The Young and The Restless | To ink or be inked, that is the question

I’m not talking about that time temptation took over in my brother’s shed during restless COVID times and I turned the tattoo on his hip of his ex’s name into another unrelated word.

Not seamlessly either. Not in the slightest.

But, the real seed of consideration to transition from the willingly tortured to the willing torturer was possibly only planted by an algorithm casting a carefully curated ad my way on social media, as it continues to gather information about me each time I click.

(I’m sure my obscure and hungry Googling habits as a journalist have thrown it waaaaay off occasionally, though. For example, earlier: “What other drug is ketamine an ingredient of?”, followed by “When was the Methodist church established?”).

Ink and Drink had popped up as a suggestion when I’d been looking for fun and unique things to do in Melbourne over the Christmas break with a friend.

The excitement about having a crack was quickly extinguished when I learned its bricks and mortar venue would be closed between Christmas and New Year when we were visiting the city.

I shelved the idea until the remarketing ads found me when Ink and Drink set out on a roadshow of sorts, with pop-up sessions in regional centres across the state.

Ink and Drink is an adapted version of a paint and sip class.

You’ll trade stretched canvases, sable-haired brushes and long-stemmed glasses for faux skin made of silicone, buzzing needles and a scotch on the rocks in a whiskey glass to put hairs on your chest if you want it.

Both are mostly frequented by creatives, however.

I waited patiently for a Shepp location to pop up on the list of events, but as FOMO washed over me, my trigger-happy clicking finger decided Bendigo was close enough and I booked a couple of spots.

We chose an arvo session so we could be back home at a decent hour that Saturday night.

You can probably imagine our surprise when we walked into the Golden Vine Hotel while the sun was still high in the sky and its light streaming through the pub’s windows while a punk metal band (Harold Holt Search Party) was hurling droplets of sweat from the stage they were rocking, shirtless.

A few of its mohawked fans banged their heads in the small moshpit they’d created on the dance floor that we had to walk across to get to our Ink and Drink session space in the beer garden.

I guess punk, metal, piercings and tattoos all went hand in hand in hand in hand once upon a time.

But the pop-up space was no more full of stereotypical-looking inked bikers than a modern-day tattoo studio is.

Everyone there had an interest in arts and crafts.

The ages ranged from 18 (minimum to join) to retirees.

There were friend groups, family groups and couples on dates.

The majority of participants were women.

After some brief instruction on operating our machines, tattoo technique tips, choosing our silicone templates and gearing up with an apron and prick-proof gloves (could be handy at the pub on a Saturday night, if you know what I mean), we had some housekeeping rules spelled out.

Disappointingly, but gratefully, we soon discovered we were not allowed to mark ourselves or each other with our instruments.

I was, however, unintentionally marked — but not permanently at least — by the spattering ink that flew wayward as even my needle refilling skills were left wanting.

My tattooing ability even more so.

I have a short attention span, so if I don’t take to something like a grey-washed duck to a transforming tattoo bed, I’ll lose interest quickly.

It’s not so much that I give up.

The craft gods know that if I’m a natural at something, I’ll hyperfixate on it until the next shiny thing floats my feathers.

I just become bored trying.

I was happy enough to sit out the last half hour of our session and watch my friend handle her machine in a fashion far more graceful than I had.

The heat of a mid-30s afternoon in the uncooled beer garden — exacerbated by my profusely sweating hands under the black latex cloak of my gloves and a heavy apron adding a layer to my outfit — may have had a little to do with my preference to kick back and finish my refreshing can of ink-smudged bourbon.

The activity was definitely a bucket-lister, but it also quelled that desire to ever become the giver.

I’ve adored the craft of tattoo artists since long before I got my first at 18.

If not, I wouldn’t have provided my body as a canvas or parted with so much of my hard-earned for the pleasure of being marked with their art.

While I’d imagine some tattoo artists might roll their eyes at wannabes like us who’ve rocked up to a gimmicky little class, this gimmicky little class is probably unearthing some true talent to bolster the industry.

But mostly, I reckon, it would be giving people an even higher level of respect for their tattooist’s talent.

My curiosity is now cured by the constraints of my capability.

I will stick to getting the ink.