Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

We walked through a series of alleyways, sprinkled liberally with sex hotels. Rosemary suddenly turned, approached a windowless, unmarked steel door, and spoke into a receiver on the wall. The door clicked open, and a young Japanese man escorted us inside.

Here, I was to be formally introduced to an old horimono master, who I hoped would agree to tattoo the entire surface of my back. To receive a tattoo here, you must secure a formal introduction from someone who is already in the tattoo artist’s social circle: Rosemary, an acquaintance and a fellow Westerner, was facilitating this for me.

Inside, drawings of large Japanese-style tattoos on tracing paper were taped haphazardly around the room. A man with a bodysuit of tattoos laid upon a bamboo tatami mat while a horimono artist hand-poked ink into his upper thigh. The two other clients in the room, both completely tattooed, were missing fingers and bore deep scars across their faces—trademark characteristics of the yakuza, members of Japan’s organized crime syndicate. They smiled at me. I bowed excessively to everyone, muttering overly formal greetings in unsteady Japanese. A foreigner’s presence in a traditional horimono studio is very rare.

Rosemary told the master’s head apprentice that it was my wish to have my back tattooed with the Flower Monk, one of the main characters of the legendary book, 108 Heroes of the Water Margin. The book, simply called the Suikoden in Japanese, helped to inspire the revolutionary fervor of Japan’s Edo period. The book’s images of the rebels became extremely popular as tattoo designs. In fact, tattooing itself has long been viewed as a revolutionary act.

We sat down to discuss my request. Because it is common for artists to decline clients whom they feel may debase the sanctity of their art, the apprentice asked, “Why do you like the Flower Monk?” I knew I had to answer this question carefully.

“I like the ‘Flower Monk’ because he was bold and rash, yet, deep down, he was also kind and gentle,” I said. “I like him because he was an imperfect character who, in spite of his personality flaws, was able to let his good heart shine through in the end.” Apparently, my answer satisfied the apprentice. He smiled brightly, presenting me with a binder of tattoo designs and pointing out four different drawings of the Flower Monk. I contemplated each drawing carefully; after all, this was no small decision. The tattoo design would cover my entire back—from the top of my shoulders to the bottom of my buttocks.  

Traditional Japanese tattoos are generally very simple images, constructed with thick, bold lines and lacking unnecessary detail. I wanted a tattoo done in the same style as the one the Flower Monk himself proudly wore upon his back, so I chose a drawing from among the traditional options. “I like this one, too,” the apprentice said with a deep smile.

The Master entered the room, and everyone present immediately stood and bowed in reverence. His name was Tsukasa, an heir in the tattoo lineage of the sensei Hori-Itsu. We exchanged greetings. Tsukasa’s eyes spoke of a man who knew how to control others. Like many other yakuza, his hair was short and bleached, his skin a well-tanned brown, and his face pockmarked with scars. The small finger on his left hand was cut off at the first knuckle.

Tsukasa grabbed my lower left arm, which was covered in Western-style tattoos, and began closely studying each one. He asked me questions in simple English about their significance, where they were done and by whom. For 10 minutes after my interrogation he talked with his apprentice behind the curtain of an adjacent room while I sat apprehensively on the couch.

Finally, Tsukasa and the apprentice emerged from behind the curtain. My heart nearly skipped a beat before the Master told me to take off my clothes so that a stencil could be made.  The apprentice taped a large piece of tracing paper upon my back and drew the outline of my torso. I was told that I would be called in at the appropriate time to view the initial drawings.

But the call never came. After three months, I contacted Rosemary, who assured me she would make some inquiries. Another week passed, and then one morning, Rosemary arrived at my doorstep with sad news.

Tsukasa’s liver, she said, had given out after 40 years of incessant alcohol and drug abuse. He would probably never tattoo again.

Later that day, I hurried down to the studio to confirm the news. I found the apprentice sitting alone; he shrugged his shoulders and gave a weak smile. He had known that it was coming. Everybody had.

The sadness that consumed me on my way home had little to do with the fact that I would never receive my tattoo. Nor was it specifically about Tsukasa’s condition. It was bigger than that. In these modern times of glitter and glitz, ancient crafts are as impermanent as the old masters who practice them. The traditional art of horimono is dying, and with the death of each horimono master, the world comes a little closer to the death of this ancient Japanese art.
 

Read about Wade's other adventures abroad in his online travelogue.