We all make mistakes; some more so than others. It's easier to point a finger at someone else, easier to make accusations, than to admit your own faults and deal with the consequences accordingly. However, there comes a time when one must admit to wrong doings, accept the outcome, and take action to fix what's been broken. I'm no different, and this is where my mistake comes into play.
At A Glance Author ForEverInked When A year ago Artist "Jack" Studio His bedroom It had been months since my last modification, and as the ever-growing urge to get inked bit at my soul, I had become seemingly desperate for a new tattoo. My pockets seemed thinner than usual, as work had been slow, and getting ahead felt like an impossible feat. Days passed like normal, and I knew I'd survive without a modification, yet the jaws of desperation grew stronger, and my guard weaker.
The time and date have faded from my mind, but I remember believing everyone when they said what an incredible artist he is. Mind you, I've always been adamant about having my modifications preformed in a respectable shop, but with my guard lowered, I'd been convinced to stoop to a new level. He even worked out of his house! He seemed to be all the rave amongst the people I consider acquaintances; not really friends. For days I looked at their tattoos, studied them even, and decided the work was decent, clean. Of course there was the random, shaken line here and there, but the overall artwork was good. Not great. And I was desperate. Not patient.
When I met, -we'll call him Jack-, the sincerity in his voice was undeniable. He sympathized with my monetary issues, and even agreed to a simple payment plan. I found it odd that he was more concerned with the money aspect than the actual tattoo itself, but I blocked the oddity from my mind for the time being, and proceeded with the negotiation. Being the smartass that I am, I asked Jack if he had a portfolio at hand. I knew what I wanted, there was no need to choose from the many stacks of flash on his bedroom floor. The portfolio request was simply for my ease.
Jack left the room for a moment, returned with a rather large binder, and quickly passed it my way through his group of friends. I opened the binder and browsed through pages of flash. Not work he's done on clients, but flash he's collected from magazines and the internet. I was not impressed, but I was still desperate. As you read this, you're probably asking yourself why I did not leave like you would? My answer - I was not worried. There was a patch of doubt in my mind, but when I felt unsettled, I remembered the tattoos I'd seen on the people who recommended him, and the doubt was eased.
I explained my design, a gothic style pinup, to be placed on my upper arm. After half an hour on his couch, waiting, Jack said he was ready. I pulled up my sleeve, stood before him, and waited while he applied the sketch. First rubbing a stick of deodorant across my arm, then gently smoothing the thin paper over the deodorant. He pulled it away, leaving a faint trace of a pinup, and asked if I was ready. I should have ran screaming when he didn't offer me the opportunity to check the design before he began, but I thought nothing of it at the time. Also, I never saw him autoclave his machine, or clean it in any way. This left a sour taste in my mouth, but I ignored it as well.
Heavy-handed is an understatement. I've been tattooed many times, and have never felt such excruciating pain with any tattoo in my life. I remember Jack making small talk, laughing at his own jokes, and asking about my other tattoos. The one statement I will never forget, "She's a bleeder". Now, at that moment, worry began to eat away at my stomach as I'd never had a problem bleeding heavily during a tattoo before. I glanced down every now and then, checking the progress, but more importantly, checking the bleeding. I was honestly surprised I didn't bleed out.
When Jack was finished, he told me to look at it in his bathroom. The short walk down the hall seemed to take years as my legs felt unusually heavy from sitting for so long. I turned on the light, braced myself, and looked in the mirror. Wow, that's not bad. I wasn't exactly pleased, but I wasn't upset, so I considered myself lucky. The pain was over, and at that moment, that was the only thing that mattered. I agreed to pay Jack twenty dollars a week, for five weeks, equaling a hundred dollars. The price seemed reasonable for what I wanted, and after being told it would cost almost three hundred in a shop, I didn't mind the total we'd agreed upon. He wrapped my arm in a bandage, tossed me a tube of Bacitracin, and told me to have a good day. I left, quickly.
Days two and three of the healing process was terrible. The bruising and bleeding had not stopped, and if I so much as gently pressed my shirt to my arm, pain shot through my limb from shoulder to elbow. I called Jack, he reassured me that the pain was normal, and urged me to continue with my normal healing method. I did so, and as days passed and my arm continued to swell and ache to the point of being immobile, I knew something was wrong.
Around the fourth or fifth day of the healing process, ink began pouring from my arm. Not simple oozing which is to be expected with any tattoo, but literal drainage as if I had poured a jar of paint over my arm. Again, I became worried and called Jack. Again he told me that it was normal and I'd be fine. Another mistake on my part. I trusted him. After two weeks had passed, besides minor scabbing, the tattoo was healed. I remember feeling sickened at the sight of it. The black outline was gray, the gray shading was almost gone, and I was livid.
Jack offered to touch up the tattoo for free, but I refused. I would not make the same mistake twice. For months I was ashamed of the hurried ink I'd had placed on my arm, allowing only lucky, or rather unlucky, family and friends the privilege of seeing my newest modification. They all agreed that it was horrible, and their acknowledgement of it's hideousness made my anger and shame grow stronger. Now, it would be easier to point my finger at Jack, throw the blame his way, and ruin his character with words, but I will do no such thing. I had my moments of disgust with the man who ruined my tattoo, but I knew that it was my decision to have him work on my arm. It was my mistake, not his. He may have done the work, but I allowed it, and I'd have to fix it.
This experience is not to down those who work from their homes, or those who are inked by friends from places other than shops. I'm aware of the fact that many people have amazing work and have had them done in ways that are not by the book. I am, however, writing this experience to warn everyone, and make myself an example of idiotic mistakes. Trust the artist working on your body, feel at ease in their presence and secure with your decision. Do not rush into anything just because the opportunity arises, as the opportunity isn't always best. Never allow an hour or two of unease and worry to lead to a lifetime mistake. Cover-ups are possible (I've already had mine covered), but they only blanket the mistake. They do not erase it.