Prologue
At A Glance Author snowmellen Contact snowmellen@bme.anon IAM snowmellen When Two years ago Studio Living Colour Location Ottawa, ON Let me first tell you about myself. And then about the board.
My family is avid about their downhill sports (family legend has it that when I was born, pigeon-toed, my father exclaimed happily "A natural snowplow!"). As Warren Miller says, "the family that skis together, stay together"; and this holds true for mine. All those early mornings every weekend from the time of the first dusting of white on the hill to the last days of winter wilting into spring; all the vacations, the late nights waxing and tuning, the summer sales, the family rituals and the equipment; it brought my family closer: giving us one shared, unifying love.
As could be expected in this day and age, I first tried snowboarding with my father at the tender age of 10. The boards were long, pointed at one end and our feet strapped into the bindings almost right up against the square tails. I had to use foam padding to boost my little Sorels to the front of my board (child-sized bindings unheard of). After originally using a borrowed board, my dad went out to find a "cheap 2nd-hand board" and somehow came home with a brand new, top-of-the-line Burton board. A Burton Asym Air, this beautiful beast was wood-grain stained a deep green, with high-technology asymmetrical sidecut to help one carve beautiful turns on both toe and heel edges in an age of extreme stance angles, and badass winged "B" (or 13) logo emblazoned on the top, bottom and the matching bindings. It was sexy, and I loved it.
A few years later I would get my own Burton board; and further down the line, many more would follow. I would ride the old Asym Air on many occasions, it now seeming so not quite so aggressive, so long; instead, more like an old, passé and worn out oddity (the asymmetrical idea now long dead and buried). Retired to the basement, but never sold on my and my sister's insistence: it is part of our heritage, our family. As a family with very few other ties or history, perhaps this thing is the closest to an heirloom we have.
Planning
I knew for a long time that I wanted something to immortalize this part of my life, my family. And I'd always loved the Burton logo on that board. The old-style 13 for the "B", the sweeping wings like a crest. Many times it graced the doodles in my notebooks and papers, and over the years I saw it less and less as Burton changed its logo. Any spare glances I'd see of this one: in a magazine, a catalogue, an old poster hiding in a dusty corner of a store; would bring immeasurable pleasure and joy bubbling up from inside of me (and the tale of my family spilling out from my mouth to whomever would listen). So when the lust for ink came, what better subject matter could I think of than the Burton wings upon my body.
Upon my lower back, I decided. I never really considered any other location. It seemed the best spot: an area easily hide-able, but where I could get something large; and area that would not sag or stretch; an area where I could have it covered more often than not from the damaging rays of the sun.
So I pinned up some of my doodles, and having moved rather far from home, I endeavoured to get a hold of some actual pictures of the logo. Harder than it may seem, I discovered. I knew it was an old board, but looking for images of it really brought home to me just how old. I did, however, manage to contact someone at Burton who went to the trouble of digging up some stickers and press stuff from that era to mail to me. Pinning those up beside my doodles depicting curvier wings, I began my wait. My wait to see if I became tired of it, and my wait until just the right moment.
The Ink
The right moment came mostly out of chance, a good 6 months after the original serious planning stages. I'd decided on the right time: the upcoming spring that would mark 10 years of my involvement in snowboarding. I'd originally been planning on having it done while I was in Toronto, but I was visiting family in Ottawa, when walking downtown we happened to wander into Living Colour. I love wandering in and out of tattoo and piercing establishments, that's typical for me, but what was unusual was the spark of spontaneity it ignited within me.
They apparently had a visiting guest artist, (whose name I have hideously forgotten- I am so sorry) with his portfolio out in display. Flipping through it I saw line after talented line: alive and vibrant with skill and colour. Simply lovely. I inquired about the possibility of getting tattooed, and I know at some point in time I either then or later I spoke to the artist about my concept and within seconds he'd whipped up a doodle of exactly what I wanted. We discussed size, and I was quoted 3 hours' work. He had an opening 5 pm that evening, enough time for me to go home, eat a little, pick up my little sister from school, pick up the board itself from my parents' house (I felt it should come along) and drive back.
I don't recall waiting very long at all before me and my entourage of sister, snowboard and significant other were ushered into one of the back rooms. A neat, clean and lovely back room, I might add. And so the design discussion began. With the board there it was easy to refer to the parts I wanted changed and those I didn't; and with my minor artistic skill (and his major), we were able to come up with the perfect blend of "me" with "corporate logo" in reasonably good time. There were a few minor hang-ups, most notably whether or not to curve the lettering in order to give a more 3-dimensional look; and then we were off.
I tucked my shirt up into the strap of my sportsbra, and my pants sat low enough they needed not be undone. Again, it's been some time so I've forgotten the exact details of the order, but at some point paper towel was folded over the back of my pants, gloves were applied and I was prepped, shaved with a disposable Bic, and the design laid out in rough freehand. Yes, freehand. This boy was good. I asked to have it enlarged a little, so it reached from one side of my back to the other, and then I approved and we started. Another glove change figured in there at some time, as well as the decanting of ink into tiny, disposable ink caps.
He had me sit on the padded bench, pillow in my lap and leaning forwards just slightly, not enough to stretch my skin, but enough to make it taught and straight. He started the plastic-covered tattoo machine with a low buzz and gradually touched it to my skin, uninked, as a trial. I don't remember jumping at all, in fact, I was quite surprised at the lack of sensation.
He loaded up black ink onto the needles and began pounding in the outline. I found it pinched considerably in the beginning, although from the get-go it felt nothing like being stabbed with a needle, let alone many. Very quickly the feeling receded to something akin to persistent, annoying scratching, to the point of rawness. If this sounds terribly painful, honestly it was not. The most interesting part was when the gun was working over my spine, and then I found if I clenched my teeth I could feel the buzzing sensation running all the way up to resonate in the bones of my skull.
About an hour into it the outlining was done and we stopped to take a break. I was quite thankful, not for a break from being under the gun, but for the chance to stand from my seated position, as well as to check the progress. He wiped me down and I got a chance to look in the mirror. The work was amazing. the contours were clear and crisp, the flesh around pink and swelling; but the ink itself luxuriant and the line weight extraordinary.
Sitting back down after him taking a cigarette break and me shaking the life back into my legs, we began the colour. I really could say that there wasn't much discernable difference in the sensation between the two. The only thing I did notice in terms of pain was the wiping. All along, he'd been wiping away the blood and excess ink with a spray-dampened paper towel. At first, the cool wetness had been soothing on my inflamed skin. But as we progressed, this wiping became less that enjoyable. I could feel the rough fibres of the cloth tearing at my sensitized, wounded flesh with each pass.
After another break or three and a phone call saying we'd be late for dinner (it was taking longer than expected), we all finally decided it was finished. Well, actually, the artist really wanted to add a glow, or horns/halo, or something more to it, but I was pretty set on it being unadorned. I could always add something on later, but I'd made far too many changes to "the plan" for one day.
He packaged me up in plastic wrap and gave me his take on aftercare: keep it under wraps at all times for the first few days, changing the wrap often; then wrap during the day, let it breathe at night for the remainder of the week. Use a gentle, unscented soap to cleanse, and keep a thin layer of fresh Tattoo Goo on at all times. Avoid Polysporin, prolonged water pounding in the shower, and scratching. He also gave me the rest of a roll of medical tape to hold the plastic wrap on.
I went to the front, ready to pay, and they were setting up to charge me $450 as it had take 4 and a half hours. The lovely artist, however, insisted they charge me the quoted price: $300, saying he'd been slow and there'd been breaks. Incredibly sweet of him, really, and I would've paid gladly for the work done. I picked up a little pot of Tattoo Goo, expressed my grateful thank-yous, and left. I actually drove us all home, certainly not feeling in any way incapacitated.
The Healing
The first night I don't recall exactly, but I think I may have just left the dressing on overnight without touching- it still felt very raw and tender. The next morning I showered with the wrap on, so as to protect it from the shower, as well as avoiding any direct water streams. I then removed the wrap at the end of the shower, lowered the water pressure to almost zilch and let the warm water fall onto my shoulder blades to trickle down my lower back. I was reminded recently of the pain I experienced when I had a bad sunburn on my thighs (I am very fair skinned and sunburn hideously easily). Even if the water was only pleasantly warm elsewhere, it felt burning hot on my tenderized flesh, causing extreme wincing and sharp intakes of breath. I gingerly rinsed away what I could feel as a slight bit of goo (likely a mix of plasma and the lotion he'd applied before bandaging me) and stepped out of the shower to dab away excess water with a paper towel.
I carefully applied a thin layer of Tattoo Goo (again, a very similar sensation to applying aloe to the kind of sunburn that's going to blister spectacularly) and a fresh piece of Saran wrap, held on my medical tape and was off to work. That afternoon when I got home I did the same rinse-Goo-wrap routine, and once more before bed.
I think it was either the next morning or afternoon that I did the first wash. I used Spectro-Jel, because I've always had great results with it and piercings, it's superbly mild yet effective. I cleaned the area gently, applying the cleanser with my fingertips in a delicate circular motion, trying to avoid any actual scrubbing. It felt good, very cooling. I rinsed with water the same as before, again re-applying Saran wrap.
I continued this the next few days, three or four bandage changes and two washes daily, and then towards the end of the week, applying only the Tattoo Goo, no plastic, at night to allow it breathe, and washing in the shower. Around this time I started to notice that I was experiencing the loss of my uppermost layer of skin, something I've heard described as "milky skin". It definitely had a white, opaque appearance, but my tattoo spend most of it time moist, so it was more like a thin layer of yoghurt. It definitely didn't have the appearance of normal peeling skin, and didn't hold together in sheets at all.
After the first week I stopped with the Saran dressings and just continued to apply an even thinner layer of Goo, only enough that would soak into my skin. I continued cleaning without scrubbing in the shower. I found about halfway through the second week I was struck with the most horrible itching. Again, like a bad burn. The urge to tear my skin to ribbons with my fingernails was enormous. Of course, this would've been a very bad idea; but the itching got so agonizing that I took to wearing mittens to bed in fear of scratching my new ink to pieces as I slept. Finally, the itching passed as I shed another layer of skin, this one with a much more skin-like appearance.
Notice in the healing that I never experienced any scabbing whatsoever. I know that the plastic-wrap method is far from the recommended norm for various reasons, but I certainly feel personally that it helped me retain my vibrancy and colour better by keeping the area constantly moist, as I never experienced scabs. As well, I should mention that the Tattoo Goo I used contained comfrey, now considered an unhealthy additive and hence removed from the formulation. I'm sure any lotion would have worked, but the little tin didn't break the bank and smelled wonderful. Although I now associate that smell strongly with itching.
Aftermath
The results of the tattoo are incredible. The ink has held very strong, even the vibrant reds and in particular the baby blues retaining their brightness. I noticed as time went on, that I was also left with a fine raised texture to all the ink of the outline. Not usually considered desirable, I was neither surprised, since I scar spectacularly and most dreadfully easily; nor disappointed, since it didn't affect the sharpness of the lines one bit. I rather like the slightly embossed effect. Actually, I find it incredibly valuable when applying sunscreen (my ink has never seen the light of day without a good coat of at least SPF 30). Even now, almost 3 years later it's still clean and vibrant, and certainly doesn't look its age.
I'm still in love with the artwork of this tattoo, I still catch myself doodling it. My only sadness is that it's in a place where I don't get to see it half as often as I used to when the designs were all pinned to the wall. It still stands as my only piece of ink, I would love more, I just haven't found anything anywhere near as important and significant in my life that could possible compete with it. Oftentimes I wonder if the likelihood of ever finding something equally life-altering and long in the making is almost nil.
The snowboarding, you ask? Many years, and many, many boards later, I'm still riding Burton. I've been able to juggle ridiculous schedules and lead a life that allows me to do the sport I love over 60 on-snow days a season, and without incident this should continue the rest of my days. I have discovered several times over how important and deeply ingrained into my psyche this sport has become, and how it keeps me grounded and sane with the rest of my life whirling around me. I now ride with Burton on pro-form (not because of the ink, either, although goodness knows how many times I've been asked if I get free stuff because of it: the short answer is no). And while I love their products still, and they treat me very well, this tattoo was never meant to be anything for the future, or as a corporate logo. This exists as a reminder of a significant, formative part of my childhood and adulthood, a reminder of my family and my roots.