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The emergence of tattoos as the “human art” status symbol of the ’80s was the decade’s most mind-boggling fashion statement. If leather minis, chain link fence jewelry and moussed-to-the-max Medusa coiffures raised eyebrows, tattoos made anyone with 20/20 vision and an IQ above 10 want to shut their eyes. You’d think in this day of herb grinders, wheat grass extractors, and obligatory car phones, we’d have better things to waste our money on — but, like the old saying goes, there’s a fashion sucker born every minute. But, lo and behold, this time the gods and goddesses on the Street of Fashion Fads and Fiascoes weren’t responsible for the worst craze since Tiny Tim — a woman called Cher was. It all began when the Cleopatra of Camp wanted to be a rocker in the worst way. There, for all the world to see, was Cher on the cover of her “Black Rose” album sporting an ankle tattoo of — you guessed it — a black rose. Copying the punk rock obsession with defacing the human body in endlessly creative ways, Cher put tattoos on the mainstream map... if Cher can, in all honesty, be called mainstream. She’s more fashion schizoid queen�but, alas, she did propel the fad to “Tattoo You,” as Mick the Lips once sang to an impressionable audience, into the ’90s. How appropriate her recent “If I Could Turn Back Time” video featured a bevy of applauding sailors — they probably gave her the tattoo idea in the first place. Unfortunately, Cher’s body designs aren’t as easily removable as those spandex G-strings she defiantly dons — like bad taste and bad credit, tattoos are forever. One moment of impetuous insanity can wreak untold color clashes on your body�but unlike a dress you can remove and banish to the closet, this fashion faux pas sticks like glue.
The Time of The Tattoo A.C. (After Cher) has continued to flourish in excess of the standard 15 minutes of fame — in fact, the craze has lasted longer than Tina Turner fright wigs and safety-pinned pantaloons combined. Every star with a desecration complex has madly inked every inch of skin in sight. Watching Axl Rose sing, I don’t know whether to listen to the words or read his biceps. Either way, they’re indecipherable. Not happy with merely persecuting their helpless body parts in the privacy of their own home, many of our most celebrated have taken to flaunting their pop art posteriors — not for posterity’s sake, mind you, but for publicity. Can the end of civilization be far behind when we are treated to the sight of Roseanne Barr flashing the paparazzi with her latest tattoo? Isn’t judgment day near when the entire focus of an Arsenio Hall interview was the proliferation of Patti D’Arbanville’s stenciled lions and tigers and Lord knows what else? I’m just waiting for Katharine Hepburn to show up at the Oscars with a “Free James Brown” tattoo on her arm... then I’ll know the end is definitely in sight. We’ve evolved from a generation of conspicuous consumers to conspicuous tattooers�let’s stop this mass destruction before society as we know it resembles a walking Peter Max portfolio. After all, what happens when tattoos end up going the way of the midi? All your enemies will take great delight in constantly reminding you how hopelessly gullible you really are — and you won’t be able to do a thing about it. Your “Donnie Forever” logo may be as outdated and outmoded as the Model T, but the ultimate irony is that after Donny exits for good, you’re stuck with a name on your body for the rest of your life. We all like to forget the little mistakes we make�not to be forced to face them day in and day out every time we take a shower. It could lead to a severe lack of hygiene... at the very least. So, let this be a lesson to you Cher wanna-be’s — if you must decorate your body with degrading designs, take a tip from the ’60s Flower Children and use body paint. It’s cheaper, easier, and less fashion-threatening. In 20 years, when tattoos have gone the way of the bustle, you’ll thank me. Of that I’m sure. Mr. Blackwell’s fashion designs have graced such noteworthy individuals as Nancy Reagan, Goldie Hawn, Jane Russell, Zsa Zsa and Eva Gabor, as well as many political wives. The dictates of Seventh Avenue “enraged” Mr. Blackwell, so in 1960 he inaugurated “The List,” announcing the Ten Worst-Dressed Women of the Year. In his career, he’s outraged Barbara Streisand, Elizabeth Taylor, Bette Midler, Phyllis Diller, Whoopi Goldberg and Madonna. Today, Mr. Blackwell performs sold-out fashion extravaganzas around the country and is a lecturer, columnist, and entertainer. Mr. Blackwell’s autobiography is available at bookstores nationwide. To read more stories like this one, subscribe to Pageantry TODAY! |
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Mr. Blackwell’s World
What hell sailors hath wrought! Like Egyptian hieroglyphics, tattoos are eternal. And like the ill-fated Titanic, they may have started out as an exciting idea, but in the end... well, they’re a pain in the posterior — in more ways than one.