Artists are eccentric. I don't think I'm perpetuating stereotypes here; they operate on a different and usually pretty interesting level. Art is the unfiltered result of a mind trying to interpret a piece of the world, and whether that takes shape in words, sculpture, drawing, or painting, the artist usually won't get the results he or she wants without some sort of disconnect with the way the rest of us see and feel things.
I say "usually", because my particular artist, the one I'd asked to create a piece for me, took what I'd told him - a vision of waves, incorporating the names of my kids - and got it exactly right. He saw what I saw. And so when I went to his studio, it was with great anticipation and more than a little dread. I was excited to watch him work, to watch him create art. And I knew it was going to to hurt like a motherfucker.
39. A New Tattoo
Ugly Bill had spent 10 years at Chronic Tattoo, possibly the best and best-known tattoo shop in San Diego, before striking out on his own. He's a mysterious fellow - I'd contacted him via his MySpace page, and further communication, per his request, was to be done exclusively via email or text messages. He'd sent me the sketch of my tattoo - it was to go on my right deltoid, and would be about 6 inches in size. (That doesn't sound very big. Measured in inches, no; measured in pain, yes.) He works out of his home in Solana Beach - the workspace was adorned with Japanese artwork, pictures of tattoos he'd done, several awards that he'd won, and in the corner there was a bucket filled with martial arts weaponry. He ushered me over to my seat, explained that he'd be using a Rotary Tattoo Machine (which is faster, and hurts less), and we got started.
For the next two and a half hours he drilled into my arm, talking about music (The Hooters were an unjustly scorned band; people never bothered to look past their radio hits, which was a shame), politics (the mega-food corporations are controlling the government and at some point organic food will be declared illegal so that Monsanto can continue to produce seeds that don't actually germinate, so that people have to buy more Monsanto seeds), and music (his friend is the drummer for The Flaming Lips, and we both agreed that everyone needs to go see a Flaming Lips concert before they die...I need to check their touring schedule, because if they come to San Diego this year, why, I might have to put them on The 40/40 List, because I've never seen them in concert, and I feel like I must). I nodded, agreed, sweated, tried to control my breathing, cautiously offered opinions (you don't want to piss off the guy making permanent artwork on you, lest he chooses to write "dick" or some such on your shoulder), drank water, and used the big Kill Bill poster as a focal point - Uma in her yellow leathers and samurai sword taking my mind off of the fact that holy shit this hurts. I'd like to say that it was over before I knew it, but I felt every single one of those 9,000 seconds.
The results?
(Beth brought up a good point: "I hope we never accidentally get pregnant with a third!" I'm calling my urologist this morning.)
