The doorbell’s jingle as I’m fitting in the filter, but it’s ten minutes too early to be my first client of the day. I pop back out of the break room. “Hey lady!” It’s Stella, and bless her, she’s got two cups of fancy expensive coffee in her hands and a magazine rolled up under her arm. “If one of those is for me, I love you.” She laughs and puts it on the counter for me. “You’re really going to love me when you see this.” She lays Atlantic Arts next to my coffee. A teaser headline on the cover catches my eye: GET THE LADY BANKSY’S FRESH TAKE ON STREET ART. Stella instantly flips to the story: it’s big, bold and spans ten pages. I flip through the article as Stella stands by and sips her coffee, and the reality of what’s happening sinks in. This is real. This is important. I made art, and somehow, perhaps for the first time, it mattered. That’s why I’m a tattoo artist—because ink shot deep beneath skin is one of the most intense, lifelong, permanent statements a person can make.
