"Getting ink" can mean two vastly different things. At Hopkins, if someone tells you that they're going out to "get some ink," it generally means that they are making a Target run because they ran out of black ink while printing their philosophy paper. For many others, "getting ink" is the colloquial term for getting a tattoo. Last weekend, I found myself surrounded by those seeking the latter. At the Sheraton Baltimore City Center Hotel, the Second Annual Baltimore Tattoo Convention provided three days of activities for the "needle-inclined" citizens of Maryland.
From Friday to Sunday, the ballrooms of the hotel were filled with hundreds of tattooed fanatics shuffling past the many vendors who attended. Tattoo shops and their world-famous tattoo artists were the most commonplace vendors, but there were many booths dedicated to selling tattoo paraphernalia and clothing. In my winter coat, I almost felt out of place; people were not dressed for the January weather, but rather to show off their tattoos. And in many women's cases, this required wearing almost nothing at all.
Of all the people I met, Jim Hall was one of the friendliest - and most famous. I saw him as I attempted to take pictures of the moving sea of people and then nonchalantly tried to point him out to my friends.
Earlier that morning, I had seen a picture of him on City Paper. I desperately wanted to introduce myself to him, but he always seemed to be in a conversation with one person or another. Eventually, because I was standing (or rather, lurking) in the same area, I was able to grab a few minutes of time with him when Hall pointed out to a woman that she had dropped her money. Thankfully, because of my intrepid journalist skills (or rather, my eavesdropping), I bent down to give it back to her and then struck up a conversation with him.
Unlike me, Hall was not unfamiliar with the convention. He had been to the convention the previous year. "It's pretty much the same," he told me. "I think there's three times as many neck tattoos as last year, though."
Although now his body is almost completely covered in tattoos, Hall told me that "[he] was secret for so long" and had no tattoos past where his work suit reached. Although tattoos aren't nearly as taboo as they once were, they are still a hazard in the professional world. Hall's professional world entailed working as a city planner for Baltimore. But along with his retirement came the ability to finish his full body suit. Now, with his entire face covered by blue and grey design, everyone can see his tattoos. "Some people get upset," he said. "But that's their problem."
While we talked, many people came up to Hall asking if they could take pictures of him. He graciously obliged, continuing to talk with me. I was most curious about the pain level of his many tattoos, specifically those on his face. Surprisingly, he told me that "some of it wasn't pretty painful" but that the top of the lip was one of the worst.
Most impressively, Hall said that "[he] tattooed [himself] for as long as he could reach it." He also had a roommate who, in exchange for room and board, tattooed him for seven years.
It was fortunate that I hadn't finished reading City Paper article on Hall before I talked to him or I may have been too intimidated. In addition to his tattooed body suit, he has also had
