Coli and Barnett opened their own shop in 2018, renting out a tiny studio in Brockton that they could barely afford. The shop's address, 111 Torrey St, inspired the name of their shop, 1Eleven Tattoo.

 

“We're literally like family, more like family than friends, " Barnette explained. 

 

“And not to mention we're Cape Verdean, so we probably are actually family,” Coli joked.

 

1Eleven moved to a larger location in 2023 after the lack of space became too limiting. Now, they're planning to construct a new yoga studio.

 

Despite the drastically different cultures and mindsets surrounding the two, yoga and tattooing share plenty of similarities. They each serve as a form of self care, where bodily autonomy is prioritized first and foremost, Barnette says. Each has an element of pain, whether that be the stretch of your muscles or the poke of a tattoo needle, but it’s a pain that is chosen, not forcibly inflicted, in the pursuit of greater fulfillment. 

 

The thought that these two practices could share a space would be laughable just a few decades ago. The vast majority of 20th century American tattoo shops were rough, rugged, and boisterous, usually owned by a straight white man who employed a cast of artists that looked and acted just like him. The industry oftentimes embraced the most sinister parts of American society– misogyny, racism, and homophobia

 

In her thesis about gender in relation to labor, Dr. Emma Clare Beckett explains that “The masculine culture of the (tattoo) industry legitimises men’s knowledge over women’s and places men as the legitimate.” Women historically have been looked down upon and harassed in the tattoo world, especially during apprenticeships, where they’re forced to be vulnerable about their lack of experience. 

 

Racism has been another big problem in the industry, whether it be malicious or unintentional. The name “tattoo” comes from the Samoan word “tatau,” which originally referred to the tapping sounds made by a Samoan bone tool during tattooing. Polynesians have been tattooing for over 2,000 years. Despite this, their styles have largely been stolen by white artists and gentrified into what is known today as a “tribal” tattoo– a diluted style that attempts to mimic the original Polynesian art form. Additionally, many other cultures have had their impacts on tattooing commodified in the United States, including Native Americans and Japanese, who both have had their traditional styles largely watered down and misinterpreted by artists outside of their community.

 

When tattoo artist and historian Michelle Myles picked up a needle for the first time 34 years ago, she never imagined that the art form could become mainstream. She entered the industry during a time when racism and misogyny were rampant, when tattooing was a profession defined by toughness and grit.

 

In 1991, the year she started tattooing, the art form was illegal in New York City. ”Now, I see tattooing popping up in commercials. Verizon commercials, drug commercials,” she explained.

 

Myles started her own hybrid tattoo shop and museum, Daredevil Tattoo, in 1997 on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Throughout her years in the industry, she has seen the art form shift towards inclusivity; not just in terms of who can tattoo, but also who gets tattoos.

 

“It was definitely a very outsider thing to do, especially for women… Now, we see tattoos all over social media,” she said. “It is weird with it being so mainstream, you know. But the elements of what drew me to it are still there.”

 

Unlike artists today, Myles had to find success in the industry without the internet. She would hang out in shops in order to build connections with other artists, and get her work seen through physical magazines. 

 

Artists today are practically forced to use social media if they want to succeed. Apps like Instagram are now hubs of networking, where artists are able to connect with clients as well as other tattooers.

 

One North Carolina artist, Dani Bee, relies on social media to share their work, just like many young artists. 

 

For them, becoming a tattoo artist was a massive risk. They had just been laid off at the start of the pandemic, when the job market was incredibly stagnant. Mustering up all of the courage they had, they took a risk and began sending out a portfolio to local shops.

 

With a lot of hard work and a little luck, they landed an apprenticeship. 

 

“I wasn't really willing to compromise and seek out an apprenticeship at a shop whose values I wasn’t interested in,” they explained. “Luckily, there are a lot more individuals these days who take it more seriously and really want to do it right. That wasn't really the case for many years. They just wanted to have someone who cleaned the shop.”

 

Just five years after picking up a tattoo needle, they started their own business, Southern Cryptid.

 

Growing up in a conservative family, Bee was discouraged from getting tattoos. They recalled as a child seeing  a woman with a beautiful dress and large back piece. Their grandmother was quickly judgmental, but Bee was struck by the woman; she looked ethereal, like nobody they had ever seen before. 

 

Today, they’re covered in a plethora of cute and creative tattoos, rocking dyed black and blonde hair and a mass of silver jewelry– a far cry from their conservative upbringing.

 

All of their mentors were supportive and nourishing, as they put it. They virtually have no tattoo horror stories from early in their career. 

 

Barnette and Coli were not so lucky. They’re a bit older than Bee, and they started tattooing much earlier.

 

“I've worked with all guys– some of them are pigs. Sometimes they're inappropriate. Sometimes they make you feel uncomfortable… during that experience I would think, ‘This is validation for when I have my own job and there’s not gonna be any sexual harassment,’” Barnette recalled.

 

The two place a lot of value on creating a safe space in their shop for both the artists and clients; for Barnette, her desire to create a safe environment comes from her own experiences as a woman in the industry. 

 

When she was first starting to tattoo, Barnette wanted nothing more than to apprentice under a man named Polo. Polo had given Barnette her first tattoo at the age of 16 in the back of a house. She didn’t know the man, and he didn’t know her, but the experience stuck with her. A few years later, when Barnette was 21, she tracked the man down. She popped up at his house and asked, “Do you remember me?” Polo responded, “Yeah. I never wanted to give you that tattoo.” 

 

“That was crazy because he never remembered anybody,” Barnette added.

 

After reuniting with Polo, Barnette asked him to apprentice her. As she asked, she had one burning question: “Who am I going to practice on?” Polo responded, “Yourself.” 

 

Barnette went home that night and tattooed herself. She came back the next day and showed Polo what she did. “He was like, ‘Oh, shit, you were serious,’” she said..

 

After Barnette had been apprenticing under Polo for a month or two, a new client started coming into the shop– a woman named Joana Coli. Coli’s husband Romero had been getting tattoos from Polo, and Coli started tagging along on his appointments. “I needed to see what he was doing over here, hanging out for  long hours, coming home looking like he had fun,” she joked.

 

Coli would sit and draw in the shop while everyone was getting tattoos. She had been working in retail, where she had mostly lost touch with her creative side, and her trips to Polo’s shop provided her with some of the creative spark that had been missing. One day, Polo asked her if she had ever thought about tattooing professionally. “Nah, I don't think I can do that,” she responded.

 

Polo asked her incessantly, broaching the topic at every opportunity. Eventually, Coli agreed to give it a try. She bought her first ever machine with Polo.