I'd spent months searching the Web for the right artist. In my head was an ill-defined plan for a deep-sea ocean scene for chest and abdomen: weird and wonderful, bioluminescent creatures glowing in the abyss. No single reference photo could be found, which I took to be encouraging—I wanted something original, unique and provocative. A tattoo that everyone else has defeats much of the purpose, in my opinion; might as well save time, money and discomfort and just buy a T-shirt. At a time when almost everything we can acquire is mass-produced, expressing our individuality isn't so easy.
Largely gone are the craftsmen of the world: artisans and guild members, silversmiths and woodworkers, watchmakers and cobblers.
Tattooists are something of an old-fashioned breed, training as apprentices, joining more established groups, then striking out on their own to sink or swim on their own merits. Clients could care less what degrees their artists possess, or what SAT scores they achieved, or what kind of cars they drive or the clothes they wear. All that matters is the art. There's no spin, no fancy gift-wrap, no critical review that make any difference—just the work. There's no opportunity for dishonesty or hiding faults in their wares like a used-car salesman has. There's only the work itself, and the Internet displays the achievements of virtually every living tattooist on the planet. What you see is what you get.
I‘d narrowed down my interest to two artists: Yomico Moreno in NYC, and Sandry Riffard in Southern France. But I was at an impasse, unable to decide between the two. Either would have been terrific for the project. On a lark, I emailed both and asked if they would consider a long-distance collaboration; had I known more about the tattoo world I’d probably never have asked, dismissing the idea out of hand, as this sort of joint venture just isn’t done. Sure, artists collaborate at conventions or during guest visits in studios. But a Transatlantic collaboration? I was sure the answer would be a big ‘No.’
But they said yes. Though they’d never met, they were quite familiar with each other’s work and had mused about how it would be fun to collaborate some day. I was the lucky client who would make it happen.
My son Josh was to start Yale in August. I timed the project start for right after his move-in day. Thirty-eight years after my friend Charles and I moved into our suite on Old Campus, we returned to help Josh do the very same thing. In the late summer of 1984 I could never have guessed that I’d be back again in 2022, not only to install a child in his dorm but also to start a massive tattoo project in Brooklyn.
I’d gone full-circle. Or had I? Maybe it was more like a spiral, going all the way around but not ending up in exactly the same place. Perhaps Yale would conclude I was spiraling down, down into the depths of depravity, what with a bunch of tattoos like a drunken sailor, and more to come. My Dad had worn a suit and tie on the day he delivered me to Yale; for my turn I sported a Harley shirt and a Kudu skull carved into my back.
Back in Brooklyn I walked with excitement down Meserole Street, admiring the graffiti and density while approaching Yomico’s studio.
The studio was beautiful: spacious, clean and bright. I first met Zuli, who runs the studio, and then Yomico—a reserved and contemplative Venezuelan bursting at the seams with talent.
He brought a laptop over to where I sat in a waiting room. He showed me an initial plan for the tattoo; I didn’t like it.
We discussed the plan and made some changes. I was relieved that it wasn’t ‘his way or the highway.’ He added in some more drama; it was more like what I wanted, though I wasn’t yet sure exactly what that was. But it was a start, and already I had the sense that the project would gradually evolve towards an end result we would like but couldn’t get to all at once.
He got to work on the angler fish. He was quite methodical and focused; there was some fun small-talk and he would go back and forth from English with me and Spanish with Zuli, but it was clear his mind never wandered from the job at hand. It felt nice to be getting needled once again—an (all-too) palpable sense of progress. I had a swig of Venezuelan rum I’d brought for a gift and offered some to the whole crew. (Yomico waited till the session was done.)
it was apparent that my right nipple would soon go under the gun. Yomico was heading straight toward it as he worked the bioluminescent light arcing up and over the head of the fish. At the next break I topped off on gabapentin and Tylenol. And some more rum. The video below is from his Instagram feed and it traumatized several observers! A great way to start!
The first session was in the books! It was both uplifting and a relief that the project had finally hit the ground running. Yomico did an outstanding job on the angler fish, and my I hoped this achievement would set the bar high for the rest of the work. On to France!
