8/30/09 0 interactions (see WTF? Hoodie?! on 8/24)

8/25-29/09 Interlude in the Land of Fruits and Nuts (2 interactions)

Before I left for San Francisco, I asked my ex-husband if I should continue the experiment on the Left Coast as sort of a ‘control’ city (yeah, this is the first time I’ve ever thought of San Francisco as ‘controlled’) or just take a few days off and have a vacation from everything. He suggested the continuing, which was what I was leaning towards. It made packing easy. Black jeans, black t-shirts, black pullovers, a sweatshirt and denim jacket. Black boots. Done.

For the eight years I lived in SF, I mostly wore the unisex uniform above, which is a simple way of adapting to microclimates in a relatively temperate region. When I moved back down to New Orleans last year, I took a large back pack, abandoning most of my clothes on the back porch of my last apartment. It quickly grew too warm for the ‘uniform’ and I realized skirts and tank tops breathed easily, and I could bike in them. My superpower of ‘Find cool shit on the street’ was turned up to 11, and I’d often discover unexpected vintage treasures on yard sale excursions with my favorite transvestite. An 80 year-old fortune teller gave me some flamenco skirts and crimson lipstick. I quickly amassed a surreal, eclectic wardrobe, which I viewed as reflective of my environment. I truly felt like I was part of the landscape, and was just beginning to learn to live like I was art, every day was theater, and the city was my stage, when I got the letter that brought me to Chicago. I wasn’t ready. When I returned to SF to retrieve my remaining belongings, I left a whiny message with my transvestite southern belle: “My glittery girl drag doesn’t work anymore!” But I was determined to hang on to some of that vibrancy, that freedom I’d tapped into, and came to Chicago in the midst of a heat wave with a wardrobe cobbled together from two different worlds, neither of them working in a world where winter is cold and comes early, where lawns and nails are neatly manicured, and very few houses are purple.

Black jeans and t-shirts feel like a costume in Chicago. I like the simplicity and consistency, but when I wear it, I know it’s for this project. When I left S.F. it was after a financially and emotionally draining year and a half, and I was convinced the city and I got all we could from each other. So I was surprised at how easily I slipped back into the uniform, how quickly I reassimilated to San Francisco, how...natural it felt. The weather was sunny and warm the entire time I was there (even in the Haight!), and in four days of walking around in just jeans and a t-shirt, I only got two comments, both by cashiers (one Caucasian female, early 20’s and one Middle Eastern male, mid/late 20’s, both who just said “Nice tattoo.”) I got cruised by a mohawked babydyke and a couple of aging hipsters, but for the most part, I was anonymous, which I wasn’t in New Orleans and aren’t in Chicago. I realized that anonymity is one of many things I took for granted about San Francisco; along with the prevalence of extreme body mods to the openness and visibility of various communities. In San Francisco, I can identify as a gender-neutral, polyamorous, queer and be surrounded by people who understand and accept what that means (as well as the fluidity of those designations). Conversely, I’m recognizing that permissiveness can be restrictive. In San Francisco, I was free to just be; I never had to examine what being meant socially, politically, or interpersonally, or how those identifiers function outside insular communities. Now, you bet your ass I am.

There's more I've been thinking of on these topics, but I gotta clock out and meet my old roommate for coffee.

8/24/09 0 interactions...(i.e. it's AUGUST! WHY AM I WEARING A HOODIE!?)

8/22-23 0 interactions:

It might've just been a slow weekend, or due to the weather being unseasonably cool I wore a pullover much of the time I was out...I notice even why the tattoos/scarifications aren't visible, I don't get many questions about my ears.

8/21/09 2 interactions

These took place while standing between a Hispanic male, mid 30's, and a Caucasian female, early 40's, at a concert after an argument behind me nearly escalated to a fistfight (fortunately security broke it up before anyone could throw a punch, but I'm adding "I'm placing you under citizen's arrest, motherfucker!" at a B-52's show, to the list of things it never occured to me I might hear.) So I was a bit overstimulated and can't remember who said what, but I had "tell me about your tattoos/how long did it take/that must've hurt/what will you tell your kids when they want one?" flying at me like a tennis balls. If I wasn't trying to catch up on posts and email etc. before work the assumption that I either have kids, or I will someday, would be the subject of an entirely sepearate diatribe.

8/20/09 1 interaction

"Nice ink." African-American male, late teens, outside Red Line stop.
"Thanks"

8/19/09 0 interactions

8/18/09 0 Interactions

8/17/09 1 interaction

"Nice tattoo." Caucasian female, early 20's, downtown hardware store.
"Thanks."
"Wanna see mine?" (Rolls up sleeve to reveal rub-on tattoo).
"Is that...Chuck E. Cheese?"
"Yep." F. then boasts about the phenomenal Skee-Ball skills that earned her the tattoo, an invisible ink pen and set of twisty straws.

8/16/09 7 interactions

"Are you Straight Edge?" Caucasian male, early/mid 20's, coffee shop near home, noticing 'SOBER' tattoo on right wrist.
"No, this is after years of trial and error-mostly error."
We both laugh.

"Hey girl!" African-American male, early 20's, street outside my building,
"This is the girl I was talkin' about!" (Male to companion, another African-American male, same age.)
(companion) "Damn! That's a sleeve! Who did it?"
"A friend of mine in California."
"You know anyone out here? I need some work."
"Y'know, EVERYONE'S been asking me that this summer, and I honestly don't."
(They look at me)
"No, seriously, I've had no time or money to get any work done out here, so I've had no reason to find an artist."
"Still girl, I like your style. What's your name?"
"Izzy."
"Izzy. I'm Rob."
"And I'm Country."
"Rob and Country. Nice to officially neet you both" (I shake their hands.)
"Where you off to?"
"Meeting up with some friends. You guys?"
"Same."
"Well, you take care, I'll see you around."


"Damn, that's some bright ink." African-American male, 40's, downtown drugstore.
"Yep."
"Does it go all the way up your arm?" (I was wearing a pullover shirt with the sleeves partly rolled up)
"Yep."
"What's that say on your wrist...sober?" Hm." African-American female, late 20's, drugstore cashier.
"Yep, sober. What does your wrist say?" (I peer over the counter to read). "Ron?"
(She laughs and covers her wrist.)
"Ok, we won't talk about Ron!" (laughing)
"Yes, let's not talk about him!"
"Ok, thanks, have a good one"
(M. says something to F. as I leave.)

"Did that hurt?" Caucasian male, 40's/50's, Logan Sq. bus.
"Parts of it did, but not all."
"Did you have to get drunk?"
"No, drinking makes it worse. Thins the blood so you bleed more." (I take a seat and put my earphones in).

"Need a ride, girl?" African-American male cab driver, 30's, outside Red Line station.
"No thanks, I live here."
"Alright. Hey, nice tattoos. I love your ink."
"Thanks, you have a good night, be safe."
"You too."

8/15/09 2 interactions

"Is that a cutting?" Caucasian female, early/mid 20's, downtown retail store.

"Yes."

"Wow, I've never seen one in person, can I touch it?"

"Yeah, ok." (she gently runs her finger along it."

"That's amazing...thank you. How old is it?"

"About 11 years." I thank her for her assistance and leave.

"Wow! How long did your arm take?" Hispanic male, 40's/50's, sitting on Logan Sq. sidewalk as I walked by.

"About a year." 

8/14/09 1 direct interaction, 2 encounters worth noting:

The direct interaction wasn’t particularly interesting; a Caucasian female early 20’s, working in a salad bar said “Nice tattoo” as she gave me my lunch. I’ve been listing my interactions in chronological order, but for today I’m going to switch it around, because one was amusing and the other was pretty intense, so I’m listing the amusing one first, even though it happened in the late afternoon:

 ____________________________________

I was hurrying to meet Matthue and his family at a café near my house, and had to skirt around a group of about three adults and two children. A little girl of about six or seven turned as I approached. Her eyes grew very wide and she grabbed her mother’s hand. From her expression, I was expecting a reaction of fear, but she surprised me: “Mommy! Look out! Here comes a rock star! Mommy, mommy it’s a rock star!”

I smiled, (trying VERY hard to keep my composure) and said “No, sweetie, I’m not a rock star, but I really wanted to be one when I was your age.” Her mother and I smiled at each other, and as soon as I was out of earshot, burst out laughing. I glimpsed myself in a window: black tank-top, black cords, black boots, camo shoulder bag and cotton-candy pink hair with major roots, and of course my ears and ink, and thought: “Yeah, if I was seven I’d think I was a rock star too.” I remembered being six and dreaming of being Boy George, and how embarrassed when a hostess at a restaurant caught me singing “Karma Chameleon” as I waited for a table with my parents because I didn’t think anyone was listening…then I was at the café.

 __________________________________________

 

I’m a creature of strange and particular habits. For example: on the train I always like to sit in the center of the car facing forward; where I get on in the morning, those seats are usually available. But when I got on Friday, I noticed an empty seat on the opposite side in the back facing forward, and thought I’d mix it up. I was deeply engrossed in a book, and several stops into my commute lifted my head to stretch. I rotated my neck clockwise and something caught my eye, so I did a double take.

The man across the aisle in the single seat facing outwards (not forward) was masturbating. I don’t mean rubbing his crotch through his jeans. No, this gentleman was, in fact, rocking out with his cock out. Way out.

I gasped and snapped my head back to my book. My first thought was “Holy shit! There’s a guy across the aisle JERKING OFF!” My instinct was to switch seats or even cars. A sliver of instinct wanted to yell, but something stopped me. I examined the situation:

*He wasn’t being invasive or threatening.

*He wasn’t making noise or otherwise calling attention to himself.

*I would have been completely oblivious if I hadn’t stretched my neck.

Then I realized I was shocked, but not particularly offended. If anything, I was annoyed because I really wanted to return to my book, but the guy jerking off  (I kept an eye on where his feet were in my peripheral vision) made concentration impossible. Plus, I really wanted to crack my neck again; I’d gone dancing the night before, got in late and slept poorly.

 He was obviously a seasoned exhibitionist. He knew which seat to seat in; he was holding a daily paper (nice to know it’s useful for something) in his right hand to make it look to the rest of the car like he was reading. He saw me see him, but he never said anything. He exited the train before it went underground, all zipped up and composed. It was fascinating. I almost wanted to tell the next person who sat in that seat, but that would have violated the unspoken fiction urban transit riders construct: unless we see evidence of the person before us, we need to believe there was nobody in a seat before we sat there.

 This is related to a lot of the reading and thinking I’ve been doing lately about social constructs, behavior and the body: why was my first reaction to a man quietly ‘reading a paper’ and masturbating, more visceral than a person on the train shouting obscenities or aggressively panhandling? Why is my first response to the latter to grit my teeth and roll my eyes, and my response to the former to run? 

8/13/09 3 interactions

"Is that a white tattoo?" African-American male co-worker, early 20's, campus building, pointing to cutting (t-shirt was covering branding)

"No, it's a scarification."

"Scarif-what?"

"It's called scarification."

"I never seen anything like that! Did you do it yourself?"

"No, I went to a professional."

"How did he do it?"

"Well, she drew the design on with carbon paper, like for a tattoo, then traced the design lightly with a sterile x-acto blade, and for the circles she used a dermal punch. Then she rubbed a mixture of white tattoo ink and ash into the cuts, which I wore in a bandage for three days-"

"No way!"

"Way! After I removed the bandage, I'd very gently loofah off the scabs in the shower. You don't want the cut to heal, because irritation is what makes the scab and design." 

"Is this a new thing?"

"No, it originated in Africa and it's been around for thousands of years."

"Will it stay like that forever?"

"Depends on the person. I've had this for 11 years, and it's holding up pretty well. I've seen some disappear after a few months."

"That singer Seal has something like that."

"I think I read that Seal's scars were the result of a disease." (this prompts a debate, with several co-workers chiming in and a Google search to settle it, then another search for scarification, keloid vs. hypertrophic scarring, a discussion of his tattoos, and his plans following graduation.)

"That's some SWEET ink!" Female caucasian, early/mid 20's Red Line platform

"Thanks, I like yours too," I say, noticing several pieces on her forearms, "That's a beautiful shade of green."

"Thanks, but nothing like yours; did you do it here?"

"No, California."

"Me too."

"Where?"

"Bakersfield. You?"

"S.F."

"Yeah? Cool."

We talk about Ca. while waiting for the train. She just moved here last week for school. We discuss preparing for winter, settling into a new city, that blissful moment of realization that nothing is holding you to a place, and and how her room became available when the previous roommate got fired from his job at a smoothie shop and on a whim asked a carnival worker what it took to get a job on a midway (note to self: apparently it's REALLY EASY to run away with the carnival). 

"Hey, can I see your arm?" African-American male, mid/late teens, Red Line (very considerately waiting until I removed my earbuds).

(I extend my arm)

"How much did that cost you?"

"A friend did it, so it most of it was free."

"How long did it take?"

"We did most of it in about a year."

"Tight. That's what I'm talkin' about. I wanna get sleeves, but I need to finish my back first."

"Well, good luck." My stop approaching, I stand up, and notice he has a heavy pewter necklace that looks like some kind of...Dragonbat (Batdragon?). 

"Wow, that's a really cool necklace."

"Thanks." (He pulls on a wing to show it's a small dagger and the body of the Batdragon is the sheath. I remember a ring with a concealed blade I owned in the 10th grade.)

"Dude! That shit's badass!"

(He smiles, I exit.)

Variations on the Theme of Violation:

After reading Diamond Princess's comment about "strangers in social situations compromising my sovereignty by GRABBING my arm uninvited and twisting it to look at the tattoos on it," two memories bobbed to the surface of my mind, buoyed by a sea of hazy fingers:

Memory #1: October, 2002. A basement piano bar in Dublin. I'm sitting in a tall black chair at a polished black marble bar. A man grabs my left arm from behind. "What the fuck?!" I spin around, knocking his hand away. "Relax, I just wanted to read your tattoo," he says in a heavy Russian accent. He is bordering on enormous, with slicked back curly hair. "Well, you don't fucking read with your hands!" I stood up in the chair, balancing on the footrests, uncharacteristically vocal after several vodkas. "What is it with you American women? You're all so sensitive." "Oh, so it's because I'm American I'm pissed off and not because a fucking tree of a man just GRABBED MY ARM FROM BEHIND?!" "Hey, relax, drop it," my Irish companion hissed in my ear. "That's the owner, and if you piss him off, he'll fire Marina" (her friend who we came to hear sing). I can't remember if he kicked me out, or I stormed out, but either way, I left.

Memory #2: July 31. Going home after a large publishing event, I wound up on the same train as a colleague. While discussing cats and Mp3 players, I noticed a middle-aged white man, graying hair, business casual khakis and button-down shirt, holding a cell phone out at arms-length across the aisle. "I hope to god he's not taking a picture of me, he better not be taking my picture," I thought, holding up my end of the conversation while admonishing myself for being so paranoid and narcissistic. As he got off the train, he ran his hand over my shoulder, and down part my left arm. That asshole took my picture, I know it.

I’ve also been thinking of Jacqueline's occasional response to the question: "Does it hurt?"
Depending on the modification, sometimes I respond: "No, it didn't. I was prepared and it was over quickly," which is often met with disbelief. "You're lying, come on, it had to hurt." My relationship to physical sensation is complicated. I recognize my relationship to pain is different than many people's  (DISCLAIMER/WARNING: I think this is a beautiful photo, but if you're squeamish about blood and/or hooks, pleeease don't click the link), and I've spent many years examining and trying to understand it. This response makes me wonder why people ask, if they already 'know' the answer, but more importantly, why people are so quick to refute and dismiss my truth of my experience?

A dear friend with a young daughter sent me an email saying this project made her wonder if "tattoos/modifications are the new pregnant belly in terms of strangers forgetting that personal space and "TMI" are still very much alive and well." I responded that I had a similar thought last weekend after watching the scene in "Knocked Up" where the female lead (a television personality) is confronted about her obvious pregnancy by her bosses and told "we think it's great...people love pregnant! But after the baby is born, y'know...tighten." (and yes, in case anyone was wondering, that's how much of a geek I am). I've come to the conclusion that modifications may exist in a similar realm as pregnancy...when a woman's body becomes "different," when the physical body manifests signs of physiological, spiritual or emotional change, people feel entitled to comment and touch. Policing is the consequence of transgression. 

I lift weights. I consider weight training to be a form of modification, and it gives me confidence. I like feeling solid, and shiny heavy things are neat in general. Recently I lifted significantly more than my body weight on the leg press, and shared that achievement with a friend who responded: "That's terrific! But just be careful you don't get too bulky." It's this idea, so deeply ingrained in our culture and beautifully illustrated in an well-intentioned, offhand comment by a liberal and egalitarian person who I love dearly, that the female body can be venerated as a source of strength and accomplishment, as long as it doesn't get "too big," as long as it doesn't transgress socially acceptable limits, and that while a woman is undergoing a transformation, she must be reminded of those limits and is ultimately incapable of determining for herself where her personal boundaries and limits lie for (fear?) they lie outside the permissible. People love pregnant, but not after the cub pops. Get that tattoo, but keep it small and in a sexy place. Because people are watching, people are looking, and the repercussion for disobedience is further intrusion, fetishation and marginalization. People will touch you, and it will be your fault. 

I'm coming to the conclusion this is about more than skin, more than city. The city and my skin are merely symptoms. It's woman. It's body. It's territory. It's police. It's owning and claiming and none of this is anything new. People have been saying this in different ways for many years, body modification is just a different framework to examine it within. Which is precisely why I find it so profoundly disturbing. Why are these behaviors so deeply ingrained? Why are we so afraid of "big women?" Most importantly; how do we stop policing and violating each other? 

8/12/09 5 interactions

"That's quite a shirt there." African-American male, late 30's/early 40's Red Line, (pointing to 'sleeve')

Me: (smiling at misnomer) "Thank you."

"That must've taken a lot of time and patience."

"It did, but it was definitely a labor of love."

"Well, it's fantastic." (motions for me to exit train first)

"Thank you, sir. You have a great day."

"Hi there." African-American male, early 20's, biking past me on Wabash Ave.

"Hi."

"By the way, nice tattoos." (as I approached red light at end of block)

"Thanks."

(M. bikes away when light turns.)

"Sorry." Me to passenger on Red Line (African-American female, mid 20's) sitting down beside her and attempting to arrange my backpack, shoulder bag, and canvas grocery bag without hitting her.

F (smiling). "No problem. Do you have enough room?"

"Yeah, I'm good now, you?"

"Plenty. Are you a tattoo artist?"

"Nope, just a collector. Are you looking for one?"

"Yeah. It'll be my first tattoo and I don't want to go to just anyone. I haven't done much research."

"Well, definitely shop around and find and find an artist you're comfortable with whose work you like." 

"Can you recommend anyone? I just moved out here a couple of years ago for work and I'm only now starting to get out."

(laughing) "Sadly, I can't because I'm in the same situation. I moved out here last year for school, and I feel like I'm just starting to figure out Chicago. Where'd you move from?"

"New York. You?"

"San Francisco."

(This lead to a very nice discussion about the challenges adapting to Chicago from NYC & SF, our occupations and education. Honestly, she was really cool and I was sad when her stop arrived. 

"Hello." Caucasian male, early 20's, Red Line. Made eye contact when he sat beside me. I'd put in my earbuds after the passenger above departed...honestly, I wanted my evening to end pleasantly, and planned on just 'tuning out' the remainder of the ride home. 

"Hello." I nodded and resumed staring out window. His friend (African-American male, early 20's) sat in front of us. They began a very loud conversation about a girl the Caucasian had been flirting with, which led to discussing the merits of "chubby girls...skinny girls(in the reflection of the window, I saw my seatmate turn to me)...tanned girls...I turned my iPod up louder because I didn't want to hear their thoughts on tattooed girls. 

   A seat across the aisle opened up, and the young man in front of me moved to it. Another African-American male with them (late teens/early 20's) took his place. He waved his hand in front of my face and said "Hey." until I was forced to acknowledge him. I removed one earbud and arched an eyebrow.

"Yes?" (said wearily/annoyed)

"How much that cost?" (pointing to sleeve.)

"A friend did it, so it was pretty much free."

"How many you got?"

"Somewhere 'round 20."

"Damn. You do that yourself?" (pointing to scarifications)

 "No, they were done professionally." I look at him for a few more seconds to see if there's anything else he wanted to know, put my headphone in and resumed staring out window, keeping an eye on them in the reflection. The Caucasian moved across the aisle to join his friend. Occasionally he'd point to me. I heard him say:

"Damn, I really like that tattoo."

(his friend) "I don't think that's a tattoo."

"What else could it be?"

"I dunno. Ask her. Tell her you like it." Fortunately for all concerned, he did not heed his friend's advice.      

8/11/09 1 interaction

"Nice tattoos." Caucasian male, 50's, bar.
Me: "Thanks."
M: "Yeah, I noticed them when you were playing pool." (I took my sweatshirt off to play)
Me: "Yeah, thanks. Well, have a good night." (Turned back around to friends with guy still standing there.)
"What was that about?" New friend
"Oh, that guy was trying to hit on Izzy." Old friend.

8/10/09 5 iteractions

I work at a college; so the following interactions took place at events related to orientation.

"Nice sleeve:" African-American male, late teens,
Me: "Thank you."
M: "How much did it cost?"
Me: "Several hundered, but a friend of mine did most of it, so he hooked me up for free."
M: "Yeah, I wanna get some more work, this was my last piece." (shows me lettering on forearm).
Me: I noticed it while you were in the other line. I like what you did with the negative space."
M: That was the guy's idea."
Me: "Well, it was a good idea."
"Wow. I don't think I could do all of that." African-American female, 40's? Relative of M. (same last name on name tag)
Me: "Well, I see you've got some work." Pointing to tattoo on arm.
F: "Yeah, but I think this is it for me."
Me: "Never say never." (Smiling. We all laugh.)
Them: "Thank you."
Me: "No problem. Welcome to [name of school]"


Me: "Hi. Welcome to [campus building.]
"That's AMAZING." Caucasian male, 40's, staring at sleeve.
Me: "Thank you."
M (stands back to look from several angles.) "The detail, the color...wow."
Me: "I was very lucky, I had an amazing artist."
"How long did it take?" Caucasian female 40's, companion of M.
Me: "I worked on it off and on for several years, but most of it was done in about a year."
F: "Really?"
Me: "I was working in a tattoo shop; a friend of mine was an artist there, so we'd work on it whenever we both had time."
F: "What did your boss think?"
Me: "As long as we did it off the clock, he didn't care."
M: "Is there a bathroom here?"
Me: "Second floor, all the way to the back."
M; "Thanks."


"Nice tattoo." Hispanic female, early 20's.
Me: "Thanks."
F: "My foot itches." (she leans against the wall and sticks a finger in her shoe.)

8/9/09-3 interactions

“That’s some clean ink.” African-American male, late teens, street outside my building.
Me: “Thank you.”

“What’s that design?” (gesturing to branding). Hispanic male in video store, late teens/early 20’s:
Me: “It’s a dragonfly.”*
M: “How’d you do it? White ink? No ink?”
Me: “Actually, it’s not a tattoo. It’s a branding. It was done with iron plates.”
“That must’ve really hurt.”
“It was sore for a few days afterwards, but the brand was really quick so it didn’t hurt a lot.”
“Damn, that’s insane.” M. resumes flirting with clerk.

“How many tattoos do you have?” Asian female video store clerk, 20, (when customer leaves).
Me: “Hard to really say, because some of them have been added on to and some touched up and covered over. But the simple answer is somewhere in the 20’s.”
“Wow, I really like them. I want this tribal one on my back. I have a picture of it on my phone (shows me tribal orchid) but I don’t know where on my back. I’m also thinking of angel wings on my back, but I want to lose some weight first.” We discuss tattoo size, placement, and planning for several minutes, and then I ask if she has any movie recommendations. As I’m looking for a movie, we talk about Will Farrell and Lollapallooza.

* (actually, it’s the first two rungs on a ladder of transmigration, but over the years I’ve discovered it’s much easier to say “dragonfly”).

8/8/09-5 interactions

“Girl, I love your hair!* I wish I could do that.” African-American female, late teens, street outside my building.
Me: “It’s not that hard. You just have to watch how long you leave the bleach on, then condition it.”
F: “I know, I got a cousin who does hair, but I’m going in the service so I can’t do anything to it.”
Me: “That sucks. Well, maybe when you’re on leave or something?”
F: “Yeah…I could do that.”
Me: “Well, have a good day.”
Male companion (as I’m walking away). “Nice tattoos!”
F: “Girl, I didn’t even see you all tatted up!”
Me: “Yep, I do that too.”
M: “Did you go to the tattoo convention?” Me: “No, I’m not crazy about conventions. Did you?”
M: “Yeah, it was sweet, but I didn’t get anything. I’m going to Mastermind down on Clark. A guy there’s gonna hook me up with a half sleeve and then a yin-yang here,” (gestures to crook of elbow).
Me: (laughing) “Have fun with that. Right there really sucks.”
M: “Yeah, I’ve heard.”
Me: “Well, I gotta get going, but I’ll see you guys around. Keep me posted.”



“Girl, your hair’s so pretty I’m about to come over there and eat it!” African-American male, mid/late 40’s, street.
Me (from across street) “Please don’t! You’ll get hairballs!”
M & male companion laugh, muffled conversation followed, of which I heard “girl” and “tattoos.” **

“That’s some colorful ink.” African-American male, indeterminate age (40’s? 50’s?) outside produce market.
Me: “It sure is; you have a nice day now.”


“Oooooh, BIG TATTOO!” African-American male, no older than 10, on street, pointing.
Me: (smiling)
M: to younger child: “That’s called a sleeve!”
Me: “Very good! That’s exactly what it is!” (Smiles at kids and mother).

*Initially I wasn’t sure whether to include comments about hair, since it’s a mutable characteristic, but I’ve decided to if they lead to inquiries/comments about permanent modifications.

** After this interaction, I thought “Ok, today I learned a young woman can’t dye her hair because she’s going to war, and a man just said he wants to eat my head…I don’t think I want to do this.” Then I realized I already do it, it happens regardless if I want it to or not, the only difference between now and last week is that I’m listening; even if I stopped the project, I don’t think I could stop listening. Dammit.

8/7/09-No interactions, possibly due to inclement weather.

8/4/09-5 interactions

"How much did that cost?" Early 20's African-American male, passing on sidewalk, referring to sleeve.
"Not that much...a friend did it."
"Looks good, baby."
"Thanks man."

"Look! That girl's all tatted up!" Young female voice, Red Line 'El'
No response from me.

"Beautiful...but you must get that a lot." Caucasian male video store clerk, early 20's, referring to sleeve.
"I get a lot of questions...not as many compliments."

"Oh my God...let me see your arm." Caucasian female Starbucks barrista, early 20's. Proceeded to ask how long it took, what the design was, who did it, etc.

"Nice work." Caucasian male, mid 40's early 50's, also tattooed. Red Line 'El' platform. Showed me his tattoos (done with guitar string) and how he wanted them touched up. Asked who did my work, and then what I was doing downtown and where I was going. Got on seperate car when train arrived.

Background & Overview

When I first began experimenting with body modification in the early 1990’s, the most common reactions were hostility and derision. I was called a freak, spit on, followed in stores, and seated in the back of restaurants (if I was seated at all). When I told a teacher someone sped up to hit me in a crosswalk, his response was: “When you present yourself a certain way, you have to expect a certain reaction…you need to pick and choose your battles.” Despite this, I found the acquisition of modifications to be a source of strength; they became an integral part of my personal identity, and the inspiration for numerous academic and artistic pursuits. I am now in my 30’s and heavily modified. Current visible permanent modifications include a full sleeve tattoo on my right arm, scarifications and tattoos on my left, ¾” earlobes, and tattoos on my chest and back.

For the past decade, I’ve lived primarily in San Francisco. When the occasional need to leave my little liberal bubble arose, I was surprised to discover modifications gradually becoming more acceptable, and enmity being replaced with tolerance and interest. Last year, I moved to Chicago and for the entirety of my first Midwest winter, consoled myself with thoughts of “Summer will eventually come.” Everyone said Chicago summers were wonderful. And they were right. There’s a fabulous electricity in the air; every block is saturated with laughing neighbors and hibachi smoke. I like Chicago, and I like people, which is why I’ve been extremely puzzled by the exhaustion, irritability, introversion and mild anxiety I’ve felt for several months. I genuinely enjoy spending time with friends, but it often takes tremendous energy just to go to work, the gym, run errands and come home. I don't go out by myself very often.

“I only walk along the lake when you’re in town,” I recently said to my friend Nick. “It’s pretty, but there are just too many people.” That’s when it hit me: on the way to meet him, several strangers approached me with questions, or shouted comments. I recently mentioned to another friend that I’d never gotten so many questions about my arms as I have this summer, and on a long ride home one late night, I zipped up my hoodie on a hot train, inserted ear buds from a dead i-Pod and stared at the same page in a book I was too tired to read because I didn’t have the energy to answer “Did that hurt?" "How did you do it?" “How long did it take?” "What does your family think?" or the ambiguously creepy “So, where else are you pierced?” To always be looked at, to not have control over who is looking and how they see… I think I might understand why some cultures believe taking a picture captures a piece of the soul.

It’s disorienting to realize something I derive power from has the capacity to profoundly weaken, and what was once a source of autonomy and authenticity currently feels limiting, repetitive, and superficial. I don’t feel like I have the ‘right’ to complain. This is a life I willingly chose; physical and intellectual curiosity is the primary force that propels it. It would be remarkably hypocritical to condemn it in others. People are largely polite and respectful, and I try to be polite and respectful in return, recognizing I may be their only contact with a heavily modified person. With this in mind, I began looking for ways to regain equilibrium. My first idea was to orchestrate a piercing ritual/performance. I’ve done several, but lack the community in Chicago. My next thought was to acquire another semi-permanent/permanent modification, but there’s nothing I really want right now. After nearly two decades, when I’m ready for modification, I know it, and I know now is not the time. Then I was struck by the consumerist mentality of that notion: when life is lacking something, ‘fix’ it by purchasing a service or commodity.*
I realized the best, and hardest thing to do would be…nothing physical. The challenge lay not in altering my body, or retreating from my environment, but in discovering a new way to interact with it. I began looking outward, examining the people who were looking at me. Who were they? What did they want to know? How did they approach me? How did they depart?

Which brings me to Curio City. The first phase of this project is simply a log of my public interactions and private observations. I’m envisioning this project to be an examination of performativity and repetition, the boundaries of civility, and the dynamics of urban social conditioning. To maintain consistency I will wear a variation of black jeans and a black t-shirt every day, and no make-up,** and when the weather brings the project to a close, I’ll examine my results, and figure out what to do with them.
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*I will admit to buying a bottle of St. John's Wort in a moment of frustration and pissiness, which I exchanged for vitamins the next day.

**Since I want to focus solely on reactions to the body as it exists in its naturally unnatural state, I'm reluctant to introduce any variables that may influence people's responses. I believe because people ‘read’ me as a petite white woman, they feel entitled and comfortable approaching me. Wearing ‘female’ clothing (i.e. skirts, fishnets) and make-up, has always been for aesthetics, not gender identification, and I feel no need or desire to amplify the perception of femininty.