Don Ed Hardy is more than just a name; he’s a titan in the tattoo industry, a visionary who propelled tattoo art from the fringes of society into the mainstream. A classically trained artist, Hardy dedicated his life to elevating tattooing to a respected art form, shedding its former associations with societal outcasts and giving it a fine-art sensibility. This exploration delves into the world of Ed Hardy tattoos, examining his profound influence and lasting impact on tattoo culture.
Hardy’s journey began in his teenage years with a formal apprenticeship, learning from legendary figures like Sailor Jerry and Phil Sparrow. Influenced by Beat Generation aesthetics and a deep appreciation for Japanese art, Hardy developed a unique style that blended traditional tattoo artistry with sophisticated fine art principles. In 1982, alongside his wife Francesca Passalacqua, he established Hardy Marks Publications, a venture that has produced over 25 influential books on alternative art forms, further solidifying his role as a thought leader in the art world. Though now retired from tattooing himself, focusing on his fine art, his legacy continues through his son, Doug Hardy, at their California-based tattoo shop.
Recently, Hardy’s enduring influence was celebrated in New York City at Kings Avenue Tattoo with Pictures of the Gone World, a pop-up gallery showcasing his tattoo art and paintings. In an insightful conversation at the gallery, Hardy reflected on his career, his artistic philosophy, and the dramatic evolution of tattoo culture.
From Therapy Art to Tattoo Revolution
VICE: The artwork in this show spans various mediums. Can you elaborate on the different facets of your artistic expression?
Don Ed Hardy: Tattooing has always been a significant part of my artistic life, but I’ve consistently pursued other art forms as well. Even before I started tattooing, I was engaged in art. Eventually, I circled back to creating art purely for myself – a form of therapy, free from the constraints of client commissions.
What do you define as “therapy art” in contrast to commissioned tattoo work?
Tattooing, while deeply artistic, inherently involves translating someone else’s vision onto skin. It’s collaborative and client-driven. My personal art, however, is purely self-expression. It doesn’t need to adhere to anyone’s requests or preferences. It’s about exploring my own ideas and artistic impulses without external direction.
Speaking of client interaction, how much creative input did you typically have in your tattoo commissions?
Extensive input. In 1974, I pioneered a studio model centered entirely on custom, commissioned work. This was a departure from the norm. I was committed to ensuring that the individual wearing the tattoo was integrally involved in the design process. Many tattoo artists at the time either lacked the inclination, the skills, or the desire for such collaboration. But for me, coming from a fine arts background – with a formal degree and art education – this approach was fundamental.
“I was determined to challenge the prejudiced view of tattooing as a mark of the marginalized. I wanted to prove that ink on skin didn’t diminish intellect.”
How did this innovative business model fare initially?
The first year was financially challenging. My wife’s stable job was crucial in sustaining us while the studio gained traction. But my vision ultimately resonated. People began seeking out a different kind of tattoo experience. I believed that in metropolitan hubs like San Francisco, New York, or Los Angeles, there existed a significant segment of the population interested in tattoos, but seeking something beyond the generic flash art prevalent in many shops. San Francisco, with its counter-cultural ethos and my personal connection as my art school city, was the ideal place to launch this venture.
Within a year, business flourished, primarily through word-of-mouth referrals. Clients were drawn to the personalized approach, seeking bespoke art rather than pre-designed templates.
You mentioned a specific segment of the population interested in tattoos at that time. Did you have a particular demographic in mind?
Back then, the landscape was vastly different. When I started, there were approximately 500 tattoo artists in North America. Canada likely had around 25. Now, consider that Los Angeles County alone has around 5,000, and Berlin boasts a similar number. The growth is exponential.
Don Ed Hardy in Reno in 1975, showcasing his early style and the evolution of tattoo aesthetics. Photo by Emiko Omori.
Considering this dramatic surge in popularity, how do you feel about tattooing’s transformation from an outsider art to a mainstream phenomenon?
My formative years were in the 1960s, a period defined by the struggle for acceptance and recognition across various social strata – race, gender, lifestyle. I found the stigma attached to tattooing, the dismissive “scumbag” label, deeply frustrating. I wanted to challenge that perception, to argue that body ink didn’t equate to intellectual inferiority. However, with the current ubiquity of tattoos, a sense of humor is essential. It’s almost paradoxical now that tattoos are so universally accepted. I actually find myself intrigued by people without tattoos these days!
They’re the new rebels.
Precisely! It’s almost a novelty to meet someone without ink. But for me, tattooing was a lifelong obsession. From childhood, my ambition was to become a tattoo artist.
I’ve seen a photo of you drawing “tattoos” on your friends as a child. Can you recount how that early fascination began?
My best friend’s father, a WWII veteran, had several tattoos. One particularly resonated with me – the title of his favorite song, “Stardust,” by Hoagy Carmichael. Even at ten years old, I found that incredibly profound. Inspired, my friend Lenny and I decided to start a makeshift tattoo parlor, drawing on neighborhood kids.
Did you charge for your youthful services?
I attempted to, maybe three cents a tattoo. But payment was never the objective. We were driven by the desire to practice, to hone our nascent skills.
When did you first experience a professional tattoo shop environment?
About 20 miles north of where I lived, in Long Beach on the Pike, there was a tattoo shop run by Bert Grimm, a truly legendary figure in tattooing. In that era, amusement parks were vibrant centers of entertainment, complete with bars, sideshows, and tattoo parlors – a pre-Disneyland world. In what now seems like an incredibly lenient time, our parents allowed us to take the Greyhound bus to the Pike. We’d pool our money for cigarettes and spend entire days at Grimm’s tattoo shop, absorbing the atmosphere and developing our youthful rebellious personas.
Wait – how old were you at this point?
Just kids – ten, eleven years old. It was a captivating, alternative world. By twelve, my fascination with tattooing solidified. Grimm, noticing my interest, said, “When you’re 15, I’ll teach you to tattoo.” I dedicated myself to drawing, but life took some detours, including surfing. However, at 16, I returned to art with renewed focus, realizing it was my true calling.
Don Ed Hardy at Kings Avenue Tattoo in New York City, reflecting on his journey and the contemporary tattoo scene. Photo by the author.
Your mentors included both Sailor Jerry and Hirohide. Could you elaborate on their influence?
Yes, Sailor Jerry was the preeminent tattoo artist when I was starting out, arguably the most talented globally. Tattooing was a secretive world then; shops didn’t advertise publicly. You needed inside connections. I took a chance and wrote to Jerry, sending him samples of my artwork. He responded, initiating a correspondence. Jerry was the first of many unconventional intellectuals I encountered in the tattoo business. Though lacking formal education, he was exceptionally intelligent and insightful. I connected deeply with Jerry, visited him, and flew to Hollywood in ’68.
Through Jerry, I established contact with Hirohide in Japan. We corresponded extensively, and finally met at Jerry’s Christmas gathering in ’72. Hirohide, a master of traditional Japanese tattooing, tattooed us using hand tools, creating outlines. I asked about the possibility of studying with him in Japan. He agreed, or at least that’s what I understood at the time. Motivated, I prepared to move to Japan six months later.
“When I started tattooing, there were approximately 500 tattoo artists in all of North America. Now, Los Angeles County alone has around 5,000.”
Shortly after arriving in Japan, I learned of Jerry’s passing, just three weeks after I had left. I was in line to purchase his shop from his widow, but I declined, committed to staying in Japan and pursuing Japanese-style tattooing.
Two other artists were also interested in taking over Jerry’s shop, one of whom was Michael Malone. Malone eventually bought the shop and later taught my son Doug. Malone was adamant that if Doug or Jerry’s son (who is around Doug’s age) ever wanted to learn tattooing, he would gladly teach them. I told Doug, and his response was a skeptical, “Do you think he really means it?” [Laughs] It was like a scene from a movie: You don’t want to get involved, son!
A young Don Ed Hardy featured in the ‘Newport Harbor Ensign’ in 1956, highlighting his early artistic endeavors and foreshadowing his future in tattoo art.
Were you concerned about Doug entering the tattoo world?
It was surprising because I had been quite strict about him getting tattooed underage. I told him, “No tattoos until you’re 18. You’ll end up covered in Star Wars clichés.” I made him wait until he was legally an adult.
When did you get your first tattoo?
I experimented on myself first, small, self-inflicted tattoos on my hand – initials and simple designs, using a needle and thread, just poking. Crude, really. Then the realization hit me: “This might be permanent.” I had to hide my hand from my mother; she was not pleased.
A close-up of Don Ed Hardy’s hand, showcasing the early, self-made tattoos that marked the beginning of his lifelong journey in ink. Photo by the author.
What about your first professional tattoo experience?
My first professional tattoo was about a year before I finished my bachelor’s degree. I looked up tattoo shops in the phone book and found Phil Sparrow in Oakland. I remembered him from tattoo courses I had taken as a kid. I suggested to my art school friends, “He’s a famous tattoo artist. We should go get tattooed by him.” His shop was closed, so we ended up at another shop and got tattooed anyway, fueled by our enthusiasm. I got a small rose on my arm. The next day, I went back with another friend, and Sparrow’s shop was still closed, so we got more tattoos elsewhere. On the third day, I made sure to go when Sparrow was open. Walking into his shop was a revelation. It was more like an art gallery, with framed artwork, a red and black color scheme, and no “dummy rail”…
A dummy rail?
Yes, the rail for onlookers to watch the tattooing – common in more carnival-like shops. Sparrow’s shop was different – music playing, a refined atmosphere. It was clear he wasn’t just a street artist. He showed me books of Japanese art. I got a tattoo from him and began seriously considering tattooing as a career. He actually tried to dissuade me, citing my impending degree, potential teaching career, and young child. He described tattooing as “a deep dark world, and a dying art form.”
A dying art form, as he saw it then?
Despite his warnings, I persisted. I told him I could acquire equipment and would likely end up practicing on my art school friends if he didn’t mentor me. So, my initial professional tattooing experience was essentially an apprenticeship under his guidance. He jokingly said, “Yeah, Ed’s gonna be the Jesus Christ of tattooing.” And I replied, “Just wait.”
“The critical thing in tattooing is finding an artist with both talent and sensitivity, someone who can realize your vision effectively.”
And you certainly proved him wrong about it being a dying art form.
He was an incredibly cool character. He lived a fascinating life. He wrote prolifically under various pseudonyms – hardcore gay pornography published in Denmark, mysteries featuring Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas. He was connected to a wide circle of American and European writers. He greatly influenced me by demonstrating that one could be a tattoo artist without succumbing to negative stereotypes, maintaining an intellectual and artistic life.
You mentioned Phil Sparrow playing classical music in his studio. Do you listen to music while you work?
In the tattoo shop, I generally played whatever popular music was on. But when I’m painting, creating my personal art, I can’t listen to unfamiliar music. To paint effectively, I need to enter a focused state, almost a trance. So, I rely on familiar music, often using the repeat button to listen to the same track dozens of times.
Don Ed Hardy in New York City in 2015, continuing his artistic journey and influencing contemporary tattoo art. Photo by the author.
What do you see as the fundamental difference between tattooing and painting as art forms?
The primary technical difference in tattooing is the inability to layer light pigments over dark ones. There are specific technical constraints. But conceptually and in terms of imagery, I see no real distinction.
When I returned to creating my personal art, it was liberating. I started working spontaneously, without pre-planned concepts. This was a significant shift from tattooing, where meticulous planning is essential, and interruptions are often impractical.
I had always aspired to a more free-flowing artistic process. Much of my current work is abstract, with distinctly painterly qualities.
If you were to offer advice to aspiring tattoo artists today, what would it be?
Seek out a truly talented and intelligent mentor – someone who is technically proficient, artistically insightful, and possesses the right ethical approach to the craft. The tattoo world has the potential for ego inflation. It’s crucial to find an artist who is not only skilled but also sensitive to your vision and can help you realize it authentically.
How did you personally avoid developing that “god complex” often associated with artistic authority?
From the very beginning, my approach was rooted in being a conduit for the knowledge and skills I gained from my mentors. I was fortunate to learn from exceptional individuals and was persistent in seeking their guidance. You have to be proactive, persistent, even a bit of a pest, to truly learn and grow.
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