Did you take the photo yourself? he asks.
Yeah. My ex the monk she grimaces self-deprecatingly he was a professional photographer. He left me most of his equipment when he headed off to India. I enjoy dabbling. I use my bedroom as a darkroom. I mean theyre not anything to write home about
I dont agree, Gene interrupts, I think theyre really wonderful.
I heard this radio interview with her once, Valentine continues, returning to her former subject (almost as if embarrassed by Genes compliment, although somewhat paradoxically seemingly unperturbed by how exposing the photo is). The journalist asked her what her motivation was and she simply answered, To survive.
She shakes her head, fondly. You could hear in her voice this cracked, dry, old, French voice that she really, really meant it. She said her art was a way of creating order out of anxiety; making shapes out of this gnawing terror that burrowed away inside of her. I suppose thats basically what Im aiming to do myself, but my medium has always been the skin transforming the skin
Did it hurt much? Gene wonders, seemingly transfixed by the image.
It killed! She laughs. I have a pathetically low pain threshold.
But you were pleased with the end result?
She peers down at the photograph, frowning. I guess what most outsiders dont tend to understand is how little of tattooing or body art in general is about the design aspect; the formal decoration. From my perspective its always been as much about the process as the end result
The pain of the needle? he muses.
Look at the Maoris. Valentine nods. For them tattoos are a rite of passage. Theyre a marker of bravery, of maturity, of cultural acceptance. The tattoo represents not only a willingness to accept pain to endure it but a need to actively embrace it. Because life is painful beautiful but painful
She places the tracing paper back over the image and returns it to the folder. As she does so another print attracts her attention and she pulls it out.
Heres a perfect case in point
She carries the print over, places the bottom edge down and removes the tracing paper.
This woman was forty-seven when I tattooed her vagina a widow. Dyou see the hundreds of shiny, white marks all over her skin?
Gene studies the image, closely. What are they? he asks. Stretch marks?
Nope. Little cuts. Self-inflicted. She used to slice herself with this special piece of shell
Valentine lays the print down flat on to the floor, goes over to her shrine, kneels down in front of it and carefully removes something from behind the picture of Kali. She holds it out to him. He steps forward and takes it from her, gingerly.
Its wonderful to the touch dont you think?
Is this the actual ?
He runs his finger over it, appalled.
Incredibly cool and light and smooth, but still razor sharp
He passes it back to her with a slight shudder.
The client had these overwhelming feelings of inadequacy, she explains. Shed been raised by an aunt. Her parents had gone to live in America when she was five or six. Theyd taken her younger brother with them but theyd left her behind in Japan. She never really knew why. She felt
She searches for the right word: gagged choked smothered. She had all these frustrations that she didnt feel it was socially acceptable for her to express. And crazy as it sounds, some of her deepest feelings of inadequacy were centred on her lack of pubic hair. The other girls at school used to tease her about it, and then, later on, after she was married, her husband did the same. She felt trapped both physically and emotionally in this pre-pubescent state
Valentine returns the piece of shell to its original place, rises to her feet and picks up the print again.
So when she found out about the work I was doing she spent virtually every penny she had to fund her trip over here. Aside from the cutting, she felt like the tattoo was her first, real act of self-determination. And once it was complete, she presented me with the shell as a thank you. She said the tattoo made her feel whole. And it wasnt the tattoo itself so much as submitting, voluntarily, to the pain of the needle. It was the journey of the tattoo, if you like, which is basically what this photo represents. I mean its not beautiful or glamorous
Is it enjoyable? Gene asks, sensing that he should contribute something, yet feeling unable to commit wholeheartedly to the stark image itself.
Enjoyable?
She bursts out laughing. How dyou mean? In a kinky, Readers Wives kind of way?
No! Genes horrified. I mean the process the actual tattooing
Its hard work she shrugs a lot of bending over and craning. I get a certain amount of neck pain, twinges in my lower back, eye strain, cramping in the hand
She tenses and un-tenses her right hand. As she does so he notices that three of her finger pads are an odd, purplish-blue colour.
But you get used to it after a while
She carefully covers the print with the tracing paper. And obviously it depends to a large extent on the attitude of the individual client. Most of my customers are from the Far East. Theyre generally really excited about the process scared but excited She grins, going over to place the print back into the folder. Theyve waited a long time for the work. Its a transformative act the culmination of many years of stress and many months of planning
How long would it take? Gene interrupts. I mean a tattoo of this size
He points to the photo on the wall.
Four or five hours. And I generally have to turn the tattoo around in one, long session, which can be fairly challenging she grimaces both for me and the client. Theres no margin for error in this line of work. Then theres the weight of their expectation which is huge
She walks over to the wall and straightens the painting on its hook. The works compressed into this tiny, little area she points but its very, very detailed, and the needle needs to go in deep enough or the ink comes away with the scab
Gene winces.
The skin over the pubic bone is especially delicate, she continues. I mean its always harder to tattoo over bone the hands, the ribs, the foot You have to be really, really careful or the ink can bleed and the overall effect is
I wasnt snooping around, Gene interrupts her, suddenly anxious. I saw a wisp of smoke through the open doorway, so I came in to investigate. But it was only
He points at the shrine where a stick of incense has recently burned out, leaving a powder-fine trail of grey ash in its wake.
I chant, she explains, adjusting one of her braces. Chanting with beads. Mischa taught me. He was really into Kali. Its his old shrine. I do it to relieve stress, sometimes.
As she speaks her eyes travel from the sleeping child on the sofa to the crazy image of Kali, to the tattooed vagina above.
I suppose this must all look a little uh She bites her lip, self-consciously. nuts.
Not at all, he insists, slightly too loudly, before frowning down at his clipboard, uncomfortably, as if preparing himself to say something, then not saying it and turning to inspect the azure-cloaked Virgin Mary that stands, close to his elbow, on the bookcase.
My mothers a Catholic, she explains. At least she was a Catholic, she corrects herself, before the accident.
In the brief, awkward silence that follows, they both listen out, instinctively, for the distant strains of the piano, but it is no longer audible. Neither of them has the slightest notion of when the playing actually stopped.
Is she fully recovered now? Gene asks.
Hang on a second Valentine cocks her head, still listening, Dyou hear that?
What?
A crackling sound kind of like She gestures with her hand.
Uh
Genes eyes move from her face, to her hand, to her brace (which is now applying the lightest of pressures to her right breast), then over to the shrine, panicked.
Hang on a second Valentine cocks her head, still listening, Dyou hear that?
What?
A crackling sound kind of like She gestures with her hand.
Uh
Genes eyes move from her face, to her hand, to her brace (which is now applying the lightest of pressures to her right breast), then over to the shrine, panicked.
Dyou have a phone? she wonders.
Gene pats at his pocket, feeling for his phone, then pulls it out, looks down at it, aghast, and quickly shoves it to his ear.
Hello?
He listens for a moment.
Yeah. No. Sorry. I didnt I mustve
As he speaks he winces at Valentine, apologetically. She shrugs.
He listens again.
No. No. Its not
He scratches his head, embarrassed. Could we talk about this later? Im actually out on a
He listens again, perplexed. Generous as the offer is, I really dont think Sheila would I mean shes still furious about
He inhales, sharply.
Pussy-whipped? he echoes, affronted, then glances over towards Valentine (who is covering her sleeping niece with a crocheted, patchwork blanket). Thats hardly fair he murmurs, hurt.
A brief silence follows.
Okay. Okay, he finally concedes, his resolve palpably weakening. So where ?
He removes a pencil from the front pocket of his overalls, bends over and scribbles something on to his clipboard, whilst balancing it, unsteadily, on his knee.
Ive a fair idea he mutters, just past the Lea Valley walk, then Someries Castle, and its Yeah. Fine. Six oclock, sharp. But please dont
A long pause. Valentine stands by the sofa, watching him from behind. As he leans forward, the collar on his overalls moves back and is pulled askew. On the area of skin just below his neck she sees the upper region of a bruise. She stares at it, fascinated, then looks down at her hand.
Well its big of you to admit that. Gene scratches his head again, suddenly disarmed. And I suppose no real lasting damage was
An extended pause.
The Hummer?
He straightens up again. I dont think
He gazes up at the ceiling.
I mean the cost of petrol alone
He stares down at the floor, frowning. What kind of a uniform?
He slowly shakes his head as he listens, No. The hats too big and the jacket has this huge tear under the Hello?
He gazes at his phone for a second, confused, puts it to his ear again, removes it and stares at it, then shoves it, grimacing, into his pocket.
Good. Right, he says, turning back to face Valentine, a slight sheen of perspiration glowing on his forehead. Sorry about that.
Look, Valentine says, taking a couple of steps towards him and reaching out her hand. He inspects the hand for a second, cautiously.