EDITOR'S COMMENT—September 2000
Whenever I visit a tattoo show, there's always enthusiastic support from the participants. I'm admitted free and get to wear nifty badges that say "VIP." At the Detroit Motor City show, especially, I was picked out of the crowd several times by artists who just wanted to say, "Hello," or fill me in on the latest scandal.
In any case, my job at the event was to scout around and find photogenic lads and lassies for my photographer, Bernard Clark, and his assistant David. Clark had set up shop in the Skin & Ink studio down the hall on Magazine Row. Expecting the usual okay from everyone I asked, a young women with a tattooed shoulder threw me a curve; putting the kibosh on my plans to make her a cover girl.
"Hi, I'm the editor for Skin & Ink. May I photograph you for the magazine?"
As I said, I usually get a resounding, "Yes." But, this time, the young women turned to ask permission from the actual artist. He was tattooing a client a couple feet away. Without missing a beat, she asked, and he shook his head.
"He says, no," reported the women. "Sorry."
Damn, I thought to myself. What a bummer this guy is.
Well, I went on about my business; soothing my fractured ego with a new stick of gum. "Imagine, this guy just blew a chance for everyone from Ann Arbor to Amsterdam to see his damn tattoo. How could he possibly not cooperate?" I mumbled.
A few minutes later, I found myself at C.W. Eldridge's Tattoo Archive memorabilia booth, and related the story to him. Chuck, my mentor and wise counsel for the last three years, told me, quite emphatically, "Don't take it personally, Baxter. Perhaps that particular artist felt protective of the design, and simply doesn't want every scratcher that picks up the magazine to rip him off."
"Hey, I never thought of that" I said. "It makes perfect sense. I guess I didn't understand where he might be coming from. How ignorant of me. I guess I'm never too old to learn."
The next morning, I was doing the rounds of the booths, and heard a voice call out from behind me. I turned around. It was the tattoo artist.
"Smile," he hollered. And with that, he brought a camera up to his face and snapped my picture.
Go figure.
—Bob Baxter, Editor in Chief