The tattoo artist was out of her depths that day. He was more than she had seen.
Having written the stories of at least five people on their bodies that day, with such great articulation, that each went away knowing themselves much more; she was now exhausted from seeing.
She grew up in a protestant church which emphasized the ears not the eyes, but from a young age, she knew she had the gift of sight more than hearing.
She became a catholic because they seemed to like the visual arts, and instead of becoming a nun, decided for tattoo art.
Still when with clients she rarely spoke. She let her eyes tell the story.
And see it.
She would look at the person starting in the eyes, then work her way down to where they wanted each tattoo.
Then go to her sketch book for about thirty minutes before returning for her showing. The clients were nearly always shocked by how keenly she had discovered what they themselves often could not articulate.
Then she would get to the work of incarnating this person’s image onto their bodies.
It was a like a silent therapy she was offering for those who knew they needed something, but just weren’t sure what.
They went away knowing much more about who they were, and where they were at on their journey. For many it was the first time they had risk inscribing anything on their bodies which would last the rest of their lives.
She did this for years. But today, she had come across a rare client which she was having trouble reading.
She had to look at the them longer than usual; and was having trouble even seeing into their eyes, much less reading the stories of their bodies.
No, today she would need more than her sketch book, she was going to have to return to prayer, where she had learned to see in the first place.
As a child, when she prayed, the heavens would open, and she could see angels and creatures coming and going. In fact, even at this age, every time she prayed, she would start seeing things.
This was just how God talked to her, she would tell me one day.
Pure silent image, and then she would just know what He was saying.
This is how she came to believe that God didn’t just have a thousand thoughts towards each person, but a thousand visions about them daily. When she took to time to pause and see, she nearly always saw an image for each person, one which related to their needs.
In this sense she felt herself a visionary, but one who applied her craft to people and their bodies, drawing out their inner identities in ink.
She was writing their stories on their skin.
But this tall lanky fellow who had come in was giving her trouble.
Was he just not open to being read—like one who goes to a palm reader with clinched fists? Or, were her own eyes cloudy that day. She would not know until she went to pray.
So she told him, I’ll be back in forty minutes, I need to seek this image.
As she closed her eyes to see in her little back room, where she usually sketched; she saw a great void. There were no edges, and it was something like liquid dark purple lava stretching out endlessly like a sea which was tilted upright. A wall of nothingness, one like she had never seen. After the image would not recede, she returned to the tall man and asked: what is your name?
He looked down and ashamed, and said, well that is one of the reasons I’m here. I have amnesia and really can’t recall. Like that fellow in Bourne identity, I have forgotten who I am.
“When did you forget your name?”
“Well it started when my wife died several months back. She died in our bed unexpectedly, and the very next day, I was able to remember all the families numbers and the right emergency services to call and all those laborious details one must do upon death, but just that very morning, the ambulance driver, looked into my eyes with care, and asked me my name, and I simply couldn’t remember it.”
He continued: “I’m an artist and make collage from found street poster art from particular cities, and I try to tell the identity of neighborhoods by montaging all their discarded or left behind posters—band posters, and invitations to yard sales, and scraps from alleyways and bathrooms….but the thing is, I never sign my pieces. So I couldn’t look there. Although, again, I remembered all those neighborhoods by name and place and date.”
She had read once about “selective dementia” that some develop after trauma—where one forgets of blocks out certain events because they are so painful. But she could not imagine why this sad sir would have blocked out only his own name.
Was it shame or some guilt he felt about his wife’s death?
“The night she died”, he went on, “We had been out drinking and smoking at a Jazz club. I knew she wasn’t supposed to be smoking as she had had some heart problems the previous year; but we both just needed to have one of those jazzy nights which make you feel fully alive again. So I let it go. After going to bed that night, about an hour later, her heart just stopped.”
That helps she said, “Do you mind if I try to take a break and see again, before starting then?”
“Not at all, if you think it will help.”
She returned to her prayer closet. Closing her eyes, this time, she saw the exact same image, but something was slightly astir. The lava like void was slightly rippling-a barely perceivable undulation had happened.
Excitedly, but still not given and image, she returned to talk to the tall still slouching man.
“I did not yet get a clear image for you, could you return in one week, and I will see if I can see enough to get started on something for you sir.”
They parted.
A week later, the man returned slouching even more, but his eyes a bit more lucid from the potential for hope.
During her week, she had become obsessed by the man; all her dreams were occupied by it, and her waking life too. But the second day, she had decided-remembering the desert monks from her catholic lessons and those early church practices-she had decided to fast.
After the second day of fasting, something remarkable occurred.
She was in her prayer closet at the tattoo shop, when it did.
She closed her eyes, as usual, and focused on the tall man.
She once again saw the grand towering void of dark purple lava, slightly undulating. Then suddenly, an enormous voice like gentle thunder spoke,
“His name is Bob”! She had never had her visions speak. She had never her the audible voice behind or within her visions. But it was clear, loud and in such a kind tone, she was transfixed on it! It was as if silent film had shifted to talkies. That moment the voices were heard. She was in something like wonder.
She opened her eyes, when the Voice came. In shock mostly.
She went back to the main room to see if others had heard the voice.
No one had.
She immediately called the man and asked him to return to the shop. He came that hour. And when he arrived, she simply said, “I think I know what to tattoo on you now friend.”
She took out her inks, and slowly over two hours, inscribed the letters BOB on the man’s right arm, where he could see it clearly.
She asked that he close his eyes until she was done.
When he opened them and looked down, he began weeping and then looked up right into her eyes, standing fully tall he saluted her with his right arm freshly tattooed, and turned and walked out into what was the bright sun, that day.
Having written the stories of at least five people on their bodies that day, with such great articulation, that each went away knowing themselves much more; she was now exhausted from seeing.
She grew up in a protestant church which emphasized the ears not the eyes, but from a young age, she knew she had the gift of sight more than hearing.
She became a catholic because they seemed to like the visual arts, and instead of becoming a nun, decided for tattoo art.
Still when with clients she rarely spoke. She let her eyes tell the story.
And see it.
She would look at the person starting in the eyes, then work her way down to where they wanted each tattoo.
Then go to her sketch book for about thirty minutes before returning for her showing. The clients were nearly always shocked by how keenly she had discovered what they themselves often could not articulate.
Then she would get to the work of incarnating this person’s image onto their bodies.
It was a like a silent therapy she was offering for those who knew they needed something, but just weren’t sure what.
They went away knowing much more about who they were, and where they were at on their journey. For many it was the first time they had risk inscribing anything on their bodies which would last the rest of their lives.
She did this for years. But today, she had come across a rare client which she was having trouble reading.
She had to look at the them longer than usual; and was having trouble even seeing into their eyes, much less reading the stories of their bodies.
No, today she would need more than her sketch book, she was going to have to return to prayer, where she had learned to see in the first place.
As a child, when she prayed, the heavens would open, and she could see angels and creatures coming and going. In fact, even at this age, every time she prayed, she would start seeing things.
This was just how God talked to her, she would tell me one day.
Pure silent image, and then she would just know what He was saying.
This is how she came to believe that God didn’t just have a thousand thoughts towards each person, but a thousand visions about them daily. When she took to time to pause and see, she nearly always saw an image for each person, one which related to their needs.
In this sense she felt herself a visionary, but one who applied her craft to people and their bodies, drawing out their inner identities in ink.
She was writing their stories on their skin.
But this tall lanky fellow who had come in was giving her trouble.
Was he just not open to being read—like one who goes to a palm reader with clinched fists? Or, were her own eyes cloudy that day. She would not know until she went to pray.
So she told him, I’ll be back in forty minutes, I need to seek this image.
As she closed her eyes to see in her little back room, where she usually sketched; she saw a great void. There were no edges, and it was something like liquid dark purple lava stretching out endlessly like a sea which was tilted upright. A wall of nothingness, one like she had never seen. After the image would not recede, she returned to the tall man and asked: what is your name?
He looked down and ashamed, and said, well that is one of the reasons I’m here. I have amnesia and really can’t recall. Like that fellow in Bourne identity, I have forgotten who I am.
“When did you forget your name?”
“Well it started when my wife died several months back. She died in our bed unexpectedly, and the very next day, I was able to remember all the families numbers and the right emergency services to call and all those laborious details one must do upon death, but just that very morning, the ambulance driver, looked into my eyes with care, and asked me my name, and I simply couldn’t remember it.”
He continued: “I’m an artist and make collage from found street poster art from particular cities, and I try to tell the identity of neighborhoods by montaging all their discarded or left behind posters—band posters, and invitations to yard sales, and scraps from alleyways and bathrooms….but the thing is, I never sign my pieces. So I couldn’t look there. Although, again, I remembered all those neighborhoods by name and place and date.”
She had read once about “selective dementia” that some develop after trauma—where one forgets of blocks out certain events because they are so painful. But she could not imagine why this sad sir would have blocked out only his own name.
Was it shame or some guilt he felt about his wife’s death?
“The night she died”, he went on, “We had been out drinking and smoking at a Jazz club. I knew she wasn’t supposed to be smoking as she had had some heart problems the previous year; but we both just needed to have one of those jazzy nights which make you feel fully alive again. So I let it go. After going to bed that night, about an hour later, her heart just stopped.”
That helps she said, “Do you mind if I try to take a break and see again, before starting then?”
“Not at all, if you think it will help.”
She returned to her prayer closet. Closing her eyes, this time, she saw the exact same image, but something was slightly astir. The lava like void was slightly rippling-a barely perceivable undulation had happened.
Excitedly, but still not given and image, she returned to talk to the tall still slouching man.
“I did not yet get a clear image for you, could you return in one week, and I will see if I can see enough to get started on something for you sir.”
They parted.
A week later, the man returned slouching even more, but his eyes a bit more lucid from the potential for hope.
During her week, she had become obsessed by the man; all her dreams were occupied by it, and her waking life too. But the second day, she had decided-remembering the desert monks from her catholic lessons and those early church practices-she had decided to fast.
After the second day of fasting, something remarkable occurred.
She was in her prayer closet at the tattoo shop, when it did.
She closed her eyes, as usual, and focused on the tall man.
She once again saw the grand towering void of dark purple lava, slightly undulating. Then suddenly, an enormous voice like gentle thunder spoke,
“His name is Bob”! She had never had her visions speak. She had never her the audible voice behind or within her visions. But it was clear, loud and in such a kind tone, she was transfixed on it! It was as if silent film had shifted to talkies. That moment the voices were heard. She was in something like wonder.
She opened her eyes, when the Voice came. In shock mostly.
She went back to the main room to see if others had heard the voice.
No one had.
She immediately called the man and asked him to return to the shop. He came that hour. And when he arrived, she simply said, “I think I know what to tattoo on you now friend.”
She took out her inks, and slowly over two hours, inscribed the letters BOB on the man’s right arm, where he could see it clearly.
She asked that he close his eyes until she was done.
When he opened them and looked down, he began weeping and then looked up right into her eyes, standing fully tall he saluted her with his right arm freshly tattooed, and turned and walked out into what was the bright sun, that day.