Inked Beauty

February 8, 2006 | Leave a Comment

“Not much of a bleeder, are you?” Donovan commented, jarring me out of my meditative state and back into the vintage decor and rock-and-roll sounds of Lady Luck Tattoo. I had been thinking about suffering and art, an appropriate topic considering the inked, methodical pricks into my forearm. Donovan is renowned for his professional skill with black and grey tattooing; his off-handed intelligence and easy-going nature are just an added bonus. As Donovan worked he talked, giving me a glimpse into his career of eleven years. His work at Lady Luck Tattoo began with the usual apprenticeship: a year of unpaid “gophering” to distinguish oneself from the throngs of would-be tattoo artists. For Donovan, this initial discipleship to the shop has resulted in his ownership of it and his chance to be an active participant
in the community which he grew up in. I wondered why so many people were willing to endure the hours of pain for a symbol on the body. “A lot of people are searching for things to tie them to this world,” he responded philosophically. He pointed out that in many ancient cultures tattoos were symbols of place in the tribe, and “there aren’t a lot of things like that in our culture, especially if you’re not religious.” Family crests or memorial tattoos give people a visible identity, but Donovan chooses not to tattoo names of romantic partners: “It’s amazing how they come back two weeks later and don’t want the tattoo of their girlfriend or wife,” he explains. As far as the pain goes, Donovan’s experience has shown that “the pain and ritual of going through it makes you stronger, puts you in charge
of your own body and your own faith decisions.” Once endured, the memory of pain is a residual story, a work of art all our own. Throughout my time with Donovan, I was impressed with his insights on art and suffering, though somewhat saddened by his disillusionment with religion. As he recalled his exclusion from a best friend’s wedding party because of a religious family’s disapproval of tattoos, it occurred to me that Donovan saw religion as being inauthentic. “You can’t change the world,” he told me realistically, pointing out all of the hatred justified in the name of forceful faith. “But you can try,” was my feeble answer, fumbling for proof that Christians were called to something higher than prejudice and judgment. At times, my suffering became intense. The inner wrist work sent me into such a
shaking fit that I cursed the very idea of art. Yet as the piece progressed and I began to see the bigger picture, a calm was bestowed on me. Through struggle comes clarity, and understanding the purpose of pain can ease its sting. Perhaps Donovan is right, and we can’t change the world. Yet we try to evidence our place in it and our priorities surface to tell the story of what is important to us, be it family, faith, or beauty. Suffering is art when the scars it leaves behind tell our story of struggle, our dedication to principles higher than mere comfort. Suffering becomes art when we remember how it transformed us.