What makes an artist

Originally published September 2007

It’s interesting to me how, over the course of time–I don’t mean day-to-day, but rather over the long haul–you find yourself in different places doing things that, as a kid, you never expected. Sometimes, those endeavors last for short periods. At other times, they span years. If you’re lucky, you settle into something that you love doing and it earns you a livelihood. It’s like being in the clothing department, trying on different suits, so to speak, until you find something that fits, something in which you feel comfortable. It’s much the same for life’s pursuits. You try this and you try that. And, sometimes, the ideal suit finds you.

Same with a number of things throughout my life. I came to the art and tattooing thing comparatively late, or, I should say, it came late to me. I’m not one of those people who’s been drawing pictures since I could hold a pencil. Art, in my day, wasn’t part of my ongoing visual vocabulary. Not at home, not at school. I don’t remember any art classes. But if there were some, I wasn’t paying attention that day.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying there was no art. It just wasn’t a topic of practice or conversation in the blue-collar neighborhoods where I grew up in the 40s and 50s. Art wasn’t something that boys would or should aspire to. That kind of stuff was for girls. Real boys didn’t do that shit. I’m not trying to be a wiseass here. It’s just the way things were. It was more about hot rods and swamp buggies than it was about painting or poetry.

My sister Rose, on the other hand, would get coloring books for birthdays and Christmas and, oh, man, those Crayola colors. When she and my folks were out of the house, I’d sneak into her room and take a shot at coloring one of the pictures. It would really piss her off. I seemed to have a tendency to use the wrong colors in the wrong places. I wasn’t very respectful of staying in the lines, either. It was fun. My parents discouraged it saying, “Boys don’t do that.”

I did my first painting on an impulse at the age of twenty. Six years later, I decided I wanted to be an artist. In the next instance, I wondered, How the hell do you do that? I did my first tattoo at thirty-nine. I’m still wondering.

If you think about it, there are no real parameters for calling oneself an artist. What the hell. If you want to be a truck driver, lawyer, or even a proctologist, certain criteria have to be met. But you have to ask, what would that criteria be in matters of personal expression? What could the variables be? Who makes the call? It is through mastery of craft, schooling, institutions? Is it money, the media, or notoriety? Or is it simply achieved by self-proclamation, like some of the old-time guys calling themselves “Captain”, “Sailor”, or “Professor”?

I’m just wondering.

From the golden age of Greece to modern times, we know the names of a few hundred artists, and even fewer tattooists. Does it mean there were no others? Or are those who’ve attained mastery or notoriety the only ones that count? I bring this up because, over a number of years, modern culture has spawned artists of every imaginable persuasion, size, color, and shape. Hairdressing artists, salad-dressing artists, toe-clipping artists. Say what?

Hundreds of people have come through the shop over the years. They are all ages. Some “used to be artists”. Some are really young, and proclaim themselves artists. The best I can do is congratulate them on having achieved such a high distinction at such an early age, as some of the masters. Think Picasso and Mozart.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to be a wiseass. I was just wondering.

Sometimes, as I’m sitting in the shop reading my paper, people will walk in. The other guys might be busy, or I might be alone. They’ll turn to me and ask, “Are you one of the artists?”

The best I can do is point them to the photos of work and the flash drawings. I advise them that, whether one is an artist or not is always someone else’s opinion. The thing is, the more you learn, the more you realize how much you don’t. And how much more you need to learn.

Now don’t get me wrong. I was just wondering.

Catch you on the rebound.

— Mike Bakaty