Shaun Miller and Abraham Cobaxin, tattoo artists themselves, solved a problem, namely how to practice, really practice, tattoo without subjecting friends and family to still-budding talent and rough art they would have to cover up in a few years. Shaun had even run out of space on his own arm practicing.
They tried practice tattoo skin and, as it was all that was offered beyond raiding the kitchen for oranges and, forbid, a choice slice of pig, practice skin was fine. It was suitable.
Then the two came up with the idea for practice tattoo hands. Shaun casted his hand, and Abraham brewed and poured the mold. Abraham had worked in special effects. The first hands were fine, but they weren’t great. Not yet. They concocted and brewed and poured molds again and again, their tattoo machines buzzing to test the latest batch.
It was macabre to say the least, the scene. Hands severed at the wrists, strewn about the floor of the apartment they worked in. Kicked under tables and the couch, failures all. Hands inked with scars of black outlines; broad swaths of red and purple and yellow read like bruising and blood; Shaun and Abraham in the middle, Dr. Frankensteins, delighted finally by that perfect hand. It was night. And yes, there was a bolt of lightning.