Who Survives The Next Decade of Tattooing?

I started skateboarding in 1987. It was a glorious time to put Slimeball wheels on Gullwing trucks with Swiss bearings and bolt them right on to a Caballero dragon deck with full Powell Peralta side rails and tail bone. Every dry creek bed on the way to Oak Park Mall knew what the fuck that was about.

And so did my Vans. They took a beating like an Irish housewife. 

Luckily I discovered Shoe Goo. Which was a cross between rubber cement and superglue. It would extend the life of your skate shoes by a few months, even though it made them look like they were pulled out of an arson fire on a riverboat.

Vans had become more popular in the ‘80s thanks to Spicoli’s checkered slips in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. A lot of kids were wearing them. They were beginning to become a fashion statement. 

Nowadays, shoe culture is a thing and everybody thinks fresh and clean is a flex. I guess it is in a way. But back then, if your Vans were clean that meant you were a poser. You didn’t skate. You definitely didn’t skate to the skating rink. And when you skated at the skating rink you didn’t skate to, you didn’t rent the speed skates and grind the corners while you were skating. And you definitely didn’t sit out Red Rover right before you left to burn a penner of ditch weed behind the dumpsters during couple’s skate.

Fuck that disco ball. And fuck Stacy Schmidt. Fake ass bitch.

The ‘90s came and skateboarding exploded. Parks started being built. The clothes became trendy. Every kid had a popsicle with tiny wheels. Deck art was absolute ass. And skating lost a lot of credibility.

Every time something experiences a massive cultural surge, it invariably attracts two distinct groups of people. Those who want the work. And those who want to look cute in the work boots.

Tattooing is more popular than ever right now. Which is great.

It’s also more ominous than getting a call from a number you don’t recognize on father’s day.

A classic case of the die-hards vs. the posers. 

Right now, the industry is doing what it always has done during a boom. Quietly and unceremoniously shedding the people who treat it like a costume. Nobody’s calling a press conference to announce it. It’s a case of systemic attrition that makes the Western Front look like a peaceful labor dispute. 

Here’s something that I’ve learned in my shortish career. You can throw your hat in the ring for just about any reason. But you can only stay for one.

Tattooing doesn’t give two shits about your origin story, and it could give a fuck less why you showed up. It only cares how long you stay when it stops blowing smoke up your ass.

A few years in, most tattooers have a moment of clarity. The vibes wear off, the novelty dies, your hands ache, your inbox is a nightmare of endless revisions, you have to stop designing the first Japanese back piece where you finally feel like you’re getting it, to tattoo a walk-in that wants fineline script on the side of their finger and grinds you on the price. 

That’s when reality sets in. This isn’t an aesthetic. This is a repetitive manual trade.

Which is about the exact moment when cosplay ends. 

There are plenty of talking heads with hot takes shitting out of their faces and saying things that are all romantical like “tattooing chooses you.” But that’s 24 karat horseshit. Tattooing doesn’t choose anyone, it just outlasts most people.

Because most people treat it like a hobby. And tattooing is a terrible hobby. It’s even worse than being a DJ.

Since I’ve been doing this, I’ve seen a lot of people coming into the industry sideways. Especially in Los Angeles. A town full of damaged climbers, self-important addicts, and delusional industry hopefuls. For many of them, tattooing becomes an edgy add on in their flimsy, multi-hyphenant repertoire. A personality trait that stilts their claim to clout. A cool job in the meantime while their podcasting about the industry, industry career takes off.

Diversifying your income is a smart play, especially in a state where you have to pull six figures to even think about affording a starter home in a neighborhood where Del Taco has bullet proof glass. But treating this craft like a side hustle is a fool’s errand. And a recipe for failure. Tattooing demands full attention, deep humility, and absolute commitment. 

In return, it offers; inconsistent money, highly public mistakes, and a permanent record of your learning curve. 

And no amount of ring light or CapCut transitions can fix that shit.

You’ll always hear the ones who try to sneak in without cleaning toilets or learning how to tune a coil machine say things like “the industry doesn’t need gatekeeping.”

Let me call bullshit on that, on record. It absolutely does. It just doesn’t need abuse.

Old-school gatekeeping was messy and at times cruel. But it served a vital purpose. It slowed people down long enough for the fundamentals to actually matter. Lately the industry has overcorrected. It’s like what happened to beer at the turn of the century. Craft beer culture set out as a reaction to crap, mass produced beer. Next thing we knew you couldn’t go anywhere without some cuck lumberjack named Bryce calling a $16 IPA a “libation.”

Now, we’re seeing it in tattooing. We’ve replaced structural gates with “vibes,” and we’re acting surprised when people are sniffing glue, somebody’s knocked up, and there’s money missing from the dresser.

“Making model airplanes says the little fairy. Well, I’m not buying it.”

Here’s the thing. If tattooing isn’t rearranging your life, you’re probably just visiting. The craft eventually strips away the noise and asks you a single, brutal question.

Would you still do this if no one gave a fuck?

No likes. No follows. No dopamine hit from a viral reel. Just you, a machine, your own standards of solitary pursuit, and a playlist laced with guilty pleasures that are gonna force you to explain how Milli Vanilli, despite the lipsynching controversy, was a songwriting clinic.

“Love is stronger than thunder.”

Damn straight, Mr. Pilatus.

So, who survives the next decade? I’ll tell you this much. It won’t be the loudest voices, the most visible accounts, or the artists who curated their brand before they broke skin that paid. The ones who last tend to share a specific DNA. 

Boring in the best way. They show up, do the work, and don’t get caught up in drama.

Obsessed with fundamentals. They prioritize technical execution over fleeting internet trends.

Comfortable being bad. They are willing to look average for longer than the average person can stomach.

Client focused. They care significantly more about repeat clients than who is liking their content.

All in commitment. They choose tattooing over other options, rather than adding it to a pile of things they run their mouth about.

Tattooing doesn’t reward talent. It rewards tolerance. Tolerance for boredom, for repetition, for harsh correction, and for slow, unsexy progress.

To be clear, I’m not pulling a Judge Judy on the people who are just passing through. Some were never meant to stay a long time, and there’s no shame in that.

If you’re reading this and wondering whether you have what it takes to survive the shift, ask yourself this question:

Am I willing to do this when it stops being flattering?

Because that’s when the costume comes off. What’s left after that is just work. And work is the only thing that survives.

That and Kid Cudi singing on a Dom Dolla track. Those two really are gonna live Forever.