I was listening to banal mid-afternoon radio last year, when a teenage girl rang in to confess to the “stupidest thing she’d every done. “I’ve just got a tattoo, she giggled.
“Ooh Donna, that sounds dangerous, rasped the Ladette. “Where did you get that done? “On m’ cheek, squealed Donna.
Was this girl for real, I pondered; acknowledging my own smugness I realized that I had still along way to go before reaching the frontiers of idiocy. Poor Donna, I thought, the sin of a night’s narcotic pleasures leaves a simple girl with a lust for life scarred for the rest of it.
Yet lurking beneath my conformable smugness was a residual grain of jealously. Yes, dear readers, I was jealous of Donna from Wakefield, the chav with the tattoo on her cheek.
Gutsy Donna, represented for me, something out of my risk range rather than idiocy. She had grabbed the bull by its inky needle, and surely in a fit somewhere between hedonism and downright masochism, rammed it over her face.
Two years later, and Donna still occasionally crops to mind, especially when friends regale me with their recent tattoo experiences. Roses, dolphins, peace signs, fairies, elephants and even newly wedded names all adorn the hips, backs and ankles of friends and relatives.
In the past two weeks, my tattoo fever has come back in force, no doubt influenced by the art course my partner has been attending, and the onset of summer when gratuitous displays of the body in all its glory are given a margin of freedom.
That’s unless you happen to take infinite heed to the wise words of friends, family and colleagues, when that margin of freedom, with all pertaining nuances and inferences, strangles itself in a contradictory glut of advice, warning and encouragement.
For tattoos, regardless of liberalist protocol, are still very much a societal taboo, popular amongst social outcasts, rebels and ‘the lower classes.’ Their popularity among celebrity culture is considered even less reason to take the plunge, marking this practice out as ultimately ‘noveau-riche’.
“Tattoo scoffed my sister, “how revolting.
My office, however, took far more interest in the subject, and it seems that in Egypt, decorative tattoos, rather than being a sign of a blatant disrespect for the body, are a marking of high class.
When, however, I mentioned that the tattoo I planned to emblazon myself with was to be a huge Celtic cross covering my whole back their faces fell.
That’s a huge commitment, someone said. Meanwhile a friend, in an attempt to deter me from this move that might ‘seriously damage chances of employment in the future’, serenaded me with all the excruciatingly painful processes of tattoo removal, ranging from dermabrasion, salabrasion, cryosurgery and excision.
But that is entirely the point of my endeavor. Tattoos were originally, and continue to be a form of body art, and art, for anybody serious about is, is the antithesis of noncommittal. The word Tattoo itself is derived from the Samoan “tatau, translated as ‘to strike twice’, and refers to the traditional methods of marking the skin.
What would tattoo enthusiasts of the Upper Paleolithic era, when the art is thought to have originated, have said if someone suggested they get their tattoo removed because they “weren’t really keen on the stone roses any more ?
Would the tattooed mummies of ancient Egypt, such as Amunet or those bearing the goddess Neith on their skin, have thought about removal because “it reminds me of the time Dave slept with my best mate and now I can’t stand his face ?
Marrying decorative art with spiritual commitment is not in itself new. Yet unless it is considered a distinct practice within a certain culture or religion, it is either eyed with a certain cynical suspicion or dismissed as an extravagant whim.
Taking control of one’s body requires courage, something bestowed freely upon Donna. I on the other hand, am doomed to remain in the shadow of noncommittal tattoolessness.
