This is an article written from my experiences with modern Japanese tattooing in Kyoto, Japan. Submit links and comments to this page! Publish your relevant link, comment, or information below.
Tattoo in the New Japan
By: Wade P. Shepard www.vagabondjourney.com/travelogue
After
hearing that Tsukasa was dying, I went back to his studio to find out
how everything stood. It was true: the master was in no condition to
tattoo. The apprentice seemed to coldly shrugged this news off though,
as if it was to be expected. He also told me that he, by himself, did
not feel comfortable with his skills to create a traditional style
tattoo that would stretch from the top of my shoulders to the bottom of
my buttocks. I was disappointed to say the least, but was not presented
with much recourse. So we talked a little more about tattooing and I
took some photographs of him and the studio. We then smiled, bowed, and
said farewell.
Now Rosemary, my contact into the tattoo world
of Kyoto, also mentioned another tattoo artist that she knew in town:
and Madoka was her name. She was an artist at Cat Claw studio- a
modern-esque Japanese tattoo parlor chock full of western influence
but, in their manner of approach, was still very traditional. I looked
up their address online, which was in the fashionable district of
downtown Kyoto, and again rode off from my home in Ginka-ku to pursue a
Japanese tattoo.
It was around a forty minute bike ride
through the congested streets and alleyways of Kyoto to the studio.
Forty minutes of constantly dodging something or other: clueless
strollers, clueless children, and clueless drivers all seemed to
unintentionally impede upon my path. But after nearly running down the
masses of Kyoto and occasionally losing my way in the city’s winding
alleys, I finally arrived at the studio.
There was a fold out
sign on the street that said Cat Claw Tattoo on it with an arrow which
pointed in towards an empty stairwell. I intentionally rode by it once
to give myself a little time to think through how I would present
myself in this new circumstance (every social interaction in Japan
demands a particular set of etiquette). But I soon realized that
preparation would not get ma anywhere, as I had no idea how this type
of studio would receive me, or the rules of etiquette which would
apply. I did know, though, that this studio would be less formal than
Tsukasa’s traditional studio that I previously visited. Cat Claw is a
street-front studio in which potential clients can walk in at leisure
with no formal introduction. The tattooing that is practiced in these
parlors are also very different than the traditional studios in that,
rather than approaching the entire body as one contiguous canvas to
tattoo, they tend to focus on each tattoo as an independently standing
“piece,” as in western tattooing. Traditional Japanese tattoo
afficionados ruefully refer to these pieces as “point” tattoos.
I
then gathered up a little boldness and ran up the stairs that lead to
the studio. I walked in through the door without knocking and clumsily
removed my large boots; an act that took a few minutes. Once
accomplished, I looked up to see one of the most beautiful humans that
I have every gazed upon gazing back at me with a puzzled look on her
face. It was Madoka; Rosemary had previously warned me that she was the
most beautiful woman in the world, and as I stood there in that moment,
I was sure that she was. She was tall and lean like a stick, with arms
that jetted out from her sides like the branches of a tree. She was
completely covered in bright, colorful tattoos. Her head was amazingly
big and round, and just kind of hovered over her body. Her presence
rendered me breathless and I could scarcely find any words, let alone
Japanese ones to introduce myself. I finally managed to mutter an, “Are
you Madoka?,” in jittery Japanese. She giggled at my presumptuous us of
her native tongue and told me that she was Madoka, in English.
I
then walked up to the counter that she was standing behind and asked if
it would be possible for me to discuss a tattoo with her. She said that
it was, but I would have to wait until she finished a tattoo. I was
actually grateful for this delay, as it would give me a little time to
sit back and take bearings on my surroundings. So I sat down in a chair
that was placed in the far corner of the studio and browsed through an
adjacent bookshelf of tattoo portfolios.
As I sat in there I
was struck by how clean and precise the studio was; everything seemed
to have a place and nothing appeared to be blemished: the hardwood
floor, the glass display cases, the bookshelf of tattoo portfolios, the
working stations, even the artists themselves were spotlessly clean and
well ordered. The workers bustled quickly about with purpose spouting
from their every step. I was solely a backdrop to this scene, albeit
one that occasioned a few wayward glances from the staff and their
regular clients.
As I waited, I flipped through the portfolio of
some of the tattoos that Madoka had created. She definitely had
her own touch and style: bold, flowing figures, bright colors, and an
overriding sense of playfulness. She was well-known around Kyoto for
her tattoos of geisha dancers. I first noticed one on the forearm of an
apprentice at Tsukasa’s traditional studio. The geisha in this tattoo
wore a blue kimono and was holding a colorful umbrella; its elegance
was beyond anything that I imagined possible from the tattooing medium.
From this point on, I knew that I wanted one of Madoka’s dancing
geishas tattooed upon me.
Madoka soon finished the tattoo and
called for me to come up to meet her at the counter. I quickly did so.
I then explained the design that I wanted her to tattoo on me and we
set up a date to do it. This was all very simple and straight forward,
entirely different from the excessively intense interviews required by
traditional Horimono masters. The entire consultation was completed
within a few minutes, and I was scheduled to be tattooed at our next
meeting.
I eagerly awaited the day of my tattoo appointment,
and when it finally came, I again hurried across Kyoto on my archaic
Japanese bicycle. When I arrived at the studio she greeted me with a
warm smile and we made small talk of what we did since the last time we
met. She then showed me the drawing that would be put into my skin. It
was amazing; the lines in the geisha flowed smoothly and seemed as if
it would “dance” well within the contour of my arm. I told her that I
loved it, and she seemed pleased.
I then waited for
Madoka to set up the tattooing equipment and her work station. After a
while of waiting I was told to remove my shirt and shoes and to enter
into the working area of the studio, which was towards the back. I did
as I was told, and Madoka then measured her drawing up against my arm
and decided upon the best placement for it. She then made a stencil on
transfer paper and pushed it real hard to my skin. This is a practice
that entered into Japanese tattooing from the west. The traditional
horimono master does not use stencils, opting instead to draw the
design directly upon the skin. She then peeled off the transfer paper
and the stencil for the tattoo was left upon my arm. It seemed to be
placed perfectly and it did actually flow with the tidings of my body.
I admired it in a large mirror and told her that it looked alright to
me. She obviously did not simply take my word for it, because she
grabbed my arm and intensely inspected the placement for herself. She
decided that it was not good enough and washed it off and then repeated
the process a second time. Now, it was
perfect.
We
were now ready to begin the tattooing. Madoka set up a folding table
for me to lie upon. When I got up upon it the promptly legs gave way,
and the table, with me on top of it, violently collapsed to the
floor. Madoka shrieked, Hori-nao gasped, I laughed. Madoka, with
her hands still planted on her rose blushed cheeks, offered me a
rapid-fire secession of apologies. I just laughed about it, picked
myself up off of the floor, and got ready to jump right back up on the
same table that had just bucked me off.
This time the table
held my weight, and Madoka began tattooing. Her touch was extremely
light and almost unbelievably smooth. She felt the art, this was
certain- each line, each movement seemed to be flowing through her. She
then contorted my arm in a way that coincidentally had my hand falling
really close to the apex of her thighs. She then giggled at my nervous
reluctance to keep my hand in this position. I just closed my eyes and
tried really hard to not allow any thoughts, other than those of the
needles entering in and out of my skin, from entering my mind. I soon
became incredibly relaxed. Madoka worked very quickly over me and the
tattoo was soon completed. I then stood up and hurried over to a mirror
to inspect the new artwork that was indelibly etched into my skin. It
was beautiful; the colors were radiant. It was so well designed and
applied that it moved with my arm, as if it had always been a part of
me. I thanked her profusely for putting something of such immense
beauty upon me. She then photographed the tattoo for her collection and
bandaged me up.
It was now time to complete the deal and I made
a motion to pay, which is something that is always a little
uncomfortable in the tattooing setting. Madoka then unsteadily picked
up a calculator to show me how much money I owed her, and the price
that she typed out was fifty dollars less than what she initially
quoted. Perhaps it was a gift; perhaps it was . I was floored and I
thanked her some more.
I now felt a touch reserved about
leaving. I simply did not want it to be over; I simply did not want to
say goodbye to Madoka, to my horimono studies, to Japan entirely- I was
set to leave it all in a couple of days. I was thoroughly charmed by
all that I had experienced through my study of horimono and, by
extension, Japan. But it was high time- this I knew- and I gave one
final bow, one last look, one last smile and turned and walked out of Madoka's studio and into the busy Kyoto streets.