Tattoo Machine
“THE ATMOSPHERE CRASHES IN, a singular vibe refined by generations, part carnival midway and part hypermodern clinic, with a splash of a foreign bar from a fragment of a dream, all wrapped in a fragrant mélange of soap, solvents, and pheromones. It’s Saturday and the stereo blares an opera from the Met. A creepy German woman is going on about something, God knows what, but she’s clearly insane and has found her perfect venue at long last. Every square inch of the walls is covered in a dense riot of bright, twisting images. Everything is buzzing, the atmosphere charged to explode, like a claymore mine packed with acorns of magic.
In front of me this beautiful canvas sighs, indicating her willingness to proceed. There is a dimple in the swell of her hip. A lone freckle rides high on her side. These features will be my frame for the next few hours.”