My stomach knots as the El lurches forward, bringing me ever closer to a date with a long, cold, hygienic needle. I had resolved weeks ago to finally get the tattoo I’d been talking about for more than a year. The design, I’d determined, would be the Hebrew Chai, symbolic of the English word for ‘life.’ In the previous year, I had achieved a kind of personal spirituality, akin to, much to my grandmother’s delight, Judaism. The Chai was, in so many ways, a representation of the solace I sought in my endeavors, as well as the haphazard religiosity I’d so recently discovered.
It seemed logical, then, to merely peruse the Internet for ink renderings of the Hebrew. I typed “Chai” into Google’s image search, met by portraits of Chai Tea in heaping mugs, as well as large, bold type images of the symbol. I specified my search terms, but the images of the tattoo I’d so delicately and tastefully imagined in my mind looked, in the poor photo quality afforded by Google’s image search, as a blotched and smeared Magic Marker creation.
My doggedness had, however, at this point already committed me to the idea of a tattoo, even if I wasn’t married to my original design. I’m not so stubborn to not get a permanent body marking that looks as though it was doodled in washable marker by the screaming toddler I babysit.
I poured through artistic designs conveying similar meaning: the personal journey for strength, spirituality and pride; the clichéd idea of “inner peace.” When I first saw Picasso’s design, I immediately knew it was precisely what I desired. The simple outline of Picasso’s Peace Dove appealed to my minimalist sensibilities – I absolutely do not want to be pushing menopause, flappy swaths of fat displaying a stretched contemporary design – while similarly symbolizing the place in my life which I wish to capture on flesh.
I view the art of a tattoo as I would any other form of visual art. In my most self-assured point of view, I imagine my choice as the finest Edward Hopper painting: understated yet striking and wholly reminiscent of a particular time. Amy Winehouse’s tattoos, however, recall the felt Hawaiian Elvis occupying far too much wall space at my workplace. Garish and kitschy, the nude depictions swathing crazy-eyed Wine-o’s arms are overwhelming, an art form entirely lost on the subversive attention-whoring of celebrity.
My biggest fear, ultimately, is the response. I agonize endlessly over the reactions of my friends, the Jewish community I’d found and the appreciation of which I hoped to communicate through ink. In Judaism, tattooing is a big taboo; the body, a sacred vessel, is a gift from God, and we are not to violate the sanctity of it. Additionally, the taboos associated with paganism and sacrificial tattoos, as well as the forced tattooing of concentration camp prisoners during the Holocaust, leave a particular revulsion.
I worried, in short, of the reception in Hillel and the body of NU’s Jewish community, where I play an active role. I feared judgmental eyes and awkward stares, the brunt of which could not be erased by shrugging shoulders and confident smiles, attempts to validate my personal decision to choose such permanence. Would I truly, as my sister repeatedly intoned, be prohibited from burial in a Jewish cemetery? Would the shifting of acceptable culture and the inevitable change in the integration of religion and common society make the increasingly common practice holy again? Most of all, if my intent was to sanctify and demonstrate my relationship with a greater deity, how could I possibly be held accountable for the previous conventions set forth by the founders of a religion I was just beginning to find faith in? How was I, ultimately, to reconcile the notion that the faith I had found hope in directly prohibited the visual adherence I intended to declare?
My partner in branding clutched my hand as we switched lines, just stops away from the tattoo parlor. He, in his wisdom and faith, supported my decision and agreed to serve not only as my hand-holder but also my documentarian. We walked in unison to the small parlor we’d visited just a week before to receive my consultation. The extra trip to Wicker Park – notably the time and additional El fare – was initially aggravating but ultimately calming, as I could view firsthand the precautions taken to ensure safety and cleanliness. I formed an immediate bond with my artist, Jen, whose portfolio assured me of her talent.
I have a 4:00 appointment, but we are, in typical fashion, late. I’ve called ahead to verify that I will indeed be there soon, and, upon our arrival (we commend ourselves for being only 15 minutes behind schedule), must play the waiting game as Jen readies the chair.
My eyes are adrift as they swivel the room like Mad-Eye Moody’s glass orb, devouring the tribal jewelry and colossal hoops littering the glass counter at the front of the room. I gratefully inhale the smell of brutal sterility, the noxious scent of harsh chemicals, cleaning supplies and burning flesh. I gulp back the nagging reluctance beginning to plague my mind and offer a small smile to the inked girl behind the counter. My hands push through the encased art work, thousands upon thousands of colorful and intricate designs displayed and offering little meaning behind their animated, serpentine sketches.
I turn from a nude and conspicuously well-endowed Betty Boop to a chorus line of charcoal penguins, their faces animated and leering, passing neon renderings of fierce dragons and sensual seahorses. I am confident in the design I have chosen, the simplicity of the outline and the symbolism behind the olive branch held aloft in the beak. The design is not the ornate tribal blueprint proposed by another customer in the parlor, but it is significant. I am assured this will not be a decision I regret.
Jen calls me back and prepares the area of skin, the upper part of my back, nearest my left shoulder. She places the stencil she’s designed as a replica of Picasso against my skin, confirming the desired position. I await the grinning nod of approval, and perch upon the leather seat as sweat beads, signifying the nervous ripples crawling down my spine, well up along my forehead. I squeeze the steady hand extended to me by my photographer and set myself for the pierce.
The pain comes in waves. My face contorts to match the strain against my skin. The process is relatively painless, like the pricking of a pen on a surface. The pain is only present as the needle edges along the bone, the padding of insulation absent in this strained area. I hear the remarks of awe at my strength, but I witness only the soothing embrace of hands. The small disruptions of eager glances at the art cause me apprehension, but I am secure in my knowledge of Jen’s abilities. I trust her.
The process lasts a mere half-hour. The end result, cleansed and bandaged, is a stunning work of simplicity. Just days later, as I openly display my tattoo for the first time, I notice the looks I receive, and the utter disapproval shows on the faces of those I consider most religious. I, however, am content with what I now deem a defining characteristic of my growth. I’m finally becoming comfortable in my own skin – blemish and all.
