Author of 'Skin' tells story through word tattoos etched on volunteers worldwide
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Some writers are plagued with the worry that publication of their work will hurt others, but in the case of New York author Shelley Jackson the question is moot: She knows her work will hurt people. That's because Jackson is publishing her latest story on the backs, legs, arms, necks and feet of eager volunteers — in the form of single-word tattoos.
Participants all over the world have offered their own flesh and blood in service of this indelible literary endeavor, in which each word of Jackson's story is tattooed on individual bodies. The flesh of 2,095 people (including Jackson, who has the title word, "Skin," inked on the inside of her wrist) will replace paper and pixels, and each word will lead an isolated epidermal existence.
Jackson, a former Seattleite, says she began to think about "redefining what publishing is in challenging ways" during the 2002 book tour for her short-story collection, "The Melancholy of Anatomy" (published the old-fashioned way). While Jackson, 40, bears no grudge against books, she said in a phone interview from her Brooklyn home, "Writers haven't thought creatively about how writing can slip past traditional boundaries. Visual artists have done it more often."
"Rivers and Tides," the documentary film about landscape artist Andy Goldsworthy, who creates transitory pieces out of natural objects like icicles, was instrumental to the idea for "Skin." "It really fired my imagination," Jackson said. "I thought, 'How could you do that with writing?' "
Jackson figured out a way, and posted a call for volunteers on her Web site (www.ineradicablestain.com) last August. After evaluating applicants' personal statements, Jackson assigns the words one at a time, in the order of the story, and including any adjacent punctuation marks. Accepted parties must acquire and pay for the tattoos on their own, sending a photo to Jackson as proof. The full text will not be published anywhere else, even in summary. Only participants, sworn to secrecy, will be told the story in its entirety, and only after all the tattoos have been etched in ink.
Project's guidelines
In inventing a new publishing medium, Jackson ended up with a lengthy roster of guidelines for those taking part:
"Participants must accept the word they are given, but they may choose the site of their tattoo, with the exception of words naming specific body parts, which may be anywhere but the body part named."
"Tattoos must be in black ink and a classic Book font."
"From this point on, participants will be known as 'words.' They are not understood as carriers or agents of the text they bear, but as its embodiments."
The chosen "words" must be 18 or older and must sign a waiver "releasing the author from any responsibility for health problems, body-image disorders, job loss, or relationship difficulties that may result from the tattooing process."
It must have been an awareness of these exacting regulations (along with the rather permanent commitment she was asking of strangers) that led Jackson to also add: "If no participants come forward, this call itself is the work."
She had no idea.
"It never occurred to me people would want to do this in droves," she said.
As of last week, Jackson had assigned all but about 400 of the words, and has more than 3,500 hopeful skins awaiting to be chosen. There are participants in 27 countries, with Americans and Canadians proving to be the most devoted slaves to the needle.
Communal aspect
"A huge online community has sprung up," said Jackson. "The conceptual community has transformed itself into a literal community." Though physically separate from their narrative neighbors, the "words" are united by concept. Online discussion boards are abuzz with participants' discussing the project and sharing digital photos of their tattoos.
"It really made me think in a new way about each word," Jackson said. While there are plenty of "the's" and "and's" in the story out of necessity, the exercise forced her to think of each word out of context. "There's no excuse for writerly self-indulgences when someone is going to hurt for it."
Many of Jackson's "words" are tattoo newbies.
"I've never had a tattoo," says local participant Rachel Kessler. "I've never even had a perm."
Nonetheless, Kessler, 31, who performs as part of Seattle's spontaneous poetry trio called The Typing Explosion, wanted to be a part of the project.
"I like the randomness of getting a word assigned to you," she says. "Otherwise you're responsible for the tattoo you get."
Seattle set painter Susannah Anderson, 35, who was assigned the word "not," echoes this sentiment.
"I'd been thinking about getting a tattoo for three years," she says. "Every time I thought I knew what I wanted I'd change my mind. It made more sense to me when it was about supporting somebody else's work."
Kessler and Anderson were both drawn to the communal aspect of "Skin."
"For me it's about being a part of a larger whole," says Anderson. Kessler agrees, saying, "Even if it's passive, it's another form of collaboration."
In Jackson's view, "these people become the story. What they bring to it — their individual ways of looking at the project — is the story."
Like the majority of participants, Kessler and Anderson are happy with their words. Only a handful have declined because the word they received didn't "speak to" them. The story has no obscene words, but some can be taken more than one way. One woman, Jackson said, refused to tattoo "use" to her curvy body.
"I think 'not' is a good word," Anderson says, "Because I tend to say yes a lot of times when I shouldn't. It's a good, empowering reminder for me."
Kessler recalls, "I was really hoping for a piece of punctuation." She got it. Her word is "settlers." (period included.) Though delighted with her word, Kessler is aware it is only skin deep. "You could get a burn or lose a limb," she says. "The idea reflects how as a writer you lose control of a text."
It was precisely this aspect of Goldsworthy's work Jackson found provocative — part of the beauty of his art is that it disappears naturally, as a matter of course (leaves in formation float downriver, the tide covers up a stone sculpture).
"Skin" references the temporary nature of art in a similar way. The story will be altered via accidents, dermabrasion (in the case of fickle "words") and death.
"Some people may die before the project is completed," Jackson said. (On her Web site she states, "The author will make every effort to attend the funerals of her words.") It's for this reason Jackson calls "Skin" "a mortal work of art." When all the "words" die, the story will be gone forever.
Of course skeptics find "Skin" as irritating as a rash, some deeming it gimmicky, others pretentious. But participants disagree.
"Critics are missing the joke," says Anderson. "I think it's funny. And the commitment you're making is serious. And you're contributing to a larger whole — these are all elements of good art."
Jackson has been delayed from finishing the project because of a repetitive stress injury to her arm, caused in part by the demands of responding to all her wannabe "words." (Could this be poetic justice for inflicting pain upon others?)
In an update posted April 14 to the "mortal work of art" community on www.livejournal.com Jackson said, "When I first launched this project, I thought it would take years, maybe decades to finish. I never anticipated finding so many participants so quickly, and it has taxed my resources, for sure." She promised "Skin" will be finished soon, possibly by the end of the year.
Meanwhile, her willing "words" await the rest of the story.
Brangien Davis: brangiendavis@yahoo.com. Information from The Associated Press is included in this story.
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