Under The Skin
/
The day Al Worden died, I knew what tattoo I wanted to get.
I figured I would get one – some day. I’ve sensed this since I was in my twenties. But I also paid attention to the mistakes of others around me. Impulsive, sometimes drunken decisions and dares. Foreign-language characters that did not mean what someone thought. A tattoo that was supposed to show a wolf howling at the moon, memorably described as looking like a tree trunk in front of a slice of cheese. And worse, uglier stuff.
But I’ve also seen some of the most beautiful, nuanced art imaginable.
So, I’ve waited. Mostly I’ve waited because I knew whatever tattoo I got, a decade later, I’d probably wish I hadn’t. Some folks in their twenties and thirties might know what they want on their body for life, but – not me. I wanted to be sure. Plus, it’s very likely I have more years behind me than ahead of me now. I only have to like any design for a few more decades, realistically.
I’d loved the part of the book Apollo astronaut Al Worden and I wrote where he described how his Apollo 15 mission patch came together. He’d even sketched out designs for me, replicating the earliest drafts. Famed Italian fashion designer Emilio Pucci had created an initial design showing three stylized birds in flight. They were later incorporated into a much more traditional-looking American patch design by graphic designer Jerry Elmore, but their powerful, stylistic simplicity remained. I had once worked as a consultant on a Pucci exhibition, on this very subject. When Al died, my mind went to this design.
But Al had died in March 2020, at the beginning of the pandemic, when going to a tattoo shop seemed foolhardy – if they were even open. This was not a problem for me – there was no downside to thinking about the idea some more. I might have changed my mind. But by April of the next year, long after I was fully vaccinated and California was cautiously beginning to reopen, my design idea crystallized, and I knew it was time.
Rather than three solid blocks of color as the birds were in the Apollo 15 patch, I liked the idea of drawing them as neat, thin, precise lines. It would make the tattoo more ethereal, more elegant, and less of a straight reproduction. It was reminiscent also of tattoos I have seen replicating stitches in cloth, which look incredible and echoed the reality that Pucci’s design ended up as a woven space patch. My mother is a textile artist and my father worked in oils, so this seemed apt. I also liked the idea of angling the design upward at a forty-five degree angle. There is a spot where the swell of the deltoid and tricep muscles on the upper arm create a triangular area where this tattoo could nestle with nice symmetry. I began sketching thoughts.
But who would I trust to permanently alter my body?
Yelp reviews can be terrifying. It’s one thing to eat a bad meal. But a bad tattoo, or a bad experience getting a good one because of rude people? No thank you.
The place I found with overwhelmingly good reviews is Remington Tattoo Parlor in San Diego’s official Hipster nexus, North Park. I figure a bad tattoo parlor in North Park would have closed down long ago: I think it may even be illegal to live in North Park without having at least one high-quality tattoo. Culturally, the good artists seem to be in that area. And the work shown online of the parlor owner, Terry Ribera, was breathtaking. He has a waiting list of about a year, and I could totally see why.
Looking through the artwork and reading the online biographies of the artists who work there, I gravitated toward Kris Kezar. His portfolio showed versatility, artistic flair and precise detail I was hoping to see. The fact that his father had been a technical illustrator for the aerospace company General Dynamics seemed like a heartwarming connection. Given that we were in a pandemic, instead of meeting to discuss and finalize a design, we traded late night emails. He totally understood my wishes, and could also advise me on what wouldn’t work. I was fascinated by how, for all of his ornate, more painterly designs, he explained that just as much skill was needed for the precise detail I was looking for.
The size of the tattoo and the distance and fineness of the lines changed, as well as the ink colors, as Kris explained how ink might spread later under the skin. My original idea for white or silver ink would eventually look more like a cream-colored scar, Kris described, so a light gray would work better. I learned a lot about how the artistic medium of multi-layered living skin is very different from paper or canvas, and how a design needed to function accordingly.
The afternoon of my appointment, I had been around needles all day. I had completed a volunteer shift at the local Covid vaccine clinic, helping process 1700 people getting their second vaccine shots. Needless to say, I had seen many needles going into upper arms that day. Now I was on my way to have one in mine.
Both Kris and I had been vaccinated, but nevertheless we remained masked and well-ventilated as I lay down on a horizontal chair that reminded me of numerous dental appointments. Kris patiently answered my questions while giving me other information it was clear that everyone asked. I didn’t ask how long the tattoo might take, because I didn’t want to know. I was very unsure of the pain level ahead for me. I’d heard different things from other people.
I’d already pre-rationalized the pain to myself. Part of the reason for this tattoo was about loss, and memorializing. Pain could be a catharsis for that: a rite of passage of some kind. I was prepared to explain it to myself as a positive. I did my best to relax as the needle began to do its work.
And it was fine.
Like the jab of an injection given by a very skilled nurse, but constant, the sensation was much less than I had expected. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was only a mild discomfort. Kris and I got into a very deep conversation about philosophy that I greatly enjoyed – the kind I would love to continue with him some day with drinks and without needles. Chatting away, feeling no urge to flinch or take a break, I was amazed when he said the tattoo was finished. Only half an hour had passed.
Then came the aftercare. Kris carefully explained about how to wash and dry the tattoo, how to moisturize it, and a long list of what not to do. Essentially, he’d just created a wound on my body, which would now be fought back against at the expense of the tattoo unless I looked after it in days and weeks to come. I was informed about what my body might do next, and some possibilities sounded rather gruesome. But perhaps because of the precise fineness of the lines (although I wish I could claim it was because I tended it as instructed) there’s been no downside so far other than a dull ache, as if I’d had a ‘flu shot.
The trinity of the design can have many meanings. Parents and other parent-figures, plus other trios of notable people in my life. Some are dead, and some are living. Many important things over the decades seem to have happened in threes, and I like the open-ended symbolism of this along with the impetus of the much-missed Al Worden. I can now even claim to be wearing a Pucci design every day, like a true fashionista.
I suspect this won’t be the last tattoo I have, although it might be. I can see the addictive nature of getting more. Perhaps in some decade to come I’ll get some meaningful phrase written on me. I have been known to like writing. In the meantime, I am carrying a life’s worth of what Al taught me, every day, even more.
