A tattoo is a fuck-you to the notion that we must present ourselves in one way when we are 12, another when we’re 19, then another when we’re 33 with a baby balanced on one hip. That’s not to mention how we must present ourselves at 45, 65, and 85.

Her body changes. Her roles change. Her perspective on life changes. But the art doesn’t change. It’s like a style choice made by a youth, then worn by their 75-year-old grandma. Like a screaming against the dark, against a future self who might want to hide out within a more generic skin.

But… can skin ever be generic?