brief, but TL;DR: i got tatted and my art is on Forage Local :)

it took me 14 legal-adult years to get my first tattoo, because the fear of God lurks in me somewhere.

like other sacrilegious behaviors i adopted in Portland, such as Gay Sex™, Greeks are not supposed to tattoo our skin. the body enters this world pure, an unvarnished creation of God, and it should leave the same way, they say. under this logic, we’re also supposed to refrain from piercings, but i’ve never met a Greek woman under the age of 90 who doesn’t have her ears pierced. (someone tell the priest i’ll start listening when he stops eulogizing racist, transphobic mass-shooting advocates from the pulpit.)

in addition, analysis paralysis and a touch of commitment-phobia kept me from settling on an image to cohabitate with forever. but last spring, i impulse-clicked “sign-up” after a decade of ruminating. my artist opened her books during my let’s-blow-everything-up phase (or, more charitably, “transitional moment”). i figured i may as well mark the time on my body.

i’ve seen the art of Emily Kaul, a.k.a. honey.medicine, since i arrived in Portland. her reverence for place and the plants, animals, and fungi within them alongside stellar color gradients—moons, portals—spoke to me as soon as i emerged from the dead brown hills of Virginia and into the technicolor of the Pacific Northwest.

i picked lupine and balsam root. these wildflowers have greeted me in the springtime at Rowena Crest—first when Ben took me, both of us fresh off breakups sauntering through a flood of purple and gold, and last when i took Kait this May and saw the flowers through her photographer’s eyes. they’ve guided me through summers on Mt. Hood, from the overnight backpacking trip at Paradise Park i got to by bus, to my first solo tour of the Timberline Trail, all the way around the mountain.

i cleansed my tattoo fanatically, and i cut up a pair of holey socks to make arm bands that hide it from the sun. (melanoma could never motivate me so.) i babied it so much it impacted others. i left Aquaphor smudges on the dining table. ripped-up paper towels flitted about the bathroom for weeks. the salt of sweat extracts the ink out of the skin, so i didn’t run for some time, and those around me met my crabbiness borne of lack of contact with the outside. i refused invitations to kayak and to marinate in the Willamette. (ask me about the red-ringed infection i received from the river two years ago and carried with me to Greece, to be tamed only by the healing powers of the Aegean.)

for some reason the color in my gradient-portal didn’t stick to my skin, so i went back for a second round. still, it’s more pastel than neon, more watercolor than acrylic, whisper than shout. i try to take it as a reminder to chill out.

at some point during my 3.5 hours reclined with Emily etching into my arm, i marveled at what it must be like to have so many people walking around with your art carved into their bodies. she shrugged, in the way you must if your life’s work carries such (literal) imprint.

hawking my art at my tiny scale could never compare. neither the art markets i find on telephone-pole flyers, Last Thursdays on Alberta, the pop-ups i do from our porch, the occasional nonprofit fundraiser, nor my Etsy shoppe can match the hundreds of forearms and thighs and ribs drawn with Emily’s poppies and hares and porcinis.

this week, though, i’ve added one more outlet to the mix: Forage Local. from the name, you can probably guess why i’m excited about it: it’s a regional online market for foods, arts, housewares, jewelries, and gifty things. the point is to connect nearby makers and buyers, right-sizing the infinite sphere of commerce to an interpersonal, neighborly scale.

Etsy has become a groaning, globalized hulk of AI-”enhanced” listings and enterprising teens shilling big-box items at volumes that drown out the artists and vintage-finders it was intended to promote. Amazon is obviously too depraved to warrant mention.

Forage Local is like Etsy, but rooted in a place. reversed, it’s like an art market, but on the internet. or like a farmers market, but for goodies.

the founder, Danielle, came over and did a real, ~professional~ photoshoot. she set up big ol’ lights in the kitchen and asked me questions about my ~process~. (unfortunately, my bangs cried out for a trim but i didn’t listen, so i ended up with a nonconsensual mullet just in time for the shoot.)

she photographs the products, too, so people who make glazed hazelnuts don’t need to understand ISO or how to contend with Portland’s pale winter pall. she also manages inventory, helps with brand copy if you want, and pays artists in a way that doesn’t put them out up front. all this makes it easier for new lil’ businesses to bloom.

if you need to give someone a mountainous gift or add a little something to your drab-@ss home office, check out my offerings on Forage Local, and everyone else’s!

i’m also looking for markets to attend in Vancouver, but like Portland, most have prohibitively steep vendor fees. if you know any low-fee markets over yonder, pray tell.

please forgive the flagrant self-promotion, but the lil’ art biz and i could use some extra change for grad school.

this love note is brought to you by:

• Emily the tattooista and Chelsea, who saved me from my mullet

• the Reddit guys (gender neutral) who helped me fix my printer

• Danielle and Shanna, who remind me that not all business is rotten to the root

• that moment at the beginning of May when the hillsides explode in the best way

• you—let me know if you’d like a print for your nonprofit fundraiser :)

<3