Art for Life - Tattoo artist sees shift from when he inked his first one


Ray Figueroa's arms are inked with meaningless tattoos, "garbage I did as a kid," he says: A mosquito with a tattoo machine. A hinge inside his elbow, "for wrestling or drinking, we couldn't decide which." He can't remember the first tattoo he did, the summer of 1964, when a teenage friend taught him "all the wrong ways."

Under those arms, a butterfly is unfolding across 19-year-old Andrea Castaneda's back, a Technicolor collage of cherries, dice, a rose and a dagger, the words 'Love' and 'Hate." Sterile, single-use needles are packed in a dust-free drawer; the sign on the bathroom reads 'Have You Hugged Your Tattoo Artist Today?' Lying face-down on the bench, Castaneda barely winces. If it weren't for the buzz of the needle, she might be getting a massage.

Tattooing has undergone a seismic shift. Once the outlaw's brand, the emblem of sailors, felons and thugs, tattooing has gone mainstream, with veterans, moms and working stiffs getting inked. Nearly a fourth of adults age 18 to 50 are tattooed, and they're not the token tough guys: Figueroa says 70 percent of his clients are women. He's evened the skin tone of burn victims; he's inked realistic nipples and full-color murals on the masectomied breasts of cancer survivors.

"It used to be all guys, getting hardcore stuff: dripping blood, crosses," he said. "Now, women come to me for a one-of-a-kind piece of art. That affects how I like the shop to feel, the personality of it. I want it to be mainstream, open and friendly."

Last week, after Figueroa took over Gilroy's only tattoo parlor, he gave it a 21st century makeover. Gone are the gunmetal-gray and black walls: four coats of paint later, the shop is a sterile, surgical white. Delicate ink drawings of ornate lotuses and koi lay arrayed on a desk, Figueroa's custom designs. Even the name has changed: 'Tortured Souls' is now 'Capt. Lu's Ink Life.'

"When I first came in here, it was kind of scary-looking," said client Heather Peterson, 23. "Now, it looks clean, like a hospital."

The change came late to Gilroy. Tattoo culture's metamorphosis began in the 1970s, as tattoers plucked symbols from the East. There, tattooing isn't an underclass art, said Margo DeMello, author of Bodies of Inscription: A Cultural History of the Modern Tattoo Community.

"In the West, tattooing is traditionally associated with criminals," DeMello said. "In ancient Rome, criminals were marked with a tattoo on the forehead, a practice that continued in Europe and the U.S."

It's also associated with sailors, she added, whose status has volleyed with that of the military.

But with the rise of "social movements of the 1970s -- the women's movement, the men's movement, the gay and lesbian movement, New Age, self-help," people sought "to transform the self, and move away from traditional American values," DeMello explained. "They looked to other cultures for meaning," and to tattoos for self-transformation.

Japan, in particular, yielded striking new images. Figueroa has a talent for conjuring up dragons and koi on the flesh, one he's honed by traveling abroad. And clients seeking personalized designs don't want to pick a stock image off a poster: the bleeding hearts and crosses of yesteryear. Instead, tattoo artists like Figueroa discuss an image with a client, then painstakingly sketch and resketch until a final version rings true.

Peterson, a bright-eyed blonde, has been tossing around ideas with Figueroa for weeks. She's haunted by the idea of a spider, sprawled on a rose.

"I've had dreams about it, wanting it," she said. "It's like a craving."

It's a craving she's had for five years: when it comes to tattooing, she won't go just anywhere. Cleanliness is key, she says, and after a long search, Figueroa's place fits the bill.

"If it's not used in a doctor's office, I won't use it," said Figueroa, displaying packs of pre-sealed, sterile needles. He wipes his counters with medical soap and distilled water, bans smoking, eating and drinking in his shop, and chucks all the trash at a biohazard disposal site; he goes through a 500-pair case of latex gloves, every two weeks. "Nothing is used twice. Ever."

"Today," said DeMello, "the only tattoists who don't sterilize are prison tattoists."

Clean needles and regulated shops may have diminished tattoos' taboo. But the main thing that's pushed tattoos into the mainstream, said DeMello, is tattoists themselves.

"Tattooists always say, 'My customers are doctors and college professors," even when it's not true," she said. "Tattoo artists made a conscientious effort to distance themselves from their hardcore traditional clients, because middle-class people spend more money."

Yet tattoos haven't shaken their criminal stigma. Tattoos still hold currency among gangs, which ink their allegiance into members' skin. They're not going to clean, well-lit shops like Figueroa's: he refuses to draw racist or gang-related tattoos. Instead, criminals use machines smuggled into jail, said deputy probation officer Luis Ochoa, a member of the Santa Clara County Probation Department's Gang Unit. He's confiscated a few from juvenile hall. It's illegal, but somehow, inmates keep coming out of jail with more tattoos than when they came in.

"All tattoos are a form of personal expression, used to display preferences, stereotypes, and biases, as well as philosophical, religious and political beliefs," said Ochoa. "In the gangster subculture, that holds true. A particular tattoo can represent a gangster's identity, display where the gangster's loyalties lie, and could be used to warn or challenge rivals.

"Most importantly of all," he added, "a criminal street gang-related tattoo shows a higher level of commitment to a gang -- maybe a lifetime pledge."

To clean up gangs, some are cleaning up their tattoos. Government-sponsored tattoo removal programs, like the year-long Clean Slate program in San Jose, have gained favor nationwide: in Fresno, supervisor Henry Perea cited Fresno County's tattoo removal machine as a key component of the city's gang prevention efforts. Others opt to fight ink with ink. Figueroa estimates that in 1997, a fifth of his clients in Olympia, Wash., were concealing old racist or gang-related tattoos.

But tattoos can also help police identify and treat gang members appropriately.

"If we know where an inmate's loyalties lie, we can prevent them from being assaulted," said Ochoa. "We don't want to house an individual with a rival gang member and have to deal with an assault."

Similarly, in Washington state, Figueroa's tattoos have helped identify murder victims and serial rapists: he keeps a log of every tattoo he draws, along with the client's name.

Still, lingering stigma has kept tattoos from being wholeheartedly embraced by city governments. Last week, the New York Post reported that New York City police must keep their tattoos under wraps, a year after a new recruit's 'jihad' tattoo ruffled feathers. Many cities limit where parlors can operate: in California, Hayward recently restricted new tattoo parlors from opening downtown, and Clovis' City Council bars them from its Old Town. Last year in Gilroy, City Council voted not to allow tattoo parlors downtown.

"It's not a use which is consistent with the goals and objectives of what we'd like to have accomplished in the downtown," said Bill Faus, City Planning Manager. "We want uses that cater to a wide array of individuals, to have a vibrant downtown that caters to a wide range of age groups -- They wanted uses that would entice people to walk along downtown, a shopping mall environment where people would walk from block to block."

There's nothing wrong with tattoo parlors, he added, but council members felt other businesses better fit the downtown bill.

Elsewhere, tattoos are making headway. As of Nov. 1, tattoos are legal in Oklahoma; Charleston, South Carolina just cleared the way for tattoo parlors downtown, and Key West businessmen are agitating against the city's 40-year-old ban.

"It's not taboo anymore -- it's an art," said Figueroa. "If it can be drawn with a pen, it can be drawn with a tattoo needle."

Under Figueroa's needle, Andrea Castaneda smiles. The eye-popping insect spreading across her back conceals an old tattoo, a weak tribal butterfly she got at a hole-in-the-wall near San Jose State. It was a half-tattoo shop, half-pizzeria, she reports. Figueroa groans.

"I was young," she explains. "I just wanted something."

Figueroa expertly traces a wing. He doesn't do 'something.'

"What I'm giving you," he said, "is an artistic wound."