TATTOO
Art engaged every part of my being. It felt different than anything else. Through art, I could understand myself. It wasn’t motivated by other people. It forced me to look within and figure out what was beyond the surface. The world felt crisper, and I felt more engaged, like I was no longer letting life happen to me. Instead of showing people what they wanted to see, I was showing them what mattered to me. Memphis was a turning point in the way that I saw myself. I had showed more vulnerability than I thought was possible, and I allowed myself to be held accountable for it. I could finally say confidently that art was an integral part of who I am, that I knew that I had important stories to share with the world. I was excited by the possibilities that were coming my way because I found a way to be the fullest version of myself.
On my last full day there, I went to a rundown tattoo parlor in a strip mall with my best friend’s mom. The only brush I’d used to paint my mural was a Wooster. It’s a weird looking brush, an inch and a half wide with angled hairs that attach to a handle that fits perfectly in the palm of a hand. I thought it represented the weekend well. In between coats of paint, I sent an image of the brush to the tattoo artist, and when I got there, he began sketching the tattoo. I walked out of the door with plastic wrap covering a three-inch line drawing of the brush on the left side of my ribs.