I’d never actually met Sandry Riffard till I got to his studio. We’d exchanged pleasantries over a video chat at Yomico’s in August; all I really knew about him was that he was an extremely talented, self-taught tattooist with a penchant for fangs and blood. Lots of blood. And skulls.
I’d read a few interviews and—coupled with the joyfully gory and tremendously-detailed examples of his work all over the Internet— concluded he‘s a major talent and, quite possibly, half-crazy. So I brought a lot of good tequila with me from home, in case he needed to be subdued. Unfortunately for me, he doesn’t drink….
I got into Lyon after an overnight flight to Frankfurt, then rented a car and made the two-hour drive to Le Puy-en Velay. The town is a hilly and picturesque slice of Southern France known mostly for three things: an enormous Madonna and child statue signifying the beginning of the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage trail; green lentils; and Sandry Riffard. I rolled in a little after dark, got lost in the maze of tiny streets in the Gothic old town where I’d be staying, and eventually found my 16th-century Airbnb. Four walls and a roof just doesn’t get any more authentic.
The town was even more charming by daylight. I ventured out to find a bakery, and was not disappointed with the long-anticipated pastry and cigarette breakfast.
Then it was time to go and meet Sandry.
The man himself is slender, a bit shy, and, once you get him started, quite explicit and devilishly hilarious. No need to fear the human arms on the wall. I guess.
The studio is small, clean and modest. It's all Sandry: no assistants, colleagues, or employees other than Claudine. Most of the time it's just me and the artist, which suits the impressive depravity of his many, colorful stories.
The case of human skulls are all the real deal, no questions asked. Perhaps the multimillion collection under the streets of Paris is short a few? We'll never know, though the fire extinguisher next to the display is a nice, sober touch--just in case one of the skulls spontaneously burst into flames. And the old-style tattoo guns, shiny and compactly wound with copper wire, are all Sandry's own creations. A man with many talents!
He and his common-law wife, Claudine, had not been enthusiastic about the project at first. Yes, they were excited about the challenge of a trans-Atlantic collaboration. But they didn't like my deep-sea weird creature mash-up and instead suggested a single, bioluminescent jellyfish or the like. However I kept pushing for something narrative, nightmarish and dramatic; I’m not sure who talked them into it, but my guess is it was Yomico, and not me.
His English was thickly-accented but quite good, which was helpful, as my French is total shit. Dressed all in black and heavily inked, his explicit stories and colorful use of profanity reminded me of a twisted and hallucinatory, humanized version of Pepe Le Pew. This was going to be a riot.
The Angler fish looked terrific; the great start in New York got Sandry excited. (I hoped a little friendly competition between these two, great artists would help them out-do themselves.) We discussed the ocean floor elements and—no surprise—he opted to litter the sand with human skulls. I liked the idea: the skulls would play up the sense of dread and danger I wanted to convey. This particular stretch of the deep, dark depths would be no safe-space for our kind.
Sandry is a detail-oriented artist. While Yomico's work for me has an oil-painting-style to the ink, Sandry's is more akin to a full-color pencil sketch, replete with really amazing details in the skulls and vegetation and rocks along the bottom of the piece. He worked quickly; it hurt a bit and I sent another Gabapentin down the hatch with a little Tequila. (Not having to drive at all during any day of inking permitted a bit more liberal use of analgesics.)
Friday's session concludes and I studied the results. While their styles are distinct, it was already clear to me that project would be cohesive and well-integrated. Thank God, these two guys like and talk to each other! Diaper Time also meant Miller Time (or at least the French Equivalent).
Day two was something of a family affair: I met Claudine, Sandry's deeply-tanned brother, a niece and nephew, and his elderly mother. Everyone was friendly and inquisitive. I was a little hung over, and staggering around the cobblestones en route to the studio I could have sworn the old town walls were curving in towards me, menacingly. (On second thought, they actually were.)
Sandry finished almost the entire bottom of the piece. Then it was time for Saniderm, and after a nice meal in one of the best restaurants in town. (In France, that really means something.) Part 1 of the European Odyssey was in the books.
