My first stretch in prison brought with it a firm promise to myself: I would never be foolish enough to get tattooed in this place. Having experienced professional tattooing on the outside and even spending time in a tattoo parlor learning the craft of body piercing, I was acutely aware of the risks associated with getting inked in a non-sterile environment. However, it wasn’t just the fear of infection that deterred me; it was the preconceived notion of poor quality that I associated with Prison Tattoos. Little did I know, I was about to have my assumptions completely shattered.
Like many, when I thought of prison tattoos, stereotypical images flooded my mind: crude, green blobs vaguely resembling figures – the ubiquitous barbed wire, praying hands clutching rosaries, calendars with days crossed out, and of course, the teardrop tattoo, the hallmark of prison ink, often found at the corner of the eye, sometimes multiplied, sometimes filled with color. These images are ingrained in popular culture as the epitome of jailhouse body art.
But the reality I encountered behind bars was a far cry from these simplistic clichés. The level of artistry achievable in prison today is astounding. Intricate, detailed portraits are commonplace. Some tattoos are so expansive they cover entire bodies, true masterpieces of ink and skin. Remarkably, these elaborate pieces can be completed in just a few days, a testament to prison ingenuity, raw talent, and the incredible pain tolerance of those who wear them.
The process of creating these tattoos, the makeshift equipment, and the unimaginable circumstances under which they are applied are truly jaw-dropping. It’s entirely possible to get a prison tattoo that rivals work from a professional, accredited studio. In some surprising instances, the prison-made art might even surpass it in its raw intensity and personal significance.
The Ingenious Craftsmanship Behind Prison Tattoo Ink
The quality of tattoo ink is paramount; it dictates how vividly and accurately a design will manifest on the skin. As the saying goes in the tattoo world, “a tattoo is only as good as the ink you’re using.”
Inside prison walls, our access to materials is severely restricted, forcing us to be incredibly resourceful when it comes to ink. Some inmates manage to acquire professional tattoo ink, often referred to as “street ink,” through illicit channels, sometimes involving corrupt corrections officers (COs) or clandestine exchanges during visits, a process euphemistically known as “out one hole and into another.”
However, the vast majority of prison tattoo ink is homemade, crafted from a few basic ingredients. The guiding principle is simple: “the blacker, the better.” To achieve this deep, rich black, inmates seek soot, as dark and dense as pitch.
One common recipe for what’s often called “chain gang ink” involves water, alcohol, and a generous amount of soot. Ideally, the water would be sterile and bottled, but more often than not, it’s sourced directly from the sinks in our cells. Alcohol pads, essential for both sterilization and ink preparation, are more challenging to obtain. They are typically acquired through medical orderlies, inmates assigned to work in the prison medical facility. Since the alcohol is pad-based, not liquid, it must be painstakingly squeezed out of each pad, drop by drop.
While the precise number of alcohol pads is debated, Creature, the tattooist who gave me my first prison tattoos at Columbia Correctional Institution, preferred to use at least ten. The alcohol serves a dual purpose: sterilizing the mixture and helping to break down the soot, which is the heart of the ink.
Creating soot is arguably the easiest step in the process. It simply involves burning materials in an enclosed space to collect the carbon residue. This burning often takes place in confined areas like lockers or the toilet paper cubby found in the combined sink/toilet units in two-man cells. The enclosed space traps the smoke and carcinogens, allowing the soot to accumulate on the top surfaces. This soot is then carefully scraped onto a piece of paper and transferred to a container, typically a small bottle, for ink mixing and storage.
The materials burned to create soot vary depending on availability and risk. Checker and chess pieces, or any hard plastic, are common choices. However, burning plastic is widely disliked in the dorms due to its acrid, pungent smell, which is quickly detected by COs during security rounds. A more discreet and often preferred alternative is hair grease, readily available from the canteen. Even better, if a food service worker can be persuaded, lard burns cleanly, producing a high-quality black soot that disperses evenly and leaves a surprisingly pleasant aroma of French fries in the air. Lard was Creature’s preferred soot source.
Once a sufficient amount of soot is collected, it’s added to the bottle of water and alcohol. A hinge pin from a set of fingernail clippers is also included, acting as an agitator. This small metal piece helps to break up any clumps of soot as the bottle is shaken, ensuring a smooth, consistent ink. Lumpy ink can lead to uneven lines and inconsistent color saturation in the tattoo.
Experienced prison tattoo artists recommend allowing the freshly made ink to “marinate” for at least a week, shaking the bottle daily. This resting period further breaks down the soot particles, resulting in a finer, more homogenous ink. When properly prepared, the ink should resemble liquefied onyx when poured into a toothpaste cap, which often serves as a makeshift inkwell. However, in urgent situations, the ink can be used immediately.
Hand-Sharpened Needles and DIY Tattoo Guns
Creating the tattoo needle itself is a surprisingly quick and straightforward process, but the sharpening requires considerable time and patience. Similar to professional tattoo practices, prison tattoo needles are ideally intended for single-use, primarily for hygiene reasons. This is especially crucial in prison because, unlike commercially produced needles, ours are usually not made of stainless steel, making them prone to rusting.
Prison tattoo needles are typically fashioned from one of two sources: the spring from a retractable ballpoint pen or the spring from a lighter. Lighter springs, once more readily available, have become scarcer in prisons that have banned smoking, making pen springs the more common choice.
Both types of springs are uncoiled using heat from a flame and then painstakingly straightened as much as possible. This task usually falls to the tattoo artist themselves. Sharpening the needle tip is the most critical and time-consuming step. A dull needle will struggle to penetrate the skin effectively and cleanly. The primary challenge is achieving a rounded, sharp point free of flat spots or burrs. This is accomplished by hours of meticulously rolling the needle tip against a rough concrete surface or using a fingernail file obtained from the canteen.
The prison tattoo gun is a marvel of makeshift engineering, laughable in appearance yet remarkably effective in function. The core component is a small rotary motor, typically salvaged from facial hair trimmers purchased from the canteen, although resourceful inmates have been known to extract them from old VCRs.
An offset mechanism is attached to the motor’s spindle using thin strips of Saran wrap or flux from soldering wire rolls. This offset is crucial because it’s where the needle will be secured, creating the reciprocating “in and out” motion necessary to puncture the skin and deposit ink. The gun is powered by wires connected to a battery pack, usually holding two AA or AAA batteries, also available from the canteen. Despite the motor’s small size, this power source provides ample energy to run continuously for up to seven hours.
A crucial principle in prison tattooing is understanding power control. Too much power translates to excessive RPMs (revolutions per minute), which can be detrimental, causing the needle to “chew up” and damage the client’s skin. This occurs because the gun operates too rapidly for the artist to maintain control. The needle, often thicker than professional needles, penetrates the tissue faster than the ink can be effectively deposited.
A cardinal rule in tattooing, especially relevant in the prison setting, is: “the more holes you make, the more you have to fill.” Overworking the skin due to an overpowered gun increases pain, bleeding, and the risk of infection, while also compromising the tattoo’s final appearance.
The barrel of a Bic Round Stic pen serves as the gun’s housing. The pen’s ink cartridge is removed, melted down, and stretched to create a narrow channel at the barrel’s tip. This channel guides the needle and helps regulate ink flow. Ink is drawn into the pen barrel and held there, constantly coating the needle tip as it retracts into the barrel between punctures.
This entire assembly – barrel, channel, and needle – is usually attached to the motor using something as simple as a broken toothbrush handle. A hole, sized to snugly fit the pen barrel, is melted into the handle. The barrel is inserted into this hole, and the needle is then passed through the barrel, extending to reach the motor’s spindle and offset mechanism. The back end of the needle is bent at a 90-degree angle and inserted into the offset. Rubber bands are often used to secure the needle in place and provide some level of vibration dampening. The barrel can be slid back and forth within the toothbrush handle, allowing for adjustment of the needle depth, controlling the penetration and ink deposit. Once assembled and adjusted, the prison tattoo gun is ready for use.
The Tattooing Process: Stencils, Pain, and Interruptions
While some highly skilled prison tattoo artists are confident enough to freehand their designs directly onto the skin, the majority rely on stencils. For me personally, given the inherent uncertainties of the prison environment, trusting someone to create a permanent piece of art without a stencil felt too risky.
A stencil is created by drawing the tattoo design with ink on a thin piece of onion skin paper or transfer paper, if available. The area of the body to be tattooed is prepared by applying a thin layer of clear antiperspirant, a common item available for purchase at the canteen. The ink-lined stencil is then pressed firmly onto the damp, antiperspirant-coated skin and held for a few moments. When the stencil is peeled away, the design is transferred to the skin, almost perfectly, albeit in reverse – a process mirroring stencil application in professional tattoo shops.
However, the similarities to street shops largely end there. One significant difference is the intensity of pressure and pain experienced during a prison tattoo session. Prison tattoos can be notoriously painful, often described as a more raw and intense sensation compared to professionally applied tattoos. Sessions typically continue until the tattoo is complete or until the recipient can no longer tolerate the pain and calls for a stop – “tapping out.”
Prison tattoo sessions are frequently interrupted. Count times, security checks, and unexpected shakedowns are commonplace occurrences that can halt the tattooing process abruptly. In some cases, a “spook” – an inmate hired as a lookout – is employed to provide early warning of approaching guards or other disruptions.
Tattooing in prison is strictly prohibited due to the unsterile environment and associated health risks. The penalty for being caught with fresh ink can be severe, including loss of “good time” credit, which extends an inmate’s sentence, and a minimum of 30 days in solitary confinement, known as “Slam.” Ironically, despite the prevalence of prison tattoos, I am, to my knowledge, the only inmate who has ever been formally charged with receiving a tattoo. If others have faced similar charges, I have yet to encounter them.
Beyond Expectations: The Skill of Prison Tattoo Artists
One of the most surprising aspects of chain-gang tattooing is the disparity between an artist’s own tattoos and the quality of their work on others. On numerous occasions, I’ve met tattooists whose own bodies were covered in what I considered poorly executed tattoos, only to discover that their artistic skills were truly exceptional. One such artist, Carl, lived in my open bay dorm. He confessed to hating tattooing, yet his specialty was portraits, and they were breathtakingly realistic. People called him Nikon because his work was so precise, resembling a black-and-white photograph permanently etched onto the skin.
At Columbia Correctional Institution, it took me several months of observation and inquiry to identify the skilled tattoo artists within the inmate population. Eventually, I narrowed my choices down to seven potential artists. After careful consideration, I chose Creature for my first prison tattoo. I described my idea, and within an hour, he had sketched the design and quoted me a price: $10 or two bags of coffee from the canteen – a standard form of prison currency.
Pricing is another significant draw of prison tattoos. Having spent nearly a decade incarcerated across two separate prison terms, I’ve accumulated a substantial amount of ink, yet the total cost has been under $200. Both of my thighs were tattooed for free simply because the artist was bored and found my conversation entertaining. Considering the size and detail of those pieces, they would have easily cost over $500 each in a professional shop.
When I first entered prison, I remember thinking, “I know tattoos, and I am definitely not getting any of those awful prison tats to commemorate this low point in my life.” However, I now have ink covering my entire neck, both shoulders, biceps, triceps, inner arms, forearms, left elbow, right hand, chest, entire stomach, both thighs from groin to kneecap, and my left leg and foot.
Would I get prison tattoos again? The question is ultimately irrelevant now. I don’t regret the ink I’ve received, but I do regret the circumstances and places where I got them.
Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.
