the story of a non-obvious ink-and-needles lover pt. 1.

"Hey, why don't you ever wear rings?"

"Girl, you totally have the collarbones to pull of all kinds of necklaces."

"Don't you feel naked without at least a pair of earrings on?"

All of these questions I've heard a million times. I'm just not the kind of girl that has a big jewelry collection. I prefer to wear my art on my body. It's only natural that I share these adventures with all of you, as they are such a big part of me.

Of course I got my ears pierced when I was barely 6 years old, then added 2 extra holes at 14 and even did the piercing my earshell thing (outer conch piercing). After that it was my nose and by the time I was used to all that metal I was old enough for tattoos.

But not. just. yet.

The first thing I got as soon as I was 18 was a tongue ring. It was the first time the door at home was slammed in my face, al though I had obided by my mom's -very sensible- rule of no piercings or tattoos before the age of 18. Just like the outer conch and the second pair of earrings, the tongue piercing didn't last. I had to pierce it a second time and after that it just kept getting infected until one day the infection got so bad that it looked like I had a walrus-chin. It definitely hurt that I had to part ways with my beloved metal tease. But at least we lasted a good 7 years!

By now I already had some experience with needles so I guess getting a tattoo was just the logical next step. Barely out of diapers yet I considered myself to be quite the big deal.

Please keep in mind that this was before the giant tattoo-fad of the last 3 years -hah don't I sound old.

The shop was a small dark hole in a pretty famous street in Antwerp and pretty well-known amongst locals. Not a lot of my friends had tattoos back then... When I think of it: I might have been one of the first people of my former "clique" to get one.

When I look back at that day now, it all seems so silly. The nerves, the giggles, the mandatory friend to hold my hand and my bravest face. In all I guess it took the lady 20 minutes to put a swirlycurly thing on my ankle. All black. Even way back when. To her credit; she did everything to make a nervous young chick feel at ease. Or maybe I was just lucky that both of us are massive reggae fans?

Anybody who has ever talked to someone with (a) tattoo(s) can tell you this: that first moment when the needle hits your skin, that's when you'll know. I personally know inked people who either have 1 tattoo and decided it wasn't for them or they're of the kind that is constantly either saving up for a next tattoo, drawing one or thinking about a new one.

It's just never enough.

Of course: I am the second kind.

My second tattoo isn't much to brag about either. I went for the goddamn trampstamp. That might be the only thing I regret: the placing of the damned thing. If I could do it over, my pretty Lion of Judah would rest on my shoulder. Not be the guardian of the bum.

Again, I went to the same artist and again she made me feel very much at ease. He sits right in the middle of my lower back and only shows if I wear a short top and low-cut jeans. For the most part he doesn't cross my mind. Until summer that is, and I am confronted by the unevitable "why would you get a tattoo of a Flemish Lion?" (it's a symbol that is used by a lot of nationalistic pigs and considered racist if you get it inked).

Let me make this clear to all: The lion of Judah is a symbol of the Rastafari. It is a reference to Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia. He was the "King of Kings" and is considered a direct descendant of the tribe of Judah. He is my link to the music that I consider to be the sound of my heart.

Over the years it has turned into more for me and that is the main reason I don't want to get it covered up: it is my symbol for surviving. My conquering "beaucoup de bad shit" to get where I am today. I fought my way out of a very bad situation and he stands for that.

After that one it was rather quiet on the needlefront for some time. I had a lot of stuff going on in my life and never really found the time to even consider a next piece.

Until I discovered the works of Sylvia Plath. "On the Phletora of Driads" contained the 5 words that would become engraved in my skin: "I ride earth's burning carrousel".

Not only did I upgrade in size, I chose a different artist and went for a walk-in parlor smackbang in the middle of Antwerp's Red Light District.

It. Was. Awesome.

I wasn't drunk, nor a sailor on leave but boy did I feel like a walking cliché.

From ankle and trampstamp I went full hardcore! A sternum tattoo was what I had put my mind on and what I was going to get.

This pain was not silly at all. Imagine your ribs being stung by 5 wasps. Continuously. Not just that. I wish. About half way in the session my arm also started to twitch and I was in constant fear of smacking the artist over the head (reflex move). Now those 20 minutes felt like an eternity.

I'll leave the first part of my story at this. Meaning I'm stopping right before I get to the more juicy parts. From what you've read so far you should just remember this:

Never ever judge me by my raggedy workclothes and lack of accessories. You don't know what awesomeness might be lurking underneath.

First and second tattoo done by Vicky from Original Sin (own shop).

Third tattoo done by Levi from Tattoo Eddy (own shop).

#iwishiwasalittlebittaller #mybodyismytemple #inkandneedles #tattoolife #queenjoke