I was 16 when I got my first tattoo. It wasn’t in a sleek studio, nor was it done by a seasoned artist. It was a tiny crescent moon, inked by a friend in a dimly lit apartment in Barcelona. It was reckless, imperfect, and slightly painful—but it was mine.
That tattoo wasn’t just about the ink. It was my first act of rebellion, a declaration that my body was my own canvas. Over time, I’ve covered it with something more refined, but I never truly erased it. That tiny moon was the start of my journey, the spark that led me to become an artist.
Now, when clients walk through the doors of Obsidian Ink, I see that same spark in their eyes. Whether it’s their first tattoo or their tenth, the feeling is the same—the thrill of marking a moment, of turning a story into something permanent. And that’s why I do what I do.