“A Shared History” Pt. 2
I lightly push the small door open and step onto the main tattooing floor of Smith Street Tattoo Parlour.
The awkward and abrupt feeling of déjà vu pokes my brain as I remember all the time spent watching Vice TV’s Tattoo Age video series about Bert Krak and Dan Santoro. I’m absolutely giddy as electric shockwaves thrum in my nervous system even as I wear a calmly masked smile. Eli waits for me at his tattoo station while Bert Krak is already working away in the back corner; Jeremy Ross Armstrong is tattooing to the right side of the studio with a prone-laying client.
The tattoo stencil sits on the work bench at Eli’s side while it patiently awaits application to my skin.
As I write this, I remember the image of the workstation lamp shining a cone shaped light over top of the stencil. It looked like a scene from a starkly shaded noir movie as a beautiful women sits at the end of a bar with a singular light shining down illuminating her presence in a backdrop of darkness. The surroundings were noisy and full of action, but the woman sits there quietly like nothing else is around her; she is enjoying her own existence and waiting for whatever comes next.
“Can I take a picture of the stencil?” I ask Eli already anticipating the answer but hoping for some levity.
“No pictures, sorry. I’ll airdrop you a photo to your phone when everything is done.” He responded firmly.
“Okay, thanks.” I say quickly trying to suppress my disappointment. I knew I needed to finally punt — I had to give up on trying to document my tattoo experience this time with photos. I finally felt myself let go.
Trust your memory — just enjoy the time here, I say to myself reassuringly.
Eli has me stand in the lamp light while he shaves my skin and then applies the stencil to my forearm. After a few firm pats, he peels the white paper revealing the purple outline on my body. Eli turns my forearm back and forth under the lamp light looking at the stencil — his eyes narrowing in appraisal.
“Gonna try that one more time…” Eli says half to himself and half to me.
I watch as he wipes down my arm with a cleaning solution and the stencil melts away in a murky purple cloud. Eli then repeats the process.
The second attempt receives a grunt of approval, “Go check that out,” Eli says as he gestures to the full-length mirror in the back of the shop. In the reflection, I pronate and supinate my forearm, wiggle my fingers, and flex and extend my wrist watching the beautiful women dance and return her small smile back to me. My cheeks flush and I flash a goofy toothless smile at my own reflection before starting back to Eli’s workstation.
I nod my head to Eli, “Looks great.”
He returns my gesture with a small glint in his eyes and begins the final stages of preparation for my tattoo. Soon, I have kicked off my sandals and I’m laying belly-up on the massage table with my left arm extended on a bolster. I stare at the blank cream-colored ceiling as I give my fingers one last wiggle and my wrist one last rotation before the tattooing starts.
“Ready?” Eli asks.
“Yes — I’m ready.” I reply quickly.
“Here we go,” Eli says aloud as the electric buzz of the tattoo machine consumes the air around me.
It’s no surprise that Eli works quickly through the outlining of the tattoo. He’s in full control of the entire process; his right-hand moves in practiced efficiency while circling, pulling, and flicking along the stencil outline on my forearm. Dark black pigment is driven into the dermal layer of my skin and the discomfort caused by the needle ebbs and flows as it digs at sensitive neural tissue, musculature, and fascia.
There was a steady rhythm to Eli’s tattooing as he moved incrementally.
Tattoo — wipe — check.
Tattoo — wipe — check.
Tattoo — wipe — check.
Each line laid down was given a scrutinizing once-over assessment; the hand and tattoo machine worked separately as if Eli and his brain were the foreman on a construction project. His head and body stayed incredibly still during each stroke with the tattoo machine, only his arms and hands would move in an isolated rhythm while his face wore a mask of deep focus. At times his head would come up, the mask would break, and his baritone voice would let out a laugh or a comment in response to the banter going on in the parlor.
Then a switch would flick, and he would return to the task at hand of creating the American Traditional artform.
Our conversation during the tattoo remained relatively quiet and simple. We did continue to talk about Stoney St. Clair and Eli offered his thoughts on the origin of this design we had chosen today. “I think that’s why these designs are called ‘traditional’ because they get passed down or passed around. He (Stoney) may have gotten the design from an old advertisement in the 1890s or traced it off someone else’s paintings.”
The outline of the tattoo was completed quickly, and Eli began the first stages of shading with more dense black ink before applying the rest of the color. I remained on the table while he switched needles and laid out the color profile of the tattoo. It was a seamless transition, and I honestly didn’t realize that he had made the change to other colors until I looked over and saw the green headband of the women being laid down. It was a striking color difference providing a stark contrast from her black hair.
I grinned to myself and thought back to something Zane Grey had told me a few weeks earlier when we were discussing my upcoming tattoo with Eli.
“I have heard from others that It’ll be the fastest tattoo you’ll ever get.” He said with a laugh. “But it’s an incredible experience — the shop is laid out as it was meant to be with American traditional and flash tattooing. The serious collectors will do their best to get a piece from there.”
To my delight, Eli had also chosen green for the eye coloring of the lovely lady, “I love the green eyes.” I tell him.
He nods in agreement with a quick smile as he wipes the excess ink with a paper towel and dabs more Vaseline on my skin. He tilts his head to allow his eyes to change sight levels and perspective all while wearing the same scrutinizing gaze.
Next, red pigment was poured into the bowtie on the headband of the lady head tattoo with short scrubbing strokes; my skin crawled and goose bumps flared in response to this painful area. This portion of the tattoo lays on the Brachioradialis muscle belly of the forearm as the radial nerve runs underneath it — both structures barked their displeasure at the intruding needle.
“That bit sucks…” I say out loud trying my best to hide the grimace on my face.
“Does it?” Replies Eli. His eyes and lips narrow into a questioning expression before stating, “Didn’t think there was a whole lot going on there…”
I go on to quickly explain the anatomical structures in the area and why they would be particularly painful. Eli nods his understanding and follows up my thoughts with, “What do you do for work?”
“I am a manual therapist and personal trainer of sorts. I started in sports medicine,” I reply.
“That sounds pretty interesting. I’m not very into sports myself — but still pretty cool.”
I smile at Eli’s remark, “It has taken me all over the country — I have gotten to see and be a part of some pretty cool things.”
I watch him apply red shading to the lady’s cheeks and then to the shirt cuff on her wrist before my gaze wanders to the flash sheets on the wall. A majority of them look older — much older than either me or Eli. I ask about the age of the artwork on the walls of Smith Street and Eli would go on to tell me that the newest sheet is probably from the 1980’s with a large portion of them from the 1960’s and many more as early as the 1940’s.
I didn’t know how to appropriately respond to this factoid, but I naturally bumbled the words, “Oh… wow.” In a breath of amazement.
This is a moment I have since mulled-over many times after this tattoo’s completion. In my very limited but growing knowledge of American Traditional tattooing, I often describe to friends and other interested people that this style is inherently repetitive in nature with the same general designs being redrawn and redistributed over and over again. There is flare added with different color palates, shading patterns, and intrinsic symbols, but the original idea always shines through.
Its timeless in that nature.
For example, the climbing black panther tattoo is believed to have been first drawn and tattooed nearly 80 years ago in the 1940s by an artist named William Grimshaw who likely referenced a book called Minute Myths and Legends by Marie Schubert that was published in 1934. The tattoo has since then been redrawn countless times as one of the most popular motifs and designs in American Traditional tattooing. When you get this crawling panther tattoo, you know for a fact that you have thousands and thousands of other people with the same design or a very similar variation.
You also know that you are a part of a kinship created by a shared appreciation in a particular artistic folklore and history.
Many other pioneers of the artform have created several of these posters in the Smith Street archives. They have since been repeated and redrawn much like the climbing panther; their original art lives on through the work of another purveyor’s machine and skilled hands. The act of tattooing between artist and patron is meaningful enough — but the intrinsic layer of passing down historical designs from artist to artist and then to patron only reinforces the foundation of the artform that is older than written history.
Eli cruises along to a finish on the lady head tattoo that has found its permanent home on my forearm. In the end, the woman is colored in with black hair that is held down by a green head band with a red bowtie; the same green and red is used to shade the shirt cuff on her wrist. A dark brown provides her skin tone along with more red coloring to show intensely blushing cheeks, painted fingernails, and a dab of lip stick. Finally, the green shines one last time in her eyes as they stare back at you.
Several small moments of improvisation have occurred so far in all of my tattoo experiences, and I have grown to appreciate them more and more each time. This particular moment of creative spontaneity comes when Eli asks to the shop manager, “Hey, bring over a bit of that yellow please.”
Quickly the man approaches with a bottle of sunflower yellow ink and pours a small bit into a tiny vessel for Eli to dip the tattoo needle in. Eli quickly pops the yellow in besides the green shading that was already in the women’s eyes. Right before me those eyes illuminate; the contrast in colors make them gleam almost life-like as emerald jewels.
“Wow!” I bumble my words again.
Eli laughs and grins, “Yep. Looks good, huh?”
“Amazing.” I reply back with a small guffaw.
There really isn’t much time to doddle and chat as Eli wipes down my arm with cleaning solution and gestures towards the full-length mirror for me to get a good look of the new tattoo. I have forgotten about the existence of my phone at this point and just gaze at the newest tattoo in my collection with open admiration through the reflection in the mirror.
When I return to the table, I say to Eli with a laugh, “she’s blushing about something,” referencing her intensely red-colored cheeks. Eli chuckles and responds, “Oh, she’s got a secret.”
He gives the tattoo one more wipe to clean the plasma, blood and excess ink and asks me to go show Bert Krak who was still working away at another man’s back tattoo. Bert looks at my forearm and states simply with admiration for his fellow artist, “That’s awesome!”
Eli looks on from a few feet away as a quiet but proud smile flashes across his face.
Next, I follow Eli outside to the back of the tattoo parlor and he snaps a few pictures in the natural light of the early Brooklyn evening. Several other artists and patrons’ approach to admire Eli’s handy work and it feels like I’m not really there, as if the tattoo has its own separate existence from me. This lady head first drawn by Stoney St. Clair decades ago has been redrawn and recreated by the skilled hands of Eli Quinters. After enduring the pain and paying the price monetarily and figuratively, I have given this classic piece of folk art a new home much like it had been given in years past with another human being.
I wonder internally in that moment who else might have this Stoney St. Clair design on them — who is my brother, sister, or sibling in a shared history?
As the one-person parade continues, another patron remarks, “It’s so crispy!” as I rotate my forearm showing off the design.
Eli responds with another chuckle and a proud smile, “He specifically asked for something crispy.”
I make my way to the front of the house where my belongings are located so I can get a little more cash to tip Eli. I turn to give him the money and say, “Its beautiful, Eli. Thanks so much man. I really enjoyed the experience with you.”
Eli firmly grasps my hand, “I’m glad you’re happy with it — I really enjoyed this one. I had been wanting to do it for a little while now.”
After he airdrops the tattoo photo to my phone, Eli tells me that he loves to see his tattoos healed and that if I’m ever back in town, I should come by the shop so he can get a few pictures after it has settled. I agree to do so and assure him that I will send pictures via Instagram if I can’t make it back. The shop manager wraps my tattoo up with non-adhesive gauze and a soft tape wrap to protect it; I’m also handed tegaderm patches and written instructions for aftercare of the tattoo.
Eli advises me to keep a tegaderm patch on the tattoo for at least week in order to protect the artwork in a hyper-mobile and exposed area like the forearm.
I say a final goodbye to Eli and confidently stride out the front door into the warm Brooklyn evening. After a few more minutes reading through the “Tattoo Scripture” on the front of the shop and drinking in any last sensations I might have, I begin the short walk up to the subway station to return to my Airbnb.
The last lines read:
“…Stop and ponder the American tattoo designs. At first they seem crude and primitive, but soon you will find a certain charm in their line. Discover the spirit of art enjoyed by the folk-masses of America. The tattoo medium caters to their feeling for primitive pathos and sentimentality.”
I collapse in one of the hard plastic seats of the F-train and watch the subway doors close slowly behind me. An electronic ping! sounds overhead and a female voice begins to talk and share the next stop location of the subway car. I plug in my headphones and Spotify gifts me with a throw-back song from my middle school days called “This Modern Love” by Bloc Party.
I’m exhausted and feel slightly overwhelmed emotionally — the experience I just had at Smith Street Tattoo Parlour was like nothing I had ever gone through. I crossed the threshold into one of the top American Traditional shops in the country and came out with an unforgettable experience and equally beautiful piece of art.
During my YouTube deep dive about Smith Street tattooing several months earlier, I had found a video centered around Eli Quinters named “True Love ep03 — Eli Quinters”. In this 10-part video series there is another man on a tattoo journey much like my own that has gone to seek out Smith Street to add to his growing collection — Eli was the contributing artist in this episode.
In the recorded video Eli talks about how one of his favorite artists named Chris Conn Askew quit tattooing after nearly 20 years in the trade. Eli says, “I don’t personally understand why he would want to quit… To me this is just the best job ever. Even if you’re doing tribal arm bands all day long — still better than washing dishes or anything like that…”
“We’ll see how I feel after 20 years — I’ll probably hate it to death. But I hope not.”
At the time of that recording Eli was entering his 9th year tattooing, this past June with me he would be in his 22nd year. I wonder how he feels now. It certainly seems like he still loves it.
The time at Smith Street Tattoo Parlour was exactly what Zane Grey described to me as a “classic street shop aesthetic”. It took me back to a time without technology as I surrendered my phone and camera; in several moments during the experience, I felt foolish because of the attachment to my device. I noticed the subconscious twitch of my right hand going to my pocket, and the way my brain would want to immediately wonder to the phone screen when moments of solitude or boredom came up. It was a natural reaction to avoid the empty thought space calling my name.
My time at Smith Street Tattoo Parlour remains in a stark contrast to the other tattoo experiences I have received. That’s not to say it wasn’t important in my growing knowledge and understanding of tattooing and its history, or not enjoyable. The experience is workmen-like, and almost transactional in its nature; or as transactional as you can get in something that is so intensely human-based. The shop and its artists represent the city and borough that it lives in as well as the history of the artform itself that’s origins came from sailors, military persons, bikers, and salt of the earth humans.
Because of this, there is a prevailing characteristic of Smith Street that seems to be toughness.
Toughness in the patron receiving the ink in their skin, toughness in the designs and colors that have stood the test of time and don’t bleed past their borders, and toughness in the artist who mentally and physically commit days and years of their life to perfect the craft’s demanding aesthetic.
The artists of Smith Street Tattoo Parlour are guardians of American Traditional tattooing. They are excellent purveyors of the artform — some would argue they are the best. A tattoo in your collection from this shop means something a little more as it carries the weight of history and pride in this American folk art.
My forearm aches happily from under its protective bandage and I can envision the lady’s green eyes sparkling at me from its new home on my skin. I venture internally again and ponder if Stoney St. Clair ever thought that this design would outlive him decades later as piece of legendary Americana.
