How Getting Tattooed Help Me Heal
Nine years ago I was diagnosed with endometrial cancer, requiring a radical hysterectomy, which meant I wouldn’t be able to have children. A few months after my hysterectomy, I visited the Mauritshuis art museum in The Hague, where I spied Jan Davidsz de Heem’s still-life painting Vase of Flowers. It’s a glorious painting, flush with flowers, leaves, fruits, stalks of corn and butterflies in a deep-blue glass vase, set against the inky black background so typical of the Dutch style. Looking at this painting was like having a mirror held up to me. Some of the leaves in the painting were curling and turning to brown, and the withering decay of rot was setting in.
I thought how fantastic it would be to appropriate Vase of Flowers and have a copy tattooed onto my back, committing my body to a large-scale, permanent ornamentation. This process-based artwork has taken place over several months and is now near completion. My body now sports an indelible image, but it is one I cannot see.
Getting the tattoo turned out to be a bigger commitment than I’d anticipated. The hysterectomy brought on medical menopause and that meant that my skin was hypersensitive. All in all, the tattoo has taken over 240 hours with sittings of about three to four hours at a time. It covers most of my back. It is close to completion. The gesture of having this artwork tattooed onto my back transfers a famous, centuries-old image back onto a fragile body with a finite lifespan.
For me, tattooing is very cathartic. The process of it is very relaxing. There is pain involved, obviously, but I breathe through it. Having some chocolate also helps. I also know that it is creating something beautiful on my skin. I have a very good bond with my tattooist, and he understands my vision for the project.
The tattoo will hopefully be finished early next year. There will be a series of invitation-only unveiling performances within galleries, as well as a public event.
Two and a half years ago, I was diagnosed with a severe autoimmune disease called scleroderma, mixed with muscle wasting and lung disease. For people who don’t know what scleroderma is, cells start making collagen as if there were an injury that needs repairing. The cells don’t turn off and they end up making too much collagen. When there’s too much collagen in the body it tries to heal itself, so it tries to heal healthy organs. I have scarring on my lungs and heart, and it attacks my skin.
““Looking at this painting was like having a mirror held up to me. Some of the leaves in the painting were curling and turning to brown, and the withering decay of rot was setting in.””
I have to take pills and injections morning and night. I estimate I have taken more than 17,755 tablets and attended 286 hospital appointments to date. In a way, though, everybody is in the throes of something similar: when COVID hit suddenly everyone became aware of their body and the limitations of what it can do.
It’s been an interesting medical journey which is feeding back into my artwork. The quite amazing thing has been that when I was getting tattooed, the tattooist was saying to me, “You don’t bleed, but there’s all this white plasma coming out of you.” The tattoo was giving my body something to heal. When I get tattooed, my body gets a respite because the collagen focuses on healing the tattoo rather than attacking my body. It’s been an unexpected and wonderful find.
Often women over 40 or 50 are no longer seen when they have an un-ideal body, and then you have to try to find your voice again within that. Due to lockdowns, able-bodied people have become more aware of isolation, uncertainty, and illness. This, for now, has brought more empathy, consideration and understanding for people who are housebound due to disability or chronic illness.
The changes have been amazing. I can now take a virtual tour of a gallery or attend a Nick Cave concert in my sitting room while in my pyjamas. As a disabled artist, having this online access means I still feel a part of the cultural and social community.
I love fashion and getting dressed up, putting on something that’s a bit colourful and feeling good about myself. When I get dressed up, I can trick my brain into feeling OK. Well, some days at least. There are other things I’ve had to deal with because of the disease, like hair loss. But hair bands and hats cover a multitude of grey hairs and sins. I absolutely love the Irish hat designer Margaret O’Conner and I think I should have shares in Mimco, at this stage.
I was asked whether I would consider selling my skin with the tattoo on it – to potentially get it removed and preserved after I died. That is something I’m still considering. There are huge advancements being made in the preservation of skin, so it would look like the original painting. I know it sounds macabre, but it’s also opened up a conversation for me. I think about legacy in different ways. For a lot of people, their legacy is their children or grandchildren, but for an artist or writer it might be the body of work they produce and leave behind.
At the end of the day, I think legacy is the people you interact with and the memories they’re going to have with you. One of the things I hope my friends say is that I was kind to them and tried to be understanding, and that to me is more important than what I’m leaving behind. In the meantime, I want to enjoy life, laugh, love, make memories, drink wine and eat too much cheese. I want to make every minute count.
Sandra Minchin-Delohery is a visual artist, academic and disability advocate. Her art will be exhibited in Melbourne at the Ladder Gallery in Kew (end of 2021) and the Red Gallery in Fitzroy (early 2022).