LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

after finishing junior high school. “Lots of shipbuilders had tattoos,” he recalls as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. Nakano saw his first tattoo at age 11 at a public bathhouse. “It was a culture shock, but I thought it looked pretty cool.” At 16, he began tattooing himself. This was a time when information about tattoos was still scarce and techniques were only passed down from master to apprentice. “It was all guesswork,” he says. “I tattooed my leg using needles fastened to disposable chopsticks.”

      At age 25, Nakano finally secured an apprenticeship with Yoshitsugu Muramatsu (aka Horiyoshi I), a well-known tattooist in Yokohama. Nakano showed up at Muramatsu’s studio unannounced after his letters had gone unanswered. “Of course, I was nervous,” he says. “There wasn’t a sign outside the studio like there are on my shops today.” It wasn’t a place you could just pop in for a chat. “It was completely underground,” he says, recalling how the studio had the “strong scent of the outlaw.” Unlike today, the majority of the clients were yakuza. Horiyoshi I, who had already named his own son Horiyoshi II, gave Nakano the “Horiyoshi” name as well. In 1979, after a lengthy apprenticeship, Horiyoshi III was born.

      The tattoo machine fires up, its buzzing echoing through the studio. Horiyoshi III puts Vaseline on the customer’s back. “I used to think I’d rather quit tattooing than use a machine,” he says, as he begins shading in the Buddhist hell. Horiyoshi III also practices tebori, often called the “hand-poked method” in English. For centuries, tattooing in Japan was synonymous with tebori, while the stereotype was that the tattoo machine was for foreigners. For Horiyoshi III, that would change in 1985, when he attended a tattoo convention in Rome and saw firsthand how efficient, versatile, and easy to use the machine was. He attended with his friend American tattooist Ed Hardy, who not only used the machine, but was also better versed in irezumi than Horiyoshi III. Japanese tattooing wasn’t simply a method of inserting ink, but rather, an entire history and catalogue of iconography.

      Master tattooer Horiyoshi III in his Yokohama studio.

      After the Rome convention, realizing there were those outside Japan who knew more about his country than he did, Horiyoshi III arrived back in Japan with a new-found thirst for Japanese art, history, and culture. It wasn’t simply a matter of pride. It was the beginning of a lifelong pursuit of knowledge. “Mankind has made it this far by studying,” he says. “The tattoo machine, for example, was the result of someone studying.”

      Horiyoshi III began spending his days in libraries and bookstores. “I had this small camera that I’d use to snap photos if there was a book with only one page I wanted,” he recalls. “The shopkeepers would get pissed at me.” He did buy countless books, and filled his home and studio with them. “When you have lots of knowledge, you get wisdom,” he says. “When you have lots of wisdom, you get an endless flow of original ideas.” The impact is clearly evident in his art.

      “Personally, I don’t like the word ‘art,’” Horiyoshi III says. Admirers of his work, however, would be quick to call it just that. “You shouldn’t call what you do art—but I won’t stop others from using the term,” he adds. It’s not simply that the work should speak for itself, but also that Horiyoshi III respects the tradition of the shokunin—the craftsman. “I would call myself a shokunin, not an artist,” he explains.

      A young badass Horiyoshi III poses with a tosa, a Japanese fighting dog that’s banned in many countries.

      The Yokohama Tattoo Museum houses numerous important artifacts, such as these Hori Sada spring-themed sleeve designs. On the right arm, there are peonies; cherry blossoms are depicted on the other.

      “In the art world, you are allowed to fudge things,” he continues, adding that artists can call “anything” art—even dog poop. “You cannot do that in the world of the shokunin.” Irezumi is a language, with its own grammar and rules. “If you don’t know the meaning of the symbols and the stories, you can’t tattoo as well. Tattooing becomes superficial. Meaningless.”

      Or—just as bad—it can lead to mistakes. “Even if you see a tattoo that looks beautiful, if there’s something that’s not quite right, well, that’s a mistake,” he says. “It’s like a Bentley with the steering wheel in the back seat,” he adds, chuckling.

      Horiyoshi III’s invention, a modern tebori tool that can be sterilized, rests atop the antlers. Below are traditional tattooing tools.

      Horiyoshi III pauses. “This is just my opinion, but there isn’t traditional tattooing in Japan anymore,” he says. “In the old days, the needles and inks that tattooists used were closely guarded secrets. There was none of this—” he gestures toward the fluorescent lights overhead and the carpeting on the floor. “Tattoos were done on tatami mats by sunlight or candlelight, using old tools.”

      “Even if I were doing this tattoo by tebori, it wouldn’t be traditional,” he adds. The heater keeping the room warm on this chilly day would need to be shut off. Inks and colors that might fade easily or cause harm would have to be used, and there wouldn’t be latex gloves and sterilization. That, explains Horiyoshi III, is how tattoos were traditionally done in Japan.

      Pointing to the back covered with ink before him, he says, “Rather, I’d call this tattoo ‘traditionalist.’ That’s the word I would use. Calling it ‘traditional’ is disrespectful to the tattooist of the past who worked under the threat of being arrested.”

      Horiyoshi III’s work honors the past. Yet it moves the form forward and transforms it, too, whether through his use of different techniques or his creation of brand-new designs that exist in, as he would say, a traditionalist style. All of this is the result of decades of learning—from books, from people, and from life. “I’m still studying,” Horiyoshi III says. “And I’ve been doing this for over forty years.”

      The second floor of the Yokohama Tattoo Museum is filled with rare prints, old texts, and countless historical artifacts.

      A statue of Horiyoshi III tattooing a phoenix on a woman’s back. In his right hand, he holds the tattooing tool; his left holds a paintbrush in place, which he can use to dab ink on the tool.

      CHAPTER 1

      KANJI TATTOOS

      WORDS AND PHRASES, PUNISHMENT AND PLEDGES

      Japanese script has found its way into tattoos in various forms over the centuries. It’s easy to see the appeal: Japanese writing is beautiful, with flowing characters and pictograms. It’s also easy to see why so many tattooists outside the country often make mistakes when working with Japanese script: the language is complex, and incorporates several different writing systems.

      In recent years, bad kanji tattoos have become a cliché. Just look online: There’s the man who thought he got the word “courage” tattooed on his back, but found out the characters 大過 (taika) actually meant “big mistake.” There’s the woman who ended up with 醜 (shuu), thinking it meant “friendship,” only to find out it means “ugly,” or the individual sporting a tragic バカ外人 (baka gaijin, meaning “stupid foreigner”) tattoo. Then there are the folks who end up with ink that either doesn’t make sense, or worse, is complete gibberish. This is enough to put anyone off the idea of getting a kanji tattoo! It shouldn’t, though, as long as you make an informed decision. In Japan,

Скачать книгу