The Pain Passes, but the Beauty Remains

It seems remarkably appropriate to begin with this quote from French Impressionist Renoir, considering that I'm wincing as I type this. I pushed through and got my elaborate tattoo cover-up finished after having been a work in progress (officially) since the end of October. And while it has nothing to do with any of Renoir's work, it is based the work of another late 19th century artist - William Morris, English textile artist and father of the Arts and Crafts movements. I say 'officially' only because it's actually been something I'd been trying to do for almost ten years, but whenever the time came around I couldn't bring myself to let it go. It was a part of me, maybe one that no longer held the meaning it once did but still represented an important part of who I was that I wasn't ready to let go of. 

You see, like many people, I was somewhat stupid in the 90's myself. I had just turned twenty-one and discovered the subculture of the then-subversive Queen West scene, so naturally I thought I knew everything there was to know about myself. And so, completely entranced by the ultimate physical badge of rebellion, I quickly got myself inked up with things that - at that point time - were incredibly important to me. Most of them are still quite applicable to the person I am today, who fundamentally isn't that different to the person I was when I got my first batch of tattoos. The main point of difference is that I no longer feel the need to proclaim my sense of 'individuality' in such an obvious manner. And with so many people having done exactly the same thing, doesn't that make it less of an individualist statement and therefore almost conformist in nature? Can you spot the person who studied sociology in school?

But in my own defense, I didn't just suddenly wake up one day in my twenties and decide that I needed tattoos. I had been fascinated with body art since I was a child. Whenever my much-older brother's biker-type friends would come over, I was in awe of their long hair, their reckless motorcycling habits, and their arms full of tattoos. My brother's baby mama had a rather large piece on her forearm - it was a scorpion, I think. To my fifteen year old self, she was the ultimate in cool. I was also heavily into Eighties hair bands and as such spent my days crafting doodle hearts that entwined my name with the likes of Sebastian Bach, Nikki Sixx and Axl Rose - rock gods who also happened to be heavily tattooed.

Psychologists would call these 'indicators' - I prefer to think of them as the building blocks to my soul.

History lesson aside, my point is that really I should be thankful that government regulations and the general lack of babysitting funds prevented me from getting what my fifteen year old self desperately wanted immortalized in ink. I can't imagine, even with as gifted a tattoo artist as Glennie from Pearl Harbor Gift Shop in Kensington Market is, that she would be able to cover up that Motley Crue logo I wanted scrolled down my left leg. No, thankfully for both of us, she only had to cover a band of thorns encircling my upper arm framing a quote from my favourite novel in heavy black Gothic lettering. But given the linear nature and general blackness of the piece, it might as well have been that tribute to the Crue. However, Glennie is not one to give up so easily. And after a few drafts and consult visits and two hours of trying to strategically place the stencil, she did what had previously been thought of as impossible. She had successfully covered my quote from a novel written in 1897 with a floral print that had been designed in 1875. To me, tattoos have always been not only a form of self-expression but, when done well, a living work of art that you can keep with you forever. Cover-ups are more like second chances - an opportunity to right what went wrong the first time around. Or maybe tattoos are more evolutionary than that, and cover-ups exist to build or expand upon what was there before as that person changes and evolves themselves. Yes, that's a nicer way of looking at it.

All right, enough typing about it. Why not let the pictures speak for themselves?

Closeup of what we did today. On the inside of my arm.

Side view, outside of my arm.