In the olden days of the missionaries, God used to recruit followers with nothing more than simple prayer and colonisation. Now his emissaries have swapped holy water for industrial inks: a small monastic group in Vienna is offering free tattoos for anyone who wants one. Its venue is right by St Stephen’s Cathedral, in a meeting place called Quo Vadis – or “where are you going?” in Latin.
Well, first you go to the pre-tattoo church service, where the implements are blessed, then you get down to it. It’s ritualistic in that classic Catholic way: bundling intention, theatricality, anticipation, abjection, mortification and catharsis together in the name of the Lord, with a seamy smog of incense and chanting layered over the top. Forget the font, chuck the crucible; it’s in the tattooist’s chair that you’ll get your deliverance.
The timing is an act of divine providence, as we come out of the pandemic and seek to reconnect. During lockdown I was so desperate for someone who wasn’t my mum to touch me that I almost got a face tattoo. Good to know the church would have approved – as long as I select one of its recommended designs, such as a cross or a fish.
Tattoos have long had a religious flavour to them, with Victorian gothic font saying things like LIFE IS PAIN and NO MERCY, stretching out crucifixion-style across hairy pink backs and fronts, above images of lovingly inked busty ladies and other icons of worship. This is just the holier-than-thou version, with added Virgin Mary styling and devotional slogans.
The sadomasochist in me actually really likes the classic (and certainly ecumenically faithful) image of a bleeding heart, pierced by swords, surrounded by flames. I was once given a T-shirt with that design on it, promoting a Christian heavy metal band, with the slogan, JESUS: HE DIED FOR YOUR SINS. The imagery and slogan seemed a bit on the nose at the time; I’m glad to see the church authorities are catching up.
This isn’t even that radical a move, merely a natural updating. You know all those medieval monks who stood at their desks in the monasteries, painfully inscribing manuscripts with intricate designs and brilliant colours? This is exactly the same as that, only with metal needles rather than nibs, and industrial dyes instead of plant-based inks. The surface itself hasn’t changed: the vellum that monastery illustrators used came from animal skins – from calves, sheep or goats. It’s only right that we, too, should be branded by our maker, like God’s own wayward flock.
I have to say, I’m a touch surprised that this is all happening in Vienna rather than some groovy, Sister Act-style diocese in Brooklyn, where a cool, reforming priest comes along and tries to get down with the youth. But I’m all for it. Indeed, this scenario has a long spiritual precedent and is a perfect illustration (literally) of human hubris. God knows, getting a tattoo begins with contemplation, then in a blaze of egoistic zeal and worldly desire you commit the act/mistake/sin, then you regret it and try to make amends. And every stage of it hurts, either physically or mentally or financially. I mean, that is pure Old Testament from first to last. It’s the classic cycle of sin, guilt and painful, lengthy and expensive repentance, sharpened up, plugged in and retooled for the 21st century.
Bidisha Mamata is an Observer columnist
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