The motives for tattoos are many, but they all have a common subtext. A tattoo can mark a group identity—sailors, soldiers, inmates, gangs, motorcyclists. It can memorialize a person or event, as in a
virtual archive of snapshots of tattoos showing names and faces of deceased loved ones (I attended a presentation of the archive by two academics in Toronto last year). Sometimes they happen by blunt peer pressure, a set of 20-year-olds on Saturday night getting drunk, knowing not what to do until one of them blurts, "Let's go get a tat and a ring!" (a good friend tells me of pulling out just as his turn came up).
Beneath the variety, though, is the same call: "Look at me." The bearer may think it's cool or lovely or poignant, a certification of membership, a work of art, or a testimonial, but a selfish demand accompanies each message, not because of what they say but where they say it. Tattoos go on a person's skin, and so they can't be separated from the ego of that person. It's always there as part of one's being, and others must register it as much as they do one's face and speech. A tattoo has form and color and meaning, but it also solicits a social recognition, a "This is me, check me out."
Comment: This year has seen numerous incidences of aircraft accidents and mishaps: