With my left leg
now tattooed from ankle to knee, I'm starting to think that enough is
enough; maybe. Not that the tattoo addiction has subsided any. It's
just that I have lost faith in my ability to distinguish between a
talented artist and a backyard scratcher. I thought colouring vast
tracts of skin black would be bread and butter for even the most
creatively challenged tattooist. Previous experience has taught me a
lesson I flatly refuse to learn about colouring in being a lot more
complicated than what it obviously sounds though.
With any money in
excess of a weeks living expenses being deemed superfluous, my mind
turns to tattoo fantasies often about fixing the fuck-ups of the last
artist. Admittedly the problems with the most recent work I had done
in Melbourne stemmed from my crafty non-adherence to even basic
hygiene protocol. Is spending money on such unnecessary things like
tattoos the usual behaviour of a back packer? I'd already risen above
the level of flash packer to the rank of 'upper class' in the eyes of
my Irish diamond Laura. My preference for perculated Italian coffee
separated me from folk content to kick start their day with instant
Black and Gold paint stripper.
All I wanted to do
was add an extra inch or two to the existing design to frame the
piece better than what I felt the ring of stars did. Simple enough
surely? I was lured into a studio by the promise of a female artist
purely for reasons of never being tattooed by a woman before. None
were present on my visit but a coloured pin cushion with distinctly
human features won my custom with his laid back friendliness. I made
an appointment for the following day after showing him some photos of
the desired outcome I had drawn on my leg in texta. He took a quick
look and assured me of its simplicity.
The
following day Mr. Smoked-too-many-drugs-to-tattoo-a-straight-line
decided to tattoo whatever the fuck took his fancy at the time. It
didn't turn out too bad considering it was nothing like what I
wanted. That he
decided to tattoo something completely different didn't come as any
real surprise under the circumstances. His demeanour seemed more laid
back and less connected to reality than when I first spoke to him.
I returned again
the next day to see if his drug dealing was any better than his
tattooing. Wanting a fiddy bag of weed he instead offered me cocaine
of which he had been sampling liberally. He was even more out of it
this day with vacant stares and incoherent ramblings interjecting his
own tales of cosmic injustice. Returning to Earth long enough to note
the sketch pad I had under my arm, he then returned to a galaxy far,
far away to share his portrait skills with me. What ended up adorning
the page went far beyond classification but can safely stated to be
the worst attempt at drawing a face that any person has ever made. A
half tattooed punter stared wide eyed and incredulous at his entire
performance and seemed to make a few half hearted dashes out the door
before obligation overcame better judgment.
Why is the history
of my leg tattoo so intimately entwined with white powder and
tattooists too fucked up to follow basic instructions? The tattooist
in Thailand saw a spoon and lighter as unusual but necessary elements
to his tattoo kit. And although this most recent cosmic adventurer
was less like Timothy Leary the day he tattooed me, he still managed
to obliterate the prismatised star that once sat front and centre of
my leg piece.
So this tattoo may
have to remain my unfinished masterpiece as I fear any further work
might continue the mistakes that have defined it. I'm lucky in that
they have been relatively insignificant and left me sporting a work
of art that I am still extremely pleased with. Any further work might
prove my luck has finally run out and reignite my dreams of
amputating my leg and the useless fleshy clog of a foot that dangles
impotently at the end of it. From now on tattoos will be confined to
the extremities where forceful removal won't affect my ability to
utilise vital body functions.
