tell me all the time how much they miss my mum’s ability to spin out a yarn: voices, gestures, a full Greek shadow puppet theatre of gossip. So here—at the point where I’m, like, 88% convinced I’m done and I’m not getting any more—are mine.

If at first you gulp six seeds

Three years before I got my first tattoo, I knew Martha Smith was going to do it. I loved her art and have several pieces of it, including a Medusa commission, on my living room walls. I loved that she draws big, lush bodies. I loved the delicacy of her dotwork. I loved that I know several people with Martha pieces and they all wax lyrical about how lovely she is.

There was just the small matter of being absolutely sure I knew what the design should be, getting onto her books several months in advance, and navigating a pandemic that essentially outlawed physical contact.

And then my mum died.

All at once there was only one idea that could work. At this point, this was absolutely going to be my one and only tattoo, honest guv, I mean I was 41, who gets loads of tattoos at 41?

In Greek mythology, pomegranates represent love and death. These days, they’re also a symbol of the new year; we smash one on the doorstep for luck. In the story of Persephone, they’re also the mechanism of separation—what keeps a mother and daughter apart. (If you want to read something more menstrual into it too, be my guest.)

Around the time my mother died, my daughter was also going through a difficult period of transition. Through it, I was struggling to find a balance between supporting her and suffocating her.

After all, the mother-daughter dynamic always carries the potential to be stifling. There’s something both highly sympathetic and utterly unhinged about Demeter letting all life on earth go to Hades for as long as her daughter is stuck down there. All our lives, we’ll negotiate how much distance is the right amount of distance. And now I know: after my death she’ll find a version of herself that can only exist without me, and be both horrified and grateful for that.

A neatly sliced cross-section of a pomegranate wouldn’t do for such a message. It had to be broken open, ripped. The way Martha realised the seeds ended up looking like a heart but also quite, well, intestinal. Visceral—literally.

As a first tattoo, I couldn’t have asked for a better experience, either. Martha tattoos in her own space, which feels small and safe. She checks if it’s okay for her dog to be around (and it’s a very cool dog). I asked her about the pain—because that’s what everyone wants to know—and she said she gets one of two reactions: “is that it?” and pleasantly surprised. Given I discovered I get a little high off the rhythmic scratch-and-wipe, I’m guessing that puts me in group two. She was charming and gently chatty in a way that suggested she’d talk if you wanted, or be quiet if you didn’t. And her little Broadstairs studio is every bit the safe space for bigger bodies I was expecting.

A bonus story: I got lyrical about the story of Iphigenia once before. More mothers, daughters, and blood.

Can’t stand up for falling down

For two years in a row—last year, and the one before—I spent most of October working in Brisbane. This was a stroke of extraordinary luck. Not just the travel, but training for a client I really, really like and that takes me to the hometown of some people who are deeply precious to me.

My darling Erin warned me: jacarandas are a dangerous beauty. Their petals flood the pavements, and it gets very slippery. I heeded the warning. Or at least I tried to.

My boss, who was with me, suggested we walk to the office the first morning. The route took us to a road that was slick with rain puddles and festooned with fallen blossoms. In the moment that I opened my mouth to warn him of their propensity to form a fragrant lilac slip ‘n’ slide, I went flying. My carefully chosen first day outfit was dashed with globs of mud (my t-shirt never recovered; it was my first wear) and I scuffed up the knuckles of my left hand. There are still tiny scars on my middle and ring fingers.

While my boss set up the laptops, I was in the kitchen washing my wounds, blotting my trousers, and wrapping plasters around each digit.

Still, those damn murder trees were gorgeous. My experience in Australia was gorgeous. My friends—one of whom holds purple as her favourite colour—are gorgeous. And you know what else is gorgeous? The delicate watercolour floral work of Lynn J., then working at Hailey Blossom tattoo studio.

So when my second trip (ahem) was booked, so was my second tattoo. Lynn was so quiet and calm I nearly did an entirely different kind of falling. I almost dropped off to sleep twice on the table, even with about four other artists working in the room at the same time. The girl opposite me having her upper arm worked on had a look that oscillated between politely bored and transcendental meditation.

Is this tattoo as deep and meaningful as the first? Absolutely not. But it’s delicate and beautiful and a splash of colour that I’d like to say reminds me to always pick up, dust off, and carry on. But really what it reminds me is that there’s no situation in which I can’t end up on my knees, in a puddle, with bleeding hands. C’est la vie.

Sorry about that time my people tried to kill yours

There’s a bittersweet running joke you’ll hear if you spend any time around Jewish people near a festival or holy day. The theme of any given event? “They tried to kill us. We survived. Let’s eat.”

It’s a deeply weird and scary time to be Jewish. I’m not, but as he was tattooing me, Nick Rose graciously extended a membership of adjacency: “I mean, once you’ve married in…”. It’s a matter of perception. Jews know I’m not Jewish. Gentiles generally don’t. Guess who’s in the majority? But still: I know my place.

It turns out that both Greece and Israel are among the countries that have the European olive—Olea Europaea—as their national tree. Once I knew this I knew what was going to be my next (and probably final) ink. For 17 years and counting, Ash and I have enjoyed the overlaps in our cultural experiences, and here’s a symbol that sums that up nicely. That represents the two ancient civilisations that combine in our child. Admittedly, as Channukah reminds us, it’s not been a great relationship on a historic scale. Perhaps we might consider our shared existence a course correction of sorts.

Now, for all sorts of reasons, getting a tattoo from a Jewish artist—at least in the UK—is not exceptionally common. For a start, if you’re not Jewish or Jewish-adjacent, you probably don’t actually know that many Jews (if any; you should fix that). We’re talking about 0.2% of the global population here, and barely over a quarter of a million are in this country. Plus, Leviticus has things to say about body art. For some it’s a matter of grappling with generational trauma: tattoos were used to brand victims during that industrial mass-murder that’s indelibly marked on every Jewish soul. So finding Nick was a gift on all sorts of levels.

All the artists I’ve gone to have been masters of fine line in their own way; Nick’s no exception, with a gorgeous knack for shading. But, as you’ll have noticed, the experience has always been as big a part of the story as the art. I expect a dopamine rush from the ritual stabbing, but this time I got a bonus one from pinball freewheeling across some of my very favourite topics of conversation. Forget acupuncture: a table in the corner of the very welcoming space at The Circle is much closer to therapy (and I should know; I’ve had a lot of therapy). Frankly, if anything could persuade me to add more art, it’s the opportunity to hang out with Nick again.

As an extra perk I also got to enjoy a temporary exhibition of Matt Bailey’s fabulous (and very NSFW) work.

All I ever needed is here on my arms

I have a few ‘rules’ for my tattoos. First, I need them to be somewhere I can see them. I didn’t invest money, thought, and faffing around with unscented moisturisers for something only my husband and a bunch of beach tourists will see.

Second, they need to be on a patch of skin that will age well and is fairly immune to changes in weight. That largely leaves my forearms and shins, and I haven’t decided how I feel about leg tattoos (on me; they’re fine on other people).

Third, they have to be easy access for healing. While mine have all been small and simple enough to heal very fast, I can’t imagine how people feel comfortable with an initially mildly inflamed, then briefly flaky, patch on their ass for three weeks. But more power to them, I guess.

My inner forearms are getting busy, and I’m not sure I want anything else to be on the same side as mum’s memorial. Instinctively, an odd number looks right; the asymmetry as it is now is satisfying (though not to my kid, who’s furious at my naked left wrist).

Still, to a degree I’m in mourning for the loss of the experience, and wondering which of my friends I can persuade to have one done so I can still vicariously enjoy the camaraderie of the tattoo studio. Nick mentioned growing up in his best friend’s mum shop, and it took me back to days of being the kid hanging out in the drama department. These artsy enclaves are the natural environment of oddbods and misfits, but now with doors so wide open that a middle-class, fat, 44-year-old mum can waltz in and feel right at home.

So yeah, everyone’s got one. And that’s why I can too.