If The Devil Is in the details, is god found in the imperfections?
April 2024
There’s a ghost in the machine of our digital world. We’ve trained AI engines to break one of the last barriers between humans and machines by tasking them with generating art, and in the last year they’ve certainly made themselves busy. The paradox of digital art is that it can only emulate what was once only possible through analogue means. The mark of a true artists’ hand has become like a ghost inhabiting algorithms and fragments of code in these engines, slowly getting quieter as the algorithms develop. We have developed a level of saturation from digital imagery that has reached a point where we can no longer trust our initial perceptions of art, we don’t know or understand the means by which an image is made just by simply looking, it’s my suggestion that this is having an impact on the experience of tattoo clients and artists.
By now, most of us are tired or unnerved by the endless think-pieces on the perils or merits of AI as it relates to artists, and my goal in this piece of writing isn’t to contribute to the existing discourse on the subject. Rather, I suggest that this over-saturation of digitally produced media has contributed to noticeable shifts in the ways in which tattoo clients see themselves, their tattoos and their tattoo artists, in ways that deserve further examination.
Over the past year I’ve noticed an increasingly odd and previously rare phenomenon among my tattoo clients of all ages. I make it a habit to comment on the tattoo collections of my clients, and I’ve started hearing more and more frequently from clients with technically flawless tattoos that they aren’t happy with the outcome. When I ask why, it’s nothing to do with the experience, or the artist, they point to a microscopic irregularity in a line, or a completely unnoticeable variance in colour saturation as evidence that it “didn’t heal right”. From the standpoint of a tattooer, these irregularities are entirely inconsequential, especially if one accounts for the aging process, which more or less obliterates any minute detail in the span of 10 years - whether it’s one the client likes or not. What’s more, these irregularities don’t in any way affect the readability of the design, they don’t speak to any lack in the proficiency of the tattooer, and they aren’t indicative of any poor healing process. Simply put, they are just real tattoos, on skin, looking the way tattoos have always looked, and more than a few of these “unsatisfactory” tattoos were probably some of the best I’ve ever seen. But then why the increasing dissatisfaction among clients? And why am I hearing this feedback more in the past year than I ever have before?
I don’t propose that this has to do with AI-generated imagery out of some anachronistic desire to blame the evils of technology on shifting notions of “good” art. But I do think that it points to the fundamental flaw in the coding of AI-image scraping engines, which is that you can only teach a machine to perform human irregularity up to a point. The machine will prioritize perfection based on the criteria it’s been given and thus, the artists’ hand becomes a progressively quieter whisper in the artificially intelligent wind. It’s my suggestion that this saturation of artificially “perfect” imagery is shaping our perception of what tattoos are and what they should be, to the detriment of our craft.
At the same time that I’ve been thinking about these increasingly odd client discussions, a device was recently released which claimed to be able to replace tattoo artists fully and give clients a “perfect” tattoo, free from the pitfalls of human error and any human interaction, with better results than many other (funnier) failed predecessors. In chasing respectability and status as a legitimate art form, tattooers have focused solely on technical mastery at the expense of concept, ethos, and the presence of our friendly ghost, the mark of the artists’ hand. Has this rendered a subset of tattooers replaceable by a machine capable of creating a similar result? In my mind, no. But it does perhaps speak to the progressively diminishing relevance of technical perfection in the face of an oncoming technological revolution. It also speaks to the evolution of a consumer base that has been groomed to see human imperfection as flawed and undesirable.
It’s no accident that the Industrial Revolution in the 1850's in Europe coincided with the rise of first impressionism, then cubism, dadaism and everything else we now know as modernism. It was at a point where growing anxiety around the productive and creative capacity of machines spurred artists who were previously focused on high realism, to reveal again the artists' hand.
I freehand the vast majority of my work specifically because it renders actual perfection almost impossible. Of course, I strive for the unattainable, but perhaps because of my background in Buddhist and Hindu philosophy, I am guided by the thought that the goal of an artist’s practice is not to manifest myself and my mark on others, but rather that by striving for the best I can do, I create proximity with myself and divinity as well. Mastery is inherently dominating and I cannot dominate what is bigger than me, and frankly, I don’t want to dominate my tattooing or tattooing in general. I have been curating and expanding on my own tolerance for imperfection in my work for many years and with that being said, I find it interesting that clients who are drawn in by an unattainable and deeply unrealistic idea of what a tattoo should be, are drawn to me and my work.
If you were hoping that I might offer you some solutions dear reader, I’m afraid I must disappoint you all by admitting I have no such solutions. As I’ve been thinking about all these discussions I’m constantly brought back to thinking about the work of my good friends Bubzee (@bubzee.the.artist), Joseph Bryce (@josephbrycetattoo) , and Jenna (@notcoolneverwas) among many others. The line quality in Bubzee’s work is more than a machine could ever understand. I can see her hands in three dimensions when I see photos of her tattoos. I can see her injuries, her resilience, her back pain, in every line, I can literally hear her voice through the lines like some etched in skin gramophone. No machine could ever replace that quality. The subtle rhythms and geometries in Bryce’s work, the repetition of marks, the unpredictability of line, the jazz-like syncopation of flow and anti-flow is more than a machine could ever replicate. The way he pulls out reference materials and swiftly renders a finished stencil from a gestural sketch in a matter of minutes based on feel alone, is the kind of flow state a machine would never understand. The way Jenna spends time meticulously writing and re-writing words and sentences to achieve the precise tonality of freneticism or distortion or expansiveness she’s looking for is more than a computer could ever replicate. Some of my friends in tattooing have long been derided by more mainstream tattooers for not achieving technical proficiency in the ways that tattooing has long needed to strive for. It’s my suggestion that now, more than ever, artists who include their hand in their art and their tattooing will become increasingly rare, but increasingly visible and important.
I don’t encourage the thought that artists who use digital tools are somehow less than those who don’t, these are, after all, inanimate tools with no moral value. Many of those tools have accessibility advantages that have served to broaden the pool of artists and tattooers to every demographic that previously didn’t see themselves within it, however, tattoos will always exist on skin for longer than they exist on a screen, and for tattooers and clients alike to be satisfied with those real, lived in results, it will take some concerted pushback on the unattainable perfection of AI-generated and digital art.
And so, dear reader, the only thing I leave you to ask yourself, is this:
If the Devil is in the details, is God found in the imperfections?
Ornamental…OR NOT?
As one of very few people of South-Asian heritage doing large scale mehndi and indo-decorative inspired tattoos, I exist in a genre of tattooing that is largely populated by non-South Asian tattooers and clients. This class of tattooing is usually called “ornamental” or “decorative”, and I’ve recently seen it unironically referred to as “Oriental” tattooing. This latter term is refreshingly honest, albeit glaringly, and almost comically unselfaware in its’ overt racist implications.
The designations of both ornamental and decorative art have deeper implications than people may realize, and although I have no desire to attract attention to myself for anything other than my work, I do feel it’s worthwhile to expound on these implications as appetites for “ornamental” tattooing continue to grow unabated.
To understand why these terms are loaded, we first have to understand the Western approach to categorizing art - and all the pitfalls therein. When we go back in history to the European Middle Ages (500-1400 AD) the arts were not what we think of today. Painters, sculptors, and illustrators worked under a guild system, workshops of trained labourers produced works for patrons and it was largely the patron who dictated the content of the art. It wasn’t until the Renaissance from the 15th-17th centuries that the idea of the Artist started to emerge, and even then, that designation was reserved for very few painters of the time. Artists were still mostly working for patrons, and the subject matter was still largely religious but ideas about science, geometry, and shifting social roles were starting to make their way into the paintings. Styles of painting started to shift and evolve, perspective became more refined, likenesses became progressively more accurate, and artists became progressively more technically adept.
Fast-forwarding to today, artists like Picasso, Jackson Pollock, and Mark Rothko are elevated for their unfiltered paintings that reflect the human psyche without being constrained by previous schools of art. They are rebels, they represent the individual genius of an artist, they search for inspiration only within themselves and the result is inspiring and bold and entirely innovative. Or that’s what they want you to think.
This may leave you wondering how this has anything to do with ornamental tattooing, but we’re getting there, I promise. This focus on constant innovation and individual inspiration comes in part from this old designation between Artist and craftsperson emerging from the Renaissance, when one had to make a delineation between someone like Rembrandt and the un-named sculptor who made gargoyles for the Notre Dame cathedral. Even the fact that most artists from this period are known and reknowned by only their last names speaks to the clear power instilled in this early generation of Artists.
This designation became enforced with Western imperialism and expansionism, as Western powers encountered art objects from other places. They couldn’t bring themselves to call Indian scultptures of deities “art” so they called them crafts. Or curios. But to call a sculpture of Buddha from the 5th century “art” would be to place it in the same category as a Da Vinci painting, and such a thing would be entirely inconceivable. This has as much to do with who made the art object as it does with where the object comes from. Women typically were not called Artists for weaving elaborate tapestries, or making clothes, or weaving fine fabrics. People from almost everywhere except Europe similarly were not called Artists for making art objects or paintings in regional styles.
The terms “decorative” and “ornamental” art became synonymous with anything not made by men and not made by European men and the designation still holds today in the fine art world. The terms typically means something that is functional, devoid of originality, made only to enhance the appearance of something else, something without concept. But is that really what it is? When we look at mehndi (henna), Indian temple architecture, embroidery patterns, woodblock patterns, mughal miniature paintings, and all the other bits and pieces of Asian art history ephemera that informs modern “decorative” and “ornamental” tattooing are they actually devoid of meaning? Do they not represent a specific place and a specific people?
For those of us who grew up with this visual culture and language, we can read the subtleties of a mehndi pattern and make generalized guesses as to the regional provenance of the design, in some cases we can tell if the bride wearing the mehndi is Muslim, Hindu, or from SWANA region. Pattern in both Western and non-Western textile culture has long indicated status, place of origin, tribal or class afiliations and religious belief. Does this really classify as simply ornamental? I don’t think so.
When I’ve spoken to people who do this kind of tattooing without context or rootedness, the first response I get is usually “it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just patterns!”. Especially now, as we experience a new Middle Eastern crisis where the Keffiyeh becomes a symbol of resistance and allyship, I hope that we can collectively acknowledge that many patterns, are much, much more than simply decorative.