Maquinna's Poop du Jour

My Sister's Tattoo

How we see each other. How we see ourselves. Who we are when we're alone, and when we're with others. Even a photo isn't reliable - it only tells one side of the story. As a photographer, however, it's my prerogative to tell the story I want, but I also cannot ignore the stories other pictures tell.

This past weekend my sister emailed me some photos of her getting her first tattoo. She had described what she planned to get while she was visiting the other week. I am certain I didn't provide anything amounting to encouragement but her mind was plainly made up.

I am not anti-tattoo. I've toyed with the idea myself over the years but never came up with anything I would want to live with for the rest of my life. I've actually had a lot of fun with temporary tattoos. I once had some lovely Arabic script emblazoning my left wrist, until an Egyptian classmate advised me that I was sporting a bastardized version of the first laws of Islam, and it was something that probably wouldn't go over very well amongst more fervent Muslims. Since then I've stuck with stuff a little more in my territory. A large celtic knot around my navel (dammit if anyone thinks my belly should be hid just because it isn't a washboard). Barbed wire around my upper arms, for a Hallowe'en costume. I actually wouldn't mind a west coast Native style salmon if it could be made delicately enough and placed on the small of my back.

What I object to in tattoos are twofold: tasteless illustrations and lots of colour. I don't think much needs to be said in the first case. It's a personal aesthetic I feel no need to defend. Some things are just downright tacky. Colour is another aesthetic issue...partly because few tattoo artists are capable of using colour deftly, but mostly because over time, the colours always become muddy and indiscernible. If you're going to do it, do it in black ink only, and make it something interesting and personal.

Which brings me to my sister's tattoo. It's right up there above all this. As is plainly visible, it's some tarty chiquita in a cowboy hat with mardi gras beads around her neck (no, this has nothing to do with Hurricane Katrina), leaning seductively over a stool. With enough colour to make a parrot blush. I can hear my grandmother Baba now. Oy yoy yoy! What the hell were you thinking?

I suppose I should ask her what it was about this particular image that she decided she wanted to put on her leg, taking up no less than twenty square inches of her calf. My guess is this is a manifestation of the ongoing spirit of rebellion she harbours, a kind of in-your-face 'yeah, I know it's crude and nasty and I'm the only one who likes it, THAT'S why I did it' thing. I can see her standing with her hands on her hips, chin jutting out, saying screw you. There's also a sad part too, that fears to acknowledge how much she wants to be noticed, but will go to dramatic lengths to get that notice. Something about living under a shadow and wishing she didn't.

This was part of the reason that when I photographed her myself, I put her in the dark, emerging from shadow. I think she's starting to come into her own as a person, finally. Starting to assert herself in ways that are actually going to make a positive, rather than a negative, impact on her life. Well, excepting the tattoo, but some aspects of character aren't really likely to change, nor do they need to.

She still drives me nuts, by the way. This was a good visit, though, at a time in both of our lives when we needed to find some connection with each other.

posted by Maquinna @ 9:02 a.m.