Art's Ink Tattoo Studio

Tattoo History from a personal experience and my first tattoo.

I was six years old when my parents had chosen to move out of south east London to a new estate called Pitsea, in Essex. I had only been there for a few days when I met my first friend there. His name was Tony. His dad was working on his front garden. He was working hard and he took of his shirt and my eyes were instantly fixed on two tattoos, one on each of his biceps. One was a football badge and the other was a swallow with his wife’s name. Tattoos back then were not as common as they are now and I suppose it was the first time I had really seen or taken notice of one. I was well and truly hooked. I wanted one of them and I wanted it now. Then, Doug explained to me how it was done. I sat there eagerly waiting on his every word. First he said the tattooist drew a design onto his arm. So far so good, I could do that. Then he gets a hot needle and threads it through your skin. Whoooah, I thought, what’s all this with the hot needles. And I have to say, that at the age of six he had managed to dampen my ardour. He had put me off, there was no way I was having one of them. Far too painful for my liking I thought.

I remember thinking that this man must be really brave and tough. It was quite some time before I realised that it wasn’t done this way at all and fortunately I discovered, what I thought, was the invention of the 1970’s. Bazooka Joe bubble gums, which contained a temporary tattoo. Just lick your arm and stick it on then pull off the backing paper to reveal this blurred sort of design on my arm. Yeah! I thought It looked great.. I was there, a real man. You know, how you think when you’re a kid.

About a year later we moved to Canvey Island which at that time was a kind of big adventure playground. It had open space, the sea, and most important of all it had the fairground. As you can imagine with all this going on I didn’t have tattoos on my mind, for a while anyway.

I was thirteen and me and some of my pals loved hanging around the fairground on the sea front, because that’s where all the girls would hang out. We had spent all of our money and were sitting on the steps of the Waltzer, watching the lads who worked on it, doing their stuff, acting flash to impress the ladies. I can remember thinking how cool it would be to be walking around that ride, spinning the cars and looking like Jack the lad. It was no surprise then that some years later I did actually work on a Waltzer, on a travelling fairground. Anyway, I am digressing so let’s get back to the story. It was a hot summer’s day and all of a sudden one of the lads working on the ride took off his leather motorbike jacket and it hit me, realisation, there they were again, loads of tattoos all brightly coloured. One of them was freshly done as it looked scabby.

He took a small tin out of his pocket which was probably Vaseline and dipped his finger into it and applied some to the tattoo making it look all shiny. Straight away this became my new project. No, my obsession and I didn’t care if it was going to hurt. I just had to have one.

Over the next few weeks I took a few trips to Southend on sea where there was a tattooist. It was only a small place, Very narrow, but quite deep. I looked at the designs on the wall and decided which one I was going to have.

Now, I know what you are thinking. What! Having a tattoo at thirteen years old and I agree that it is too young and I would advise anyone to wait until they are eighteen to make sure you have some time to ensure that you choose something you can really live with for the rest of your life. This is something I am very vigilant on and I know it sounds hypocritical and it may well be but the fact is that I can’t change history and quite frankly wouldn’t, as that was the very thing that turned my life around and gave me a positive direction and vocation and is a part of the reason why I am a tattoo artist now. I suppose in my case it worked for me, my destiny.

My only thoughts at the time was would I pass for eighteen years old. Although it has to be said that I was 6ft 4 inches tall and being a regular rugby player I was a very healthy build and I did look older than I was.

Everything about being in the studio was just magical, from the traditional old school designs on the wall, some of the characters who were sitting patiently waiting for a design to be permanently etched into their skin and some who looked scared shitless, and above all else, which will stick in my memory for the rest of my life was the smell of the place, a kind of cross between Savlon and surgical spirit, I loved it. The tattooist was a real character, really thick set with forearms like popeye, which were tattooed almost solid black and he had a really bushy ginger beard and generally looked pretty damned scary.

When it came to my turn he looked at me in a quizzical way as though he was trying to work out whether I was old enough. Well, that’s how it felt at the time, for all I know he may have been thinking about what was for dinner that evening or having a well earned pint down the pub. Probably the latter as I discovered some time later that he did enjoy a drink or two.

Eventually, after giving me the benefit of the doubt, he said, “what do you want done son”. I pointed out what I thought at the time, was a magnificent snake wrapped majestically round a dagger and would have fitted perfectly from the top of my shoulder to my elbow almost. This was the tattoo I was going to have. That was my design. The only one for me and nothing could change my mind, nothing at all.

“No, I’m too busy for that today son” he replied, “but I’ll do you this swallow.”

“Yeah”, alright I said. So much for sticking to my choice, I sat in the chair with this sort of tingling, excited, feeling of anticipation. I didn’t really care what it was, well within reason. I just really wanted a tattoo. He wet my arm and shaved it and then applied a stencil and showed it to me in the mirror. I was mesmerised. I was sitting there about to have this drawing of a bird tattooed into my skin, with the result that it would never come off. This would now form a permanent part of my life.

He smeared a little Vaseline over the stencil and picked up a shiny looking machine which started to make a whirring sound. He then dipped the nozzle of the machine into the black ink, gripped my arm and proceeded to draw a line across my skin. The ink splurged all over the stencil and I remember thinking, how the hell can he see where he’s going with that needle. It had a strange sensation, not really painful but what I can only describe as sharp and tingly and very unique. It is not a feeling you can get anywhere else other than having a tattoo. I was looking intently while he was doing it, to the point where he told me to look the other way. But I didn’t want to. I was fascinated by the fact that as he drew the machine over my skin it left this jet black line, so I looked again. “You’ll have to look away” he said, coz your blocking my bloody light. Fair enough I suppose and he was the sort of bloke you didn’t like to argue with so I sort of cocked my head to one side so he had his light but I could still see what was going on.

Within a minute he had drawn the outline and wiped it clean with a tissue. There it was, stage one. Then he said to change chairs so his assistant could colour it in. It was often done like that back then.

So I sat in the next chair and once again he gripped my arm and started to do some black shading before fully colouring the tattoo. It was truly amazing. What an experience, one which will forever live in my memory. Then it was the journey home. Walking up the hill to the station, with my arm bleeding a little, dabbing it with a tissue, I couldn’t wait to show my mates. Jack the lad indeed.