Tag Your Artists: A Thank You To Tattoo Artists

When I was fifteen, I lied with a Hostel Travellers ID Card, claimed to be eighteen, and got an OM symbol tattooed on my upper back. I was in a loft building directly across from the city’s downtown jail. With the sounds of TOOL playing in the background, I'd just barely missed getting a tramp stamp of every sound of the universe over my ass. Which is funny, because I honestly maybe fart twice a year.

My second tattoo was a "Winona Forever" tattoo on my wrist. Winterstone was the artist. It was 2016. I'd thought about it for years and was genuinely annoyed that Johnny Depp had changed his Winona Forever to "Wino Forever." My middle name is Winona, after my paternal side, who traveled across America trading and selling horses. I was the first-born daughter (the meaning of Winona ) of the new family line of cowboys in rural upper Alberta, Canada. Winona forever. For sure until I die.

It's funny how you plan for tattoos. One for the universe, one for your family—then you hit your third tattoo and suddenly say, "Hell yeah, slap a Bart Simpson tattoo on my ankle."

I’m not posting every tattoo. There are 10 more.

That's the thing about tattoo artists: they've seen it all. The deep spiritual journeys. The family tributes. The drunk decisions that somehow turn into your favorite piece of art. They hold space for all of it; your teenage rebellion, your midlife clarity, your random Tuesday when you decide you need cartoon characters permanently etched into your skin.

These artists don't just push ink under skin. They're therapists who work in permanent marker. They listen to your stories about why you need your dead grandmother's handwriting on your ribcage. They nod knowingly when you explain that yes, you absolutely need song lyrics from a band that broke up in 2003 wrapped around your forearm. They've mastered the art of not laughing when you show them the Pinterest board you've been curating for three years.

Think about the skill it takes. They're essentially drawing on a canvas that moves, bleeds, and has opinions. They have to be part artist, part counselor, part medical professional, and part fortune teller—because they know which tattoos you'll regret and which ones will make you cry happy tears for the rest of your life.

They work in a medium where there are no do-overs. No ctrl+z. No "let me just fix this real quick." Every line matters. Every shade has to be perfect. And they do this while you're either completely zen or having a full nervous breakdown in their chair.

The good ones remember your stories. They remember that your first tattoo was about finding yourself, your second was about honoring your family, and your third was because you were having a really good day and Bart Simpson just felt right. They become part of your life's timeline, marking moments you wanted to remember forever.

So here's to the tattoo artists—the ones who turn our impulses into art, our pain into beauty, our stories into something we can carry with us always. The ones who know that sometimes the most meaningful tattoos are the ones we get on random Tuesdays, and sometimes the ones we plan for years never happen at all.

This is a shout-out to all the artists out there.

(please see @kellyoxford Instagram for tags to my artists, substack is glitching…