Curation of Souls

Hannah Hadley

The smell of the shop makes me smile. I know it in my heart to be Green Soap or anti-bacterial medical soap. It lingers in the air outside the doors, getting stronger with every step I take down into the basement that holds my tattoo artist’s workspace. The scent is both comforting and exciting, causing my stomach to flutter and churn over itself as I get comfortable on the chair.

The prep work is near torture with every tattoo I decide to have carved into my body. My back sticks to the slick black leather chair as I get shaved, stenciled, and drawn on. The breath in my lungs punches faster. I feel like everyone in this shop can see my heartbeat through my chest, expanding within my ribcage with a bass that rocks my bones. I sort of feel like I’m going to pass out, ears ringing and head light as helium in a birthday balloon.

“You ready?” my artist asks with a giddy smile. He loves the design as much as I do. He worked for days on it, even going through the pain of rescheduling my first appointment because he wasn’t satisfied with his first draft. This was a design he’d never done before, something new for both of us.

The torture lessens. The room quiets around us. My body settles itself against the cushions, giving into the plans I had set in stone.

I mirror his smile, extending my arm to him. Before he begins, I marvel at his work, not really believing that this is now going to my skin. My beautiful shell. Embroidered ivory. Adorned holiness of my body and soul.

“I’m ready,” I reply, the weakness of my vessel not being betrayed with the strength in my voice.

Every time I come home with a new tattoo I get that same look from my parents. It's on the line of disappointment but not quite, edging on the cusp of exasperation.

I never understood that. My mom married and had offspring with a tattoo artist who was covered from ankle to neck to fingertips. Hell, my dad decided to get those tattoos even doing them inside their house before I was born to this world. Now they're looking at mine like any second I'm going to jump on the back of some dude's Harley, flip them the bird, and go do hard drugs.

“I know what these places are like, Hannah,” my dad says, almost scolding me. “I worked there. Tattoo shops are no place for my little girl.”

Yeah, these places used to be no good. They used to represent roughness, home to heroin addicts and gang members that you witnessed in the tattoo boom of the 90s, the outliers of society. Tattoos made you different, less approachable. They represented warnings blazed on your skin like neon signs that you didn’t have to voice. Don’t mess with me. I’m scary.

But you have to know that the culture around tattoos has changed. Is it that hard to see? Music, art, and media have evolved around you in the same way. Why can’t you see my art as you see everything else shifting around you?

Dad, my tattoos aren't stupid fancies of the mind or warnings of a “nasty woman.” I get it, you have two girls making out on your bicep, and naked goblins on your forearm. You can call those stupid fancies. I certainly will. But you will not put mine in the same category.

 I still love your tattoos, Dad. You would hold my child body in your arms, and I would marvel that your neck demon looked like the villain from The Black Cauldron. It didn’t scare me. It fascinated me. Our family dog, a beautiful pit with one blue eye and one brown that protected me with her life, is pictured on your chest above your heart. I see it and smile, remembering her and her place in our family. I see the skull you have around your elbow and laugh because when you flex your arm, it looks like it’s talking to me. How can you regret them? How can you see my love for them on your skin and tell me they’re stupid?

Mom, I will never be as girly as you want me to be. I am not dainty. I am not demure. I am a product of this generation of powerful women who can grab the world by the balls and wrestle it to the ground. You should know that I model myself after you and your determination in your field. You are the strongest woman I know, and you are strong in your ways. Let me be strong in mine.

I wash daintiness and submissiveness from the curves of my body with imagery. Creatures with teeth and armor. Knives and swords. Skulls intertwined with nature. They push my chin to lift a little bit higher and my shoulders to push down and back, standing proud in a world that I don’t care might not be ready to receive me.

My images are art. I see black ink bleed crisp lines into my skin, and I'm elated, pushing through the dull burn of the needle for the outcome across my very own permanent canvas. My artist sees my vision, one covered in black and grey stippled shading across the expanse of my skin. Every open spot is an opportunity to express, an opportunity to decorate. They can represent milestones, memories, friends, and family. Every etch, line, and block of black shading, although it might seem fanciful to you, has a purpose.

There's no whimsy in my process. I wait six months, carefully designing the location, size, style, and content, to make sure that I would love it forever. Vetting each idea through careful plans, I am a stickler for placement. They have to work with the ebb and flow of muscle and bone. The ink has to enhance a curve, fit in a pocket, or be symmetrical in its production on my body before there is any consideration of its permanent place on my canvas.

 I tell my parents this, hoping to ease their worried minds that I'm not going to turn into some biker's old lady. It helps them accept it, or at least I hope so. Sometimes I'm not so sure. And of course, I break my own rules with my “random” leg but I’m human. It’s in my nature.

My “random” leg is filled with little doodles whether it’s my practicing on myself with the tattoo gun I bought from Amazon or my friends adding memories with inexperienced, shaky hands. Each fading line still means something even if I have to grasp at straws for it. I remember the giggling while we drew, the snarky comments on how long my leg hair was, the way my friend almost passed out upon seeing the ink-covered needle disappear into my skin leaving a wayward mark in the small heart on the back of my ankle. The lighting was never bright enough underneath the laminate of my kitchen floor. But all the better to make memories in.

"Why can't you get something more... girly? Like pretty flowers?" my mother asks me when I show her my new piece. The tattoo had cost a small fortune, but it was worth it as I now have an armored moray eel climbing up the back of my forearm. It is the budding theme of the sleeve I envision for myself, nature arming itself against the terrors of human error. I am almost finished with the half sleeve I am designating for sea creatures before moving to my upper arm, which is saved for freshwater creatures using the same theme.

I scrunch my nose up in distaste, looking at her with a deadpan expression. "Do I look like someone who would put pretty flowers on themselves?"

She gives me a once-over. I have blue-black hair that is chopped short and wavy, dressed in dark, muted colors and combat boots. I wear rings on every other finger, antler pieces, and large hocks of silver and stones. Meat cleaver earrings dangle from my lobes and layered necklaces that almost seem ironic in pairing with the rest of my jewelry because of the depictions of crosses and a virgin Mary pendant lay on the crest of my sternum.

"I guess not,” she sighs. 

I’m satisfied with that. The culture around these permanent markings is changing, they have to know that, understand that if they want to understand me. No longer were they signs that you were in a biker gang or a drug addict. No longer did they instantly make you trashy.

My body will tell stories. My art will remind me of memories when I'm old and forgetful. Laughing so hard with my longtime friends in my first college apartment that there is no sound escaping any of us and tears are pouring from clenched eyelids. Cousins and uncles visiting and making music with my mother. New friendships being forged in three X’s on my ankle. Old friendships being honored in fading smiley faces. It will inspire my chosen partner to trace with a light touch, memorized by the Mona Lisa they marry, the woman that will carry their children. The tattoos will stretch and sag over time, but my love will still trace them with adoration. And I will smile at my chosen beloved with devotion, tracing their lines as well.

One day, my children will look in wonder at the art I have curated. They will ask dumb questions that I will not hesitate to answer. They can trace the history they have on my body along with me and I will add them to the art they envy. And hopefully, they add my touch to their permanent memories for my grandbabies to trace when I am gone from this world.