Anthony Ervin: Ink and Water

With the world shutting down, we’re reaching into our archives and pulling some of our favorite stories from the SwimSwam print edition to share online. If you’d like to read more of this kind of story, you can subscribe to get a print (and digital) version of SwimSwam Magazine here. This story was originally published in the 2017 Tattoo edition of SwimSwam Magazine.

Story by Kip Fulbeck.

“It’s really great you’re here.”

It’s my first swim meet after a 17-year post-college hiatus. My former UC San Diego teammates, for whatever reason, choose the tiny Alan Liu Memorial Masters meet in Mountain View, California, for our first swim reunion. It’s 2005, smack center in the glory days of speedsuits and their assisted times, so I figure, what the hell? I register for U.S. Masters Swimming, make up some believable SCM times, enter myself online, and purchase plane tickets. And like that, I’m a Masters swimmer. Boom.

I grew up swimming in Southern California. For those of you out of the CA loop, SoCal is a completely different state from NorCal. The easy tells are vernacular —Southern Californians add the article “the” before freeways, while “hella” is banned anywhere below Point Conception. Perhaps more difficult to discern at first exposure is the marked attitudinal difference.

Typically, SoCal residents are pegged as more superficial, entertainment-focused actor wannabes or screenwriting hopefuls, while our peers to the north edge more toward the hippy-dippy granola stock, people who own at least one tie-dyed garment, people who wore Birkenstocks before they were embraced as ugly/chic by college women, environmentalists, activists, PETA members. If Los Angeles is What can you do for me? the Bay Area is What should we be doing for others? And sure, while the influx of Silicon Valley dot-commers and their brogrammer etiquette has helped selfishness gain a northern foothold, old stereotypes die hard.

“I just wanted to say, I really appreciate you coming.”

Swimming isn’t known for its diversity. I’d call it the whitest sport around besides hockey or yachting. Yes, we’re doing better. But we’re doing better only because we started from nothing. Take Duke Kahanamoku and a few other names out of the field, you’re left with a nearly all-Caucasian U.S. Olympic team for most of a century.

Being 51 years old and half-Chinese, I know what it’s like to be the only nonwhite person on the pool deck. Add my extensive Japanese tattoo work to the mix, and everyone on that pool deck sees me. Think about that. They may not know my name, my event, or my time. They may not even consciously recognize me — but every single person on that pool deck knows at some level I’m there. There is no animosity, but also no anonymity, no hiding, no blending in.

And it’s not just me. I remember sitting behind Cullen Jones at USMS Nationals and hearing a fan ask him how it feels to be the first African-American swimmer to win gold. When Cullen says, “Actually, that was Anthony Ervin,” I wonder how many times he has answered that question.

* * *

To most people, Tony Ervin doesn’t look any more black than I look Chinese — a statement that, at its core, is ridiculous and ignorant (and I guess, if you want to be honest, a bit racist). Tony is 6-foot-2, medium-brown-skinned, and heavily inked. I’m 6-foot-1, medium-brown-skinned, and heavily inked. That’s it for physical commonalities. We have different features, hair, mannerisms, and builds. I don’t look like Tony, sound like Tony, or even remotely sprint like Tony. But put us both in jammers, caps, and goggles amid the homogeneity of the Alan Liu Memorial Masters meet, and it’s a different story.

“Hey, thanks for coming.”

Warming up in the pool for my first competition in 17 years, I receive a few welcomes and handshakes from lane-mate strangers, and I’m struck by how nice people in NorCal actually are. I think to myself, “Man, the stereotypes really are true.” Then the meet director comes up and introduces himself, saying something about it being an honor to meet me. I shrug it off and tell him thanks. It isn’t until he asks if he can take a picture with me later that I start to figure out what’s going on.

As a longtime swimmer and defiant sprinter, of course I know who Tony Ervin is. I also know the SparkNotes version of his story: the 100% pure sprinting talent, the Sydney gold medal sold on eBay for charity, the homelessness, the depression, the punk rock and motorcycle speed pursuits. But what I didn’t know was the person behind the persona: the individual, who, like all of us, sometimes swims as a way to survive — and, more importantly, like all of us, chases elusive acceptance, love, and meaning.

I walk up to him on the pool deck.

“So I guess we really all do look alike,” I say.

Tony gives me a quizzical look as he shakes my outstretched hand, and I recount my repeated welcomes and selfie requests as his tattooed, half-white stand-in. He laughs, and we begin our friendship.

I don’t consider us close friends today, but we’re also not not close. There’s a certain mutual respect in play that includes reaching out to each other occasionally but also includes giving each other space — a mutual respect as fellow artists, sprinters, and, perhaps at some stages in our lives, rebels.

Tony once had dinner with me and a girlfriend. When she left me last year, I wrote about my heartbreak publicly on Facebook — in horrifyingly embarrassing detail — reaching out to my digital world to ask for something, for anything, for some scrap of help during a horrible time. Sure enough, my feed immediately filled with statements of support and heartwarming affirmations from dozens and dozens of friends.

“You got this, Kip.”

“You are more full of love than anyone I have ever known.”

“You feel the pain so strongly because you love so hard.”

Halfway down the page, Tony’s post simply read, “Barf.” Further down, he posted again, “Still got your back though.” It was the only time I laughed that month.

* * *

I ask Tony about coming back to swimming when no one except him, me, and former BYU star Jinxi Caddel wear such extensive tattoo work. What’s it like being the one whom everyone on the pool deck recognizes, this time not because of speed, but because of skin? He tells me:

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some anxiety about showing up on pool decks after 10 years away from the sport and wearing more tattoos than the nearest 100 swimmers combined. But actually, doing a few Masters meets, where I met both of you, before returning to full sanctioned competition was extremely warming for me. Meeting both of you was welcoming — a family within the swim family!”

I played the family card recently at UC Santa Barbara, where I escape from being a professor by working with the Gaucho swimmers. Coach Matt Macedo tells me Tony is in town to talk to the teams, and I jump at the chance. I text Tony:

“Personal narrative class starting in two hours. Come by.”

Two and a half hours later, Tony walks in the door with a few copies of his book and gives me a hug. Since none of my art students know who he is, they ignore him. I introduce Tony as a writer friend of mine, then play them the men’s 50 final from Rio. While they sit and absorb that in various stages of What did I just see? Tony reads from his book, answers a few questions, then takes his gold medal out of his jeans pocket and passes it around. No protective case. Not even a Ziploc bag around it. Classic Tony.

After class, Tony and I talk tattooing. We’ve talked ink before, of course — mostly the pros and cons of sunscreen while swimming (I’m pro; he’s con) and the occasional What it’s like to be inked on the pool deck today conversation. But this time is different. Tony wants a traditional Japanese backpiece, and he’s soliciting my advice and introduction.

This is my wheelhouse. Together with my friend Takahiro “Taki” Kitamura, I created “Perseverance: Japanese Tattoo in a Modern World” – the world’s first museum exhibition exploring Japanese tattooing as a fine art form. The show traveled from its inception at the Japanese American National Museum across the U.S. and continues abroad today. As both researcher and client, I have been involved with traditional Japanese tattooing for the better part of two decades and proudly wear the work of contemporary masters Horitomo, Ryudaibori, and Yokohama Horiken. I’m a good person to ask for advice.

And advice is easy. Introductions are another matter. Because my name is attached to any recommendation, any potential faux pas on the client’s part — any transgression, cultural illiteracy, or miscommunication, even a questionable joke or unpermitted iPhone picture — gets attached to me and my reputation. And in Japanese culture, reputation is everything. I could never have created “Perseverance,” would never have been granted access to the tattooers and clients, would simply never have been accepted into the communities themselves if I hadn’t paid in blood myself. An introduction from me isn’t a simple ask.

The backpiece — what Tony is contemplating — is the centerpiece of any large-scale Japanese tattoo: the back to buttocks, the largest unbroken canvas of the body. I consider it the most sacred decision one undertakes when entering the world of irezumi, one that shouldn’t be taken lightly by any potential client. You should begin this journey only when you’re ready physically, spiritually, and financially, which is why when I’m asked for introductions, I typically beg off. It’s one thing to say you want a backpiece; it’s a whole other thing to get it done.

But Tony is different. I know he understands the seriousness of what he’s about to undertake, and I know he’ll follow through. I give him several names to research, and he texts me back a few days later saying he feels strongly about Koji Ichimaru.

* * *

The upper echelons of traditional Japanese tattooing share little with what most Americans think of when they think “tattoo shop.” Because of its long association with the yakuza, or organized crime syndicates, tattooing in Japan still has a semi-illegal and socially shunned status. It’s truly an art form celebrated in every country besides that of its origin. Even a foreigner with a small tattoo would be denied entry into a health club, onsen, or swimming pool unless their ink was covered. Tattoo studios exist off the beaten path and are typically difficult to find, and tattooers of stature are stringent about whom they accept as their clients, and even if they agree to tattoo you, the waiting list can be years. There is no “customer is always right” doctrine — you enter their world, and you do so with respect.

My own experience being tattooed in Japan began with an introduction to Horitomo (Kazuaki Kitamura), to whom I wrote a formal letter asking if he would do my backpiece. I received a fax a week later asking my height and weight, my preferred subject, and whether I wanted background. My reply — Kannon-sama to ryu, nukibori (the Goddess of Mercy and dragon, without background or “floating”) — was my only input.

An apprentice faxed me a list of dates to be in Yokohama. I booked airfare and rented an apartment. Several months and 20 sessions later, my backpiece was finished.

Everyone’s journey is different. And after photographing scores of backpieces and bodysuits, one distinct difference I notice is that the Japanese commit from the get-go. Many, if not most, Westerners commit to the larger backpiece and bodysuits in stages. As if they were easing into a cold pool, they start with a few one-point tattoos or a sleeve, then, further down the road, decide to go all in once they get accustomed to it. Because of this, I find that many Westerners’ larger pieces require navigating preexisting tattoo work, which was the case for both me and Tony. It necessitates a more delicate negotiation on the tattoo artist’s behalf, as they must work with or over another’s work. And Tony is certain about working with Koji.

* * *

Koji Ichimaru honed his chops in Fukuoka, Japan, tattooing yakuza 12 hours a day, every day. He met his future wife, Alessandra — also a tattoo artist — while studying other tattoo styles in Italy, and he soon realized the grueling life he had been living in Japan was not normal.

Anxious about this epiphany, he told his boss he wanted to go abroad again to learn more about tattooing and returned to be with Alessandra. After his boss’s death, Koji married Alessandra and permanently settled in Bologna, where he has dedicatedly tattooed, earning him international status and acclaim. On the wall of his tattoo shop, he keeps a photo of his former boss in full bodysuit as a memento of his roots. He’s the real deal.

Koji happens to be visiting the U.S. when Tony texts me with his decision. I call Taki and explain the situation, vouching for Tony’s seriousness and character as well as sharing some anecdotes from Tony’s not-too-traditional past. Taki owns State of Grace Tattoo in San Jose, California, which boasts one of the strongest rosters of traditional Japanese tattoo artists in the U.S — I’d say the strongest, but I’m biased — and Koji is doing a visiting-artist gig there. Taki immediately takes to Tony’s story and arranges a meeting between Koji and Tony, offering to translate.

Tony’s original idea is a large dragon backpiece. The day before the consultation, Tony asks me if he’s being too stereotypical in getting a dragon, and I tell him Koji’s style is so distinct it doesn’t matter. “You’re getting a Koji Ichimaru backpiece,” I say. “There’s nothing stereotypical about that.”

But like so many times in Tony’s life, he discovers a different path in the road along the way and takes it. And that path leads him to a print of Tamatori-hime — the Pearl Princess — by the renowned ukiyo-e woodblock artist Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1797-1861). Tony meets with Koji, bringing a copy of the print with him, and he’s pleased to find Koji shares his interest in the subject. They arrange for Tony to be in Bologna.

* * *

Picking the subject of a backpiece is a deeply personal decision, and I’m often asked why I chose Kannon-sama and a dragon for mine. I have a couple of stock answers, each with a level of hyperbole or meaninglessness, because the actual reason is quite difficult to put into words — ironically, for a writer. And I find that effect happening when I ask Tony about his choice. (Though he did reveal to me earlier that at least part of the decision stemmed from his having a daughter.) Nevertheless, I ask, “What made you choose this subject?” In response to my formal inquiry, he tells me:

“I know people are going to want to ask what the story means, but truly it can be read in so many ways, and I’ll let the reader do further inquiry if they so want. I’ll leave it at this: Traditionally, the backpiece offers protection by the hero or heroine depicted, and for me it will be a memento, a reminder that I’ll always carry with me, and one that I’ll continue to tie experiences to … of the lessons learned from each and every woman I’ve ever loved.”

Because of the travel involved in working with Koji, Tony endeavors to sit for the longest sessions he can endure. To date, Koji has worked on him only five days, the first three involving two hours of freehand drawing followed by four to six hours of line work into the skin. Line work is a deeper tattooing technique that feels more razorlike or slicing, the silver lining being that the machine goes over an area of skin only once. Endure a section, and it’s done.

After the line work is completed on Day Three, Koji moves into shading the tattoo. Shading uses a different needle configuration and technique. While the ink doesn’t go as deep, the tattooer repeatedly moves the machine over the same area of skin, which feels like a scratch that intensifies with each pass. (In my experience, shading is more painful. It also takes far longer to do.) Koji shades Tony for four hours on Day Three, a ridiculous eight hours on Day Four, and another four hours on Day Five.

Asked about the 8-hour session on Day Four, Tony simply replies, “Brutal.” When I press for details, he tells me:

“The backside is extremely more difficult to get tattooed … makes the sleeves seem easy. The buttock work, in particular, is just incredibly bewildering and painful, with nervous system shocks and shaking wracking the body. This becomes difficult for Koji as well, who has to move slower and be more patient. He is encouraging when it comes to being tough, as traditionally an artist and subject would only work for about two hours a session. Only bizarre people — or people who travel for tattoos — would put in such herculean sessions.”

A relationship between tattooer and client certainly develops over the course of producing a backpiece, one that Tony alludes to here. The tattooer works to create the finest piece, while the client endures as best they can. Like coach and athlete, each works toward a common goal. In the end, the artwork unceremoniously leaves the studio with the client for life — to grow, age, and die with them — as the tattooer focuses on their next client.

But we’re not at this parting yet, and Tony’s relationship with Koji is evolving. He begins staying at their family’s home in Bologna, spending time with Koji, Alessandra, her 17-year-old son, their 5-year-old son, a dog, and a cat. They spend most of their time, as in most Italian homes, around the dining table eating and talking, discovering who one another is and experiencing life.

This is where we are today. Tony’s work, like all of ours, is in progress. Eventually, Koji will ink Tamatori-hime’s eyes to life, put his needle down, and tell Tony, “Owarimasu,” or “finished.” Tony will make his way back to the states to tell more stories, answer more questions, and experience more love and more heartbreak. (Sorry, man, it’s who you are — like recognizes like.)

Perhaps an image of Tamatori-hime will offer protection, or perhaps the process of persevering through this journey will be enough to gain some clarity, perspective, or another stage of perceived enlightenment. Or maybe it’ll just be a great-looking tattoo.

Either way, you’ll recognize him on the pool deck, and you can tell him, “It’s really great you’re here.”

Feature contributor, Kip Fulbeck got picked on too many times as a kid, fell in love too many times as an adult, fronted a band that never went anywhere, and eventually became an award-winning artist, author & filmmaker. He passionately teaches, surfs, lifeguards, rides motorcycles, and loves to race kids half his age in the pool. Kip has been featured on CNN, MTV, NPR, and The TODAY Show, and has performed and exhibited in over twenty countries. He teaches as a professor of Art at the University of California, Santa Barbara.