Wednesday, December 04, 2013

Session #9: Flowers (and Clouds)





As I was getting undressed and into my fundoshi, Shinji said, “I think we do regular background.”
“Okay,” I said, surprised.
“Since we have to connect background here,” he said, pointing to my shoulders, “we should do regular background.”
My tattooed arms both end on the top of my shoulders with clouds; the right side from Horiyoshi, the left from Shinji. I guess that means the plain wind bars are no longer the plan.
“Is fine,” I said. “It’s just that you tell me what we are doing, and then I spend a month thinking about it, and next appointment it’s something different,” I said, mock-exasperated.
Shinji laughed. “Trust me,” he said, smiling.

Shinji applied stencils of two of the three flowers and then freehanded the rest. The session was similar to the last several: an hour of drawing, followed by two hours of tattooing.  As he was drawing, I was looking at the stencils he had tacked up to the wall, in preparation for other clients. There was a new one, a wonderful hero figure that looked like a cross between a samurai and a hula girl. I asked him about it after the session.

“That Tamatori Hime,” he said. I asked if it was a warrior, as I didn’t think there were many women warriors. “Not warrior,” he said, searching for how to describe her. “Diver,” he said, settling on that word. “She went into the ocean and stole a ball from dragon,” he explained, pronouncing “ball” like “bowl,” so much I wondered which he meant. “She stole a ball and cuts her chest, putting it inside. Very famous person—not real person though,” he said, not sure I understood it was a myth. I asked him to write down the name so I could Google it later. Wikipedia says:

“The fable of Tamatori-hime 玉取姫 ‘Princess Jewel Taker,’ which was a favorite ukiyo-e subject of Utagawa Kuniyoshi, is a variation of the Hoori and Toyatama-hime love story. Tamatori was supposedly an ama diver who married Fujiwara no Fuhito and recovered a precious jewel that the Sea God stole.
“The legend of Princess Tamatori (Tamatorihime), or Ama, developed around the historical figure Fujiwara no Kamatari (614-69), who was the founder of the powerful Fujiwara clan. Upon Kamatari’s death, the Tang dynasty emperor, who had received Kamatari’s beautiful daughter as a consort, sent three priceless treasures to Japan in order to comfort his grieving lover by honoring her father. One of the treasures, a pearl, was stolen by the dragon king during a storm on its way to Japan in the inlet of Fusazaki. Kamatari’s son Fujiwara no Fuhito (659-720) went in search of the pearl to the isolated area where he met and married a beautiful pearl diver named Ama, who bore him a son. Ama, full of love for their son, vowed to help recover the stolen pearl. After many failed attempts, Ama was finally successful when the dragon and grotesque creatures guarding it were lulled to sleep by music. Upon reclaiming the treasure, she came under pursuit by the awakened sea creatures. She cut open her breast to place the pearl inside for safekeeping the resulting flow of blood clouded the water and aided her escape. She died from the resulting wound but is revered for her selfless act of sacrifice for her husband Fuhito and their son. (Miller 2007:137)”
When we were first discussing ideas for my back, at my first visit,  Shinji asked if I wanted a human figure on my back, a mythological hero.
“No,” I said. Explaining that I wasn’t familiar with the myths, and that I didn’t feel right getting on tattooed on me.
“Good,” he said, obviously relieved. I got the impression he was glad to not have to talk and American out of appropriating a mythos he knew nothing about. “Is better, I think, something else.”
I wonder who is getting the Tamatori Hime piece. I didn’t ask.




Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Session #8 (NYC)

Last Wednesday's session was a short one—which was fine with me. Shinji added flames to the rest of the tail, including flames right into the top of the crack in my ass. (You can't see it in this photo, but... ouch!)

Next we he says we're outlining flowers on the back of my right leg, and then starting on the background. Wind bars only; no clouds.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Para el Cuarto de Baño

Of all the things I picked up in Mexico, this is my favorite. I don't think Andi likes it that much.


¡Lucha Libre! (un otra vez)

I specifically booked my flight back to Philly on a Saturday so I would still be in town for Friday night's Lucha Libre! As most everyone had left the hotel on Friday morning, I ended up catching a cab and going by myself.

I had a great conversation with the taxi driver. As he spoke almost no English in was primarily in Spanish—so I got some good practice. When we got to Arena México he asked me, "¿Tiene un billete?" "No, no tengo un billete, I answered. (No, I don't have a ticket.) "No compra billetes en las calle. ¿Entiende? "Si," I said as I exited the taxi. "Yo entiendo." As I opened the door, I was mobbed by the hawkers selling tickets. I pushed past them to the window to buy a ticket, and then made my way inside.





Los días final en México

So.... my commitment to keeping this blog current while I traveled through Mexico didn't quite stay consistent. I've been back in the U.S. for a week, and my blog needs an ending. So here goes:

The last few days were spent catching up on sightseeing. One more trip to the Mercado Cuidadela, and then a visit to the Museo Mural de Diego Rivera, the Instituto Nacional De Bellas Artes (it was closed), the Palacio de Correos de Mexico across the street, and then Museo de Arte Popular. My friends from the U.S. had all left Mexico City by Friday morning, so I enjoyed the time by myself.







Wednesday, November 06, 2013

¡Lucha Libre!











Retrato de Lupe Marin

On Tuesday morning, I went to visit my favorite piece of art in Mexico: “Retrato de Lupe Marin,” by Diego Rivera, painted in 1938.






I’ve been describing the painting to my friends ever since I got here, talking passionately about it to anyone who will listen: “It’s huge; about ten by six feet. It’s Diego’s Rivera’s first wife, Lupe Marin, and it was painted after their divorce, after he left her for Frida Kahlo. You’re looking up at her, with a forced perspective, and she looks even more imposing. She has a neon green pallor, and she’s painted in such a way that… you can tell Diego Rivera both loved her and desired her, and hated her intensely; hated that he loved her.”

It made a big impression on me the last time I saw it—probably in 2006, when I was here for one of the first piercing seminars put on by the APP. My life has changed a lot in that time.

When I was at the museum, I almost walked past it. It’s much smaller than the painting I told people it was: the Internet lists it as 171.3 x 122.3 cm  (about six by four feet). The green color of her skin is there, but definitely not as garish as I remember, and she didn’t look like the monster that I’ve been describing to my friends.

I stood in front of the painting and studied it; I stared at it for probably a half an hour. I stared at her hands, her feet, her reflection in the mirror behind her. But mostly, I looked at her face.

Her mouth had the sexual sneer I remembered—the lips painted red and open, with a wanton, teeth-exposing part to her lips—but there was something else there too… a kind of pained grimace. I kept looking at her eyes: why are her eyes so ill defined when everything else is so vibrant? They look clouded, or like… she’s crying.

She wasn’t the detestable ex-wife of last trip’s painting; she’s a woman deserving of sympathy; the sympathy for someone who loves you, but who’s no longer gets your love in return. She’s a monument; a beautiful woman who he could no longer show the love, the affection she deserved. You can look at the painting and hear her say, “Diego, ¿por qué no me haces hermosa? Why can’t you make me beautiful? It’s shows Lupe’s painful longing—for Diego?

Monday, November 04, 2013

Sunday, November 03, 2013

Oaxaca (Dia de los Muertos)


(Mientras escribo esto, Bethra y yo estamos en el primer autobús de la mañana a la Ciudad de México. No tengo wi-fi, así que probablemente voy a publicar cuando lleguemos al hotel.)



I usually feel right at home in Oaxaca's vibrant ex-pat population, but this trip it was hard to not feel like an ugly American with the swarm of tourists who descend on the town for la Dia de los Muertos. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Bethra, so the last two days consisted of a lot of markets and eating, and we had to wade through the sea of people to get to our favorite food spots.



Friday, after the markets, we headed over to la Galeria Gorilla. Jason, from Gorilla Glass, played host for visitors from all over for this year's festivities. Many stayed at the Gorilla Glass factory, while a few of us bunked off-site at one of several hotels. I saw many of my good “traveling friends”: people from the body-modification industry and around who I only see a few times a year, but who I still consider friends—and several of them good friends. Bethra, (from Atlanta), Adam (from Brooklyn), Corey, Lysa (and Todd), and Andrea (from San Francisco and the Bay) Autumn Swisher and Shon (from Nomad in San Francisco), Kevin (from Phoenix), Jimmy Buddha (from Austin), Ron Garza and his wife Nakota (from Long Beach, California), and a few others I was meeting for the first time. While we waited, Corey, Meno, and Luna worked on the traditional alter in the courtyard in back of the gallery.

After dark, about ten of us followed Jason over to a group show (where he had a piece on display) in an amazing space that was basically a courtyard inside an abandoned, decaying building. After this, we headed back to la Galeria Gorilla for the performance scheduled for later that evening.

Around 8 p.m., we were led into the gallery for the evening’s performance: “Bridge of Mud and Feathers.” It was performance piece Japanese-American Shibari bondage practitioner and educator Midori and suspension artist Samar. In the small space, Midori, in Butoh-inspired costuming, adorned a rope-trussed Samar with flowers, and then Jimmy Buddha and Muffe, both gilded, attached red chord to Samar’s already-inserted hooks and suspended her off the floor. As she spun, Midori smeared ink over parts of her body, than pressed paper to her body, creating crude paper prints. It was quite beautiful.
 Afterward, Bethra and I headed over to the Panteon Antiguo.  It’s a cemetery fully-enclosed by a sort of mausoleum wall, and inside it’s a party as people visit graves and socialize, both in and out of costume. We’re both early risers, so we were in bed before midnight.

We visited the Gorilla Glass factory the next day for stories of the insane, all-night drunken march through the Oaxacan hills for the traditional celebration of mescal and food. Part of me wishes I could have seen it; part of me knows I wouldn't have survived it. It seemed like everyone else barely did.


(En el autobus, la pelicula “Spider-Man” in playing—en español—mientras Bethra y yo estamos viendo “Fuego” con Isabel Sarli en mi computadora. La turistas que estan detrás de nosotros estan dormiendo, y esta bien porque Sarli esta desnuda por mucha de la pelicula. Es un viaje estraño.)

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Halloween (PHL to ORD to MEX to OAX)



I don’t know what I was thinking when I booked my itinerary for this trip: a 6 a.m. fight from Philadelphia to O’Hare, two hours in Chicago, then a 9 a.m. flight to Mexico City, then a five-hour layover before making my way to Oaxaca. It took me some time, in the surreal early-morning hours hours at the Philly airport, to realize why people were wearing costumes: It's Halloween.

I'm on the ORD to MEX flight, and I’ve started reading Roberto Bolaño’s The Savage Detectives—and become immediately engrossed. Ever since my 2003—or 2004, I don't remember—trip to Japan, I pack and read literature of the countries I’m visiting. On previous trips to Mexico I read through Juan Rufo’s Pedro Paramo, The Underdogs by Mariano Azuela, and others by Carlos Fuentes, Rolo Diaz and Paco Ignacio Taibo II. My favorite Mexican American writers so far have been Guillermo Arriaga and Pedro Juan Gutierrez. (Even though Gutierrez isn't Mexican; he's Cuban. Bolaño is also technically Chilean, but writes from his years in Mexico City.)


The flight is like most other international flights: an interesting mix of people and languages between those returning to and those coming from. The guy the row in front of me to my right is, I’m pretty sure, from the U.S. He’s reading Never Trust a Liberal Over 3 (Especially a Republican), by America’s favorite liberal-baiting troll, Ann Coulter.

In-flight wi-fi is pretty cool, even if it is ten bucks.

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Mis Nalgas Me Duelen: Session #6 (NYC)





Shinji was playing jazz today. I had to fight the urge to try to talk to him in Spanish.

Between my two Spanish classes per week at the International House (plus homework), my two tutoring sessions per week with Andrés (once in English, for him, and once in Spanish for me), and my correspondence with friends in Mexico about my upcoming trip, my brain seems to be trying to default to Spanish—even though my Spanish vocabulary and grammar are nowhere near up to the task.

I have those two languages fighting already, and then Shinji was speaking to his apprentice in Japanese, so my head was a strange swirl of Spajaplish (Jaspanglish?), with classic American jazz as the soundtrack.

We worked on my ass and the back of my leg today. I must admit I was a little scared of today’s session. I’ve been tattooed before—a lot—but getting that little amount done on my ass before hurt.

Yes; it sucked. A lot. But it wasn’t anything I haven’t been through before. It all sucks.

I was lying on my stomach while Shinji worked, with Spanish and English swimming and churning in my head like two different types of fish cresting to the surface before diving again: Fuck this hurts. Me duele mucho. Que me duele? What is “ass” in Spanish? Celo…? Culo? Cielo? No…. that’s “sky”—that’s Skylar’s name in the new Colombian “Breaking Bad.”* “Skylar” to “Cielo”….  Culo. I think that’s it: Mi culo me duele. My ass is paining me.... Fuck, this hurts…

We finished up the dragon’s body today.
“Next time, we do flames, Shinji said, pointing to the tail. “And then peonies.”

After I left my appointment I texted my employee, Eduardo.

Me: Mi culo me duele. Is that how you say it? Hice mas tatuaje.
Ed: Jajaja. Culo=ass. Nalgas=butt  cheeks.
Me: Which is better in this case?
Ed: Nalgas. Saying my culo could get you hazed and bring up jokes of taking it in the butt.
Me: ¿Como una prisión? Entonces, “Mis nalga me duele” es correcto, ¿no? ¿Mis nalgas?
Ed: Mis nalgas me duelen. Plural.
Me ¡Gracias!
Ed: De nada.

*Yes, they really are planning to make a Colombian version of Breaking Bad.