This For That, Tit For Tat

 

I never envisioned becoming an avid tattoo enthusiast. But unwillingly I have become just that. By proxy, one could say. All of the tattoos I’ve made/had now actively speak a language of desire and magic that has taken on a new life. This I knew in theory when I started out (I got my first one in 1989) but praxis made it tangibly real. Each little symbol and sigil still communicates according to the original desire. And the new ones added say Hi in a courteous manner, and then play existential ball with the others.

When you have more than one tattoo, they begin to tell a story, as there are two (or more) narrative points of entry/exit. They talk to each other. A lot. And thereby accentuate and amplify the totality of the identity that they represent (in powerful parts).

I love Ray Bradbury, and especially his illustrated man in the story with the same name. The images integrated in the illustrated man’s skin are alive, and actually much to his own detriment. People get freaked out by his animated vistas.

I am now also the illustrated man, but hopefully wiser than Bradbury’s protagonist. I only create investments in the stock market of my own skin and flesh, and strictly for me. Each book is a chapter; each defining stop fuel for the next trip onwards.

It’s not for show; it’s not for acknowledgement; it’s not for aesthetic satisfaction. It’s simply a visual focus for myself. The signal needs to be strong also when the ink seeps out in blurring time and when the skin is sagging. What has been, still is and also will be; integrated in human skin and flesh. The parchment of my body is the most powerful there is.

The messages may be hidden to others, and only very occasionally hidden in plain sight. But they always work – alone, together and in sexual cooperation with the future of my projects and the projects of my future.

The skin is penetrated and impregnated by ink that keeps on writing this story; supported by the older skin siblings of destiny. Its a golemic-polemic adventure, and one that narcissistically makes me fantasise about one day (after my physical death, mind you) having my skin turned into a revolving lamp shade; spinning in the dark room of someone else’s subdued dream chamber. But, for now, I am very pleased to simply keep writing my own story, and occasionally check up and out my magical little glyphs of desire and fealty.

What is the artwork? Who is the artwork? Real art absolutely does not need an interactive audience. The moment someone else partakes of the art, very much is diluted; sometimes even entirely spoilt.

That said, I think I’ll keep my clothes on, thank you very much.

 

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