Dear Tattoo, So Cute but You’re Bringing Everyone Into Disrepute

Did you hear about the guy with the misspelled tattoo? He says he has ‘No regerts’. —Tat anonymous saying!

I’ve been thinking about redoing my tattoos and maybe getting more, but I hesitate, partly because I’m lazy and mostly due to some unavoidable circumstances.

Back in the day, getting my first tattoos was all about rebellion. It was my way of expressing my dissent against the society, my parents and life in general; and it was about defying authority and making bold statements about individuality and freedom. Nowadays, it seems like every little jackass wants in on the inking action merely because it’s trendy. Pop culture is so garbage. When in doubt, always stick to Charles Bukowski’s advice: “Wherever the crowd goes, run in the other direction. They’re always wrong.”

Sample some of these tattoos from today’s hardcore buggers:

Back in the primitive day of my life, I had seen anchor tattoos but not with sentimental bullshits, insignificant heart shapes or phony phrases.

“I’m a mess, I confess.”

Even with the rhyme and proper comma, it is squawking p-h-o-n-y.

Then there’s “Never give up” in a cursive type, which is finished with a pointless ellipsis and a so-irrelevant heart sign, making it a superfluous mix of words and a symbol. As a practitioner of visual communication, we are programmed to work on the principle that good design is all about posh and purpose as much as it is about form and function. In other words, a design will be good if it possesses aesthetic qualities and takes control of the utility factor.

And don’t get me started on the John Donne and e.e. cummings-inspired “no man is an island” tattoo, which is all set in lowercase letters. Is it to signify they’re not only an island unto themselves but also are a moron as indicated by the small and cute serif slab typrfsce? Oh, dear tattoo, thy name is overdone modification.

Above I mentioned “primitive” days because back then, getting inked meant using carbon rods from dry cells to get the ink, which was usually a monochromatic rifle-green color and big, fat sack needles to tattoo. That was how everyone did it. I grew up seeing a lot of well-designed anchor tattoos, not just on Popeye the Sailor’s arm but also on the grownups in my neighborhood.

Some of the other familiar designs included skull and crossbones, scorpions, and dragons, all bold and captivating, unlike “I’m a mess, I confess.” Back then, tattoos were mostly for junkies, or so we were told, and we were strictly advised to avoid them. Getting a tattoo was practically taboo, which, ironically, made it even cooler.

Tattoos, Memories, Nightmares and Plans

Then, during our high school days, police and military personnel, as always, used to round up people in every neighbourhood in town in a routine that was termed as a combing operation to nab the insurgents. It turned out that many guys in proscribed organisations were getting inked with certain designs. The authorities came up with a unique plan to separate the armed rebels from civilians: if you had a tattoo, they'd beat you up and send you to jail. (They might also force you to cough up some info but mentioning that would break the secret rhyme of the establishment).

Simultaneously, we saw many civilians rushing to clinics including a cousin and an uncle of mine, and the less fortunate ones used red-hot knives to scratch their tattoos out manually. The elders didn’t really encourage us to get tattoos, but it didn’t deter us either. Looking back, it was sheer audacity that separated them from today’s wannabes, the latter who have tears streaming down their faces when they get their cute love-anchor tattoos because the needles hurt.

That was in the late Nineties, and being the stupid teenagers we were, we jumped into the act right away. Making a tattoo wasn’t just a private moment between the tattoo artist and the one getting inked. Besides the two of them, there’d be someone making the paste from the rods, another person working on some rough sketches and drafts—because forget design printouts; computers were like a sci-fi stuff back then—and then a bunch of us hanging around just to watch the ritual. It was quite a community-bonding experience!

Sure, it was stupid, but all we wanted was to say no to authority and conformity. Meanwhile, we were also evolving in the art of tattooing. A few years later, we ditched the carbon rods and sack needles. Instead, we switched to fabric and acrylic colors, which gave us more shading options, and 1mm insulin syringes, which offered more pixel points and thus more clarity in the tattoos. The community procedure for inking remained the same, as did our dislike for the ordinary, the routines, and the rules.

Read ★ On Telling the Tales of Tattoos

Then, the 2000s brought proper tattoo machines. Our holier-than-thou family members and not-so-friendly elders would jump at any chance to lambast us for trying to be unique like everybody else, wearing the same sneakers and clothes—though not before they picked apart every aspect of our lives. It was like their hobby was to take us to task, and ours was to stick to our angsty My-Life-My-Rules code. The point is, with all the tattoo stuff back then, they must have clearly seen how senseless we were—going with the currents of the time, using whatever materials we could find, and basically, in their eyes, playing out a whole charade. But never mind that. We were just being young and rebellious, trying to find our own way even if it seemed foolish to them.

Two decades into the millennium—the bombardment of cocky faces, cheesy expressions, and fake phrases full of nothingness on Facebook, X, and Instagram timelines, and all combined with the endless stream of superficial pop music videos, images, and the rise of celebrity culture and pretentious social media influencers—have ruined the aesthetics of tattoos. Despite the maturity in personal growth that come with each passing moons, seasons, and suns, getting a tattoo can still be an act of defiance, even though the mass adoption has made it muddy and watery. Pop culture is just dreck.

I must absolutely redo my tattoos, get more of them, and leave the You-Think-It-I-Ink-It jackasses to their own (tattoo) devices. Tattoos still hold meaning for me, even if everyone else seems to be jumping on the bandwagon. So, to conclude, the next tattoo—it is going to be very soon!