Tattoos. They are truly one person's trash, another person's treasure.
And that is how it should be. (File this one under: It Takes All Kinds)
We are all different, with varied tastes, kinks, quirks, peccadilloes. I firmly believe that our differences make the world a far more interesting place.
When it comes to inking one's self, the considerations are many. What? Color? Size? Meaning? And of course, the big real estate portion: Location? Location? Location?
People place them everywhere. Once the staple of sailors' biceps, now regular folk turn their shoulders, shins, calves, tummies, backs, necks, thighs, and asscheeks into art. Dolphins, fairies, skulls, hearts, cartoon characters, foreign languages - it's only a talented needlepoint artist's touch away.
While I don't have any, and don't plan on any, I admire the truly talented artists out there. There are some serious specialists who transcend mere black ink outlines or predictable roses and skulls, turning out exquisite works of flart (flesh+art=flart).
They are patient, they have vision, they have a steady hand, and a keen sense of aesthetic.
As I said, they work on every part of the body. I now mean that literally.
The young lady above obviously likes her Body By Crayola, and she must be seriously committment to the cause to open up to the cameras, as it were. But one has to wonder if bleaching might not be in order first. Start with a clean canvass, if you will...
Question: Would you ever give a tattoo artist the one eyed wink? If so, what in the world would you have inked around your turd cutter? The name of an ex? Your boss's image? A half hidden snake? Rush Limbaugh?