writing prompt: why are you crying?

Start time: 11:17 pm

I had been waiting for this day for a year, almost exactly to the day. In a closer timeframe, I had been in a virtual tizzy ever since Scott confirmed that he could work on my back tattoo on Sunday, around 11 am or noon. It had meant I had to stand up an old friend for a brunch date, but so be it: it was a small price to pay.

I got there and we started talking about selection, layout and such; after a brief fling with tracing paper and masking tape, we agreed upon placement and we were set to begin. My adrenaline was already coursing through my veins, and it was about to get worse. I settled into the chair as Scott revved up his machine, in sync with the music wafting through the convention hall. As soon as he touched my back, I remembered. What it really felt like to get a tattoo. A lot of people will tell you it's not big deal, depending on placement. As for me, I handle short-term pain, like getting a piercing, really well. It's as though by the time my mind wakes to what is going on, I can consciously say, "It's OK, it's over", and my body settles down again. Tattoo is different; I knew I was in for approximately three hours. It hurt. Most of the time, it felt like someone scraping insistently back and forth with the corner of a razor blade. OK, so it's a set of closely packed needles - same difference. Actually, what I really can't stand is the outlining, with the finer needles. That sends my adrenaline through the roof, as my body tries to compensate for the overload of sensory information it is receiving.

Unfortunately, I have a really weird reaction to adrenaline overload: I want to cry. There is absolutely no emotion behind it - my body has this really weird instinct to want to sob. Big heaving sobs, the likes of which I haven't emitted in public in well over three decades, I would assume. I really can't explain what it is, but I realized it was the adrenaline when the first two times I ever did speed, I had the exact same reaction. A good three-minute bout of bawling set me right back on my feet. So at the first break, after two birds it was, I believe, I went into the hall washroom, locked myself in one of the stalls, and as silently as I could, let my body's natural reaction take over.

I hiccupped and wiped my reddened eyes, trying to keep the wailing to a minimum. After about the aforementioned three minutes, I pulled myself together and headed out to the mirrors, which this convention hall is so abundantly blessed with, and began to admire my back. As soon as I did so, another lady, dressed in the finest pinup regalia, turned to me and asked whether I was OK. Oh gosh, someone had heard me. I'd managed to ebb the flow of tears, but I wasn't sure I was back to speaking level yet. "Why are you crying? Is it because it hurts?" she asked gently.

"Not even," I replied. "It's the adrenaline that makes me cry." That last bit came out as a sob again. Oh no, how embarassing. "I really can't explain."

She smiled at me, as she continued to wash the red grapes she had brought in one of the sinks. I'm sure she must have thought I was certifiably insane, but she didn't let on. I begged a handful of grapes off her and managed a pretty put-together smile. I thanked her for caring, but mentioned I should be getting back to my tattoo artist. She smiled back and we parted ways.

I lasted the next two hours in more or less reasonable shape, although I think I seriously caught Scott off-guard when he saw tears streaming down my cheeks. At least I wasn't racked with sobs, so he could keep working. By the end of the day, my ravens had taken flight, I was out my tattoo budget, and I was entirely content. See you next year, Scott.

End time: 11:35 pm

(701)

my skin, my art

I'm not quite sure I understand.

The members of facebook's Coalition Against Bad Tattoos often rail against big girls with bad tattoos, with the comments often slipping into snarky comments about the person's weight. Among them, one self-proclaimed big girl often writes she wouldn't get that tattooed there. So, if we rule out the following (a short compendium of remarks made by said group):

• no back tattoos, for muffin top reasons
• no chest tattoos, for sagging reasons
• no belly tattoos, for stretch mark/childbearing reasons
• no thigh tattoos, for cellulite reasons

and the girl doesn't want her tattoos totally visible, i.e. mostly concealable under work clothes, what's left? Her upper arms? Even then, I would argue flabby triceps don't do much for good design. So then what?

Personally, I remember having a (smallish) muffin top back when I weighed 115 lbs: that's just always been where my body accumulates fat. Notwithstanding the group's objections, I will tattoo my body with designs I find gorgeous, where my tattoo artist and myself agree is the best placement, and the rest, quite frankly, be damned. They are first and foremost for me, not merely as a canvas for some striking art form. They will age with me (hopefully gracefully) and they will forever stand as the markers to the milestones of my life.

(223)

it's really been far too long

So, just to make things worse, I'm going to have another one of those rambling, multi-topic, what-the-hey posts that I said I'd sworn off for good. But isn't changing my mind a girl's prerogative? Here goes.

First, about my Unforgiven picks: I give myself four and a half out of six, because was I really off-base by saying "Jericho with the shocker"? OK, so it wasn't the match I was thinking, but it was pretty spot on nonetheless.

I was sad to see Mick Foley officially go. I'm sad to hear Kennedy expects to be released after he returns from injury. The man has the potential to be the next generation's Stone Cold. I don't expect to see Jeff Hardy succeed just yet, but my early money's on him for the Rumble.

On to writing. I'm really worried that I won't get anywhere near 50,000 words in one month. Just looking at my word count in this blog's right-hand column makes me cringe. November is rapidly gaining on us, and I still don't have a laptop to drag around to force myself to create.

I'd love to say that freelancing has kept me too busy to write, but that would be stretching the truth. Thankfully, things have picked up, but certainly nowhere near enough to prevent me from stringing thoughts together. I would lay far more blame on facebook.

Finally, last weekend was the Art Montreal tattoo convention, which meant another 3-odd hours of squirming under Scott's fairly gentle needles. I look at pictures of my back, or in the mirror, and I can't help but smile. It still isn't completely done, and it will probably wind up having taken the best part of a decade to put together, but it's wonderful to me. After so long of having grounded birds, my ravens have taken flight this year. It is so uplifting...

(312)

I wrote a long expanse of text today

...on paper, and I'm not entirely sure I want to publish it to the world. At least, not yet.

It's about my plans for completing the tattoo on my back, and for another one after that. I'm not completely paranoid; it's simply that the topic is so intimate, I really want to take the time to get it down right. They're predicting rain this weekend; maybe I'll get a chance to work on it some more.

Today in seven: Find the words, find your wings. Imperfect.

And on to the dog watch update: no sightings today either, so I think she may have gone on to greener pastures. And I double-checked those signs: the missing springer spaniel is a male, so unless my colleague mistook a well-hung dog for a lactating bitch, we're not talking about the same pooch. Not that that settles my mind much about it.

(148)

i really, really love the next blog button

This one, I'm not even sure why I scrolled down the page. It's devoted to the Democrat presidential nomination. But I sure am happy I did.

You see, I enjoy...how can I put this...rejects. Favourite birds? Ravens and crows. Not colourful, not melodious, not even powerful predators. Black, raucous scavengers that most ornithologists can't be bothered with. Yet I think they're magnificent.

Some of my favourite flowers? (Disclaimer: Gardeners may want to look away.) Dandelions. Yup, one of the most common weeds in North America. I find their yellow beautiful, their resilience a thing of marvel, and their method of propagation simply brilliant.

OK, what does this have to do with the Democrat presidential nomination blog I found? Nothing, per se, if only that one of the Barack supporters has a dandelion tattoo on her shoulder blade.

Dandelion tattoos are few and far between, and most artists, seeing as they think themselves deprived of using white ink (but that's a matter for another day), twist the dandelion into all sorts of graphic illustrations of the plant. And this guy/gal's particular interpretation is one I hadn't come across before and which I find quite interesting - even if the quality of the tattoo line itself seems poor.

Wow. I love these unexpected finds.

(212)

another artist I admire

I really should have thought of her the first time around I started discussing artists whose work I admire. She is Nephtys, from the eponymous tattoo shop. She's based in Sherbrooke, and her black & grey portraits, honestly, can give Kat Von D a run for her money.

I think my bottom line when it comes to judging portraits is that you recognize the person not from the pose, which is how a lot of artists seem to get by, but by rendering features in such a way that your imagination can easily transpose them into an actual, believable person. Maybe that's why I tend to pay much closer attention to tattoos of people I don't know than of those that I do. How much input is required of me to imagine this person standing before me, moving, in real life? That's the mark of a truly captivating portrait. A little bit like the old superstition that photos took your soul. That's what a good portrait should strive for. And Nephtys does this admiringly well.

(175)

spring is in the air

...and this time, I think it's for real. There was another gaggle of geese this morning, followed closely by a half-dozen lollygaggers, whose insufficient numbers only allowed them to form a diagonal. And I'll mention it here, more as a note to self: the bird Sandra saw in her window was a Northern flicker.

Not only is the sun out, it actually feels warm. As for me, well, hibernation is over, and to switch metaphors in mid-sentence, it's time to exit the coccoon. I want to cut my hair, I've bought more clothes in the past week than I have in the past six months, and it's wonderful. I still haven't figured out the next tattoo, but that's OK - I have until September for that. (Unless you count making the appointment, but that's much less committal.) I do think Scott has the edge, though; 2008 is gearing up to be the year I follow through, so it would be fitting that I finish my back. We'll have to see how that plan holds up, budget-wise; if I need to scale back, I will probably go for the Babelfish I promised myself. And I didn't have to explain the concept to Scott, so that puts him in the running for that one, too.

Monday in six: Went to bed before 10 pm.

Tuesday: Disasters, dilemmas and emergencies - oh my!

(230)

decisions, decisions

I need to post a little something about the artists I forgot last time – particularly Scott Duncan and Éric Dufour.

I don’t remember exactly where or when I first came across Éric Dufour’s art; could it have been at NIX? I think so. And it was his paintings that drew me to him. Once again, a great sense of line, of colour, his characters, cities, and the ubiquitous honeycomb-like thingies that populate a period of his work…Just last year, there was an art gallery section at the Montreal convention, and once again, I was simply mesmerized by his paintings. My problem is that of all the tattoos I’ve seen, none of them quite capture what his canvasses do. I’m not sure if it’s the colours, the translucence…maybe he’s just not a great photographer, and his portfolio suffers. Maybe the brilliance of his colours shows up after the tattoos have healed, and he doesn’t have the photos to back it up. I don’t know. I know I keep going back to look at his book, hoping something will floor me. I’ll cross my fingers for September.

As for Scott, I remember meeting him very clearly. It was in June 2000, at NIX, back in the Colony Hotel in Toronto. I was a tattoo virgin. It was Friday, the convention had opened that afternoon, and I had carefully perused the books around the room. He was one of the few that had spoken to me, and he had been friendly and easy-going. I knew what I was looking for, more or less, and he listened to me closely. We struck a deal for the next day. Was that really about what was in his book? Not really, although his book shows a good level of depth and versatility. But for this first relationship, I needed to feel comfortable, and there’s something about Scott that is inherently soothing. So off we went. I was a wuss. I sat very poorly.

Aside: I’ve improved over the years, as I’ve come to the realization that endorphins actually make me cry, and that concentrating on my breathing is the way to go. I’ll never do marathon sessions, like Pat’s 6-7 hours of continuous sleeve work. But I’m more patient than Pat (at least sometimes!).

In my defence, when Scott went over my tattoo last year, he stated that he had really “dug into me”…so I guess we learned from each other. Fair enough.

This year, I’m torn between all the tattoo ideas floating in my mind: I don’t know how often Hannah Aitchison is likely to attend the Montreal convention (or even if she’d take on someone else: I hear her waiting list is closed…), or whether I should finish what I’ve started (if Scott is willing, of course…), or whether I should get the tattoo I promised myself upon graduation. Too many projects, too little money. Not to mention Pat will probably want something, too. He has plans to finish his sleeve, as well. Decisions, decisions.

In six: Words don't always come so easily.

(511)

art, o art, wherefore art thou art

I discovered something, or rather someone, yesterday at the flea market and I forgot to write about it. Her name is Charlotte Nicolin, and she is a Swedish artist who has settled in Montreal. She does these pretty, bright, happy paintings of wildlife: birds, ladybugs, frogs, etc. Maybe it’s just because it was exactly the spirit I was rediscovering after months of hibernation, but she really struck my fancy.

I keep being torn between philosophies. On the one hand, my ecological/common sense (ECS) says I have two perfectly good mouse pads: plain black with white advertising on them, received as promotional items. Functional, yes, pretty, not by a long shot. On the other hand, I want to be surrounded with pretty things that make me smile, things I really enjoy. My eco-side wants to scream consumerism. My artistic side rails against boredom.

These two sides fight constantly. I had the same argument when I had to purchase a notebook as my writing journal. I wanted something pretty, something I would want to tote around and open and fill. I came home with an ecojot notebook, made of 100% post-consumer material. Sadly, it has been underutilized since I began to blog, but I will go through it eventually. In this particular case, ECS was content, but creative was slightly disappointed.

The only I way I seem to be able to bypass this is by getting these funky, enjoyable things as presents…for those who care, my birthday is July 27 ;D

But I digress. Getting back to enjoyable artwork, I thought I’d share some of the other artists whose work makes my heart sing. Now I’ll spare you how much I enjoy the great Masters (think TMNT, particularly Raphael), and how as a teenager, I chose to visit the Uffizi with our chaperones on an overcast day in Florence, rather than strike out on the town with my classmates, and how the nuns had to pull me out the room that housed Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” I still wonder whether it was really to get to the other masterpieces in the place, or because I was in awe before such a delightfully pagan piece. For the record, my favourites usually have a fine sense of line, as the aforementioned Raphael, Botticelli, Dürer, Dali, Mucha…

That probably also plays an important part in my enjoyment of comic book art and tattoo art. For comics, let me name Jae Lee’s ink work and Sam Kieth (my interest in comics peaked right around the birth of Image, so forgive me if I haven’t discovered the latest and greatest…), although I was also a big fan of Simon Bisley and Joseph Michael Linsner. As for tattoos, the realism of Tom Renshaw blows my mind, and at the other end of the spectrum, Yann Black, newly settled in Montreal at Glamort.

See here:
In six: Find old pedometer. Check batteries. Walk.