ORI GIN AL PA PER

Recording ‘a very particular Custom’: tattoosand the archive

Kirsten Wright

Published online: 17 October 2009� Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009

Abstract This paper investigates the describing, dissemination and archiving of records,

which have previously not been well described by archives. It asks if new methods of

accessing the archive may be used to improve understandings of such records. Specifically,

this paper will investigate the records created about tattoos in the nineteenth century

following the European exploration of Polynesia, and the transmission of tattoos to the

West. The ways in which this indigenous cultural practice was interpreted and recorded are

discussed with reference to the records created. Tattoos are inherently physical records,

which do not survive beyond the lifespan of their owner. The archiving process for tattoos

has thus relied on preserving representations of the tattoo. This paper will ask what these

representations of tattoos actually provide evidence of and will use two case studies to

examine how records about tattoos have been archived. Finally, it is suggested that a more

holistic understanding of tattooing records may be achieved through new ways of

describing and classifying records, such as folksonomy.

Keywords Tattoos � Inclusive archive � Folksonomy � Polynesia

Introduction

With the advent of new technologies and new ways of presenting records, modes of

accessing and negotiating with the archive are changing. These new modes may allow new

understandings of records, which have not been previously well described by archives. An

example of records which have not been well described is those created about tattooing.

This study will focus primarily on the nineteenth century transmission of tattoos from

the Pacific back to Europe and the United States, and the records created. These records

were often created in the course of European exploration of the Pacific and the contact

Independent Scholar: This article is based on research conducted as part of the Master of InformationManagement and Systems course, completed at Monash University in 2007.

K. Wright (&)Melbourne, VIC, Australiae-mail: kirstenwright@fastmail.fm

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Arch Sci (2009) 9:99–111DOI 10.1007/s10502-009-9098-x

between the explorers and indigenous people. Understanding this context also provides

links to other records about tattooing, particularly those about tattooed entertainers in the

last 20 years of the nineteenth century.

I begin by looking at the context of tattooing in the nineteenth century, using the contact

between Western and Polynesian cultures as an example. I then discuss the types of records

created about tattooing and ask what they provide evidence of. I then turn to archival

institutions, examining different ways these records have been archived, and asking what is

the best way to describe and provide access to these records.

The tattoos

To understand the context of tattoos in the nineteenth century, a brief history of the

discovery (or rediscovery) of tattooing is required. While tattooing had been practiced in

the West (Fleming 2000; Jones 2000), it seems to have been lost, or at least pushed far

underground, by the seventeenth century.

Captain Cook’s exploration party is usually credited with discovering the practice of

tattooing in Tahiti in 1769. As Thomas (2005) observes, rather than being the first

European to ‘discover’ this practice, it is more accurate to say that Cook provides us with

the first description of tattooing:

Both sexes paint their bodys Tattow as it is called in their language, this is done by

inlaying the Colour of black under their skins in such a manner as to be indelible.

Some have ill design’d figures of men birds or dogs, the women generally have this

figure Z simply on every joint of their fingers and toes, the men have it likewise and

both have other different figures such as circles crescents &ca which they have on

their Arms and legs … all agree in having their buttocks cover’d with a deep black

… [these designs] seem to be their great pride as both men and women show them

with great pleasure. (Cook in Thomas 2005:14)

Cook’s party documented not only the practice of tattooing, as described previously, but

also the tattoo designs and the way the tattoos were placed on the body. Cook’s party had

no interest in understanding why certain societies tattooed themselves; instead, they were

interested in describing the practice and the designs (Brain 1979). As Thomas (2005)

points out, the very nature of Cook’s voyages—combining exploration with an emphasis

on collecting specimens—meant that tattoos became another curiosity and specimen to

collect. Unlike other explorers, who almost certainly observed tattooing in Polynesia, New

Zealand or Hawaii, it was Cook’s party, which decided that tattoos were worthy of doc-

umenting, collecting and archiving (Ketelaar 1998). Subsequent explorers also recorded

evidence of Tahitian tattooing, including George Robertson who described the ‘very

particular custom’ (Robertson in Warner 1973:211) that he witnessed.

Tattoos were also collected by Cook’s party through sailors getting tattoos themselves.

As Dening (1980) says, sailors requested their own designs from the Tahitian tattooers

(such as initials, dates and symbols) rather than the traditional designs they had seen. Gell

(1993) notes that the sailors were fortunate that they could request their own designs. The

nature of Tahitian tattooing meant they had suitable generic designs to use on the sailors,

rather than elsewhere such as New Zealand or Samoa, where tattoos were much more

codified and surrounded with particular rituals and taboos (Gell 1993:286).

As many writers have shown (see, for example, Robley 1896/2003; Brain 1979; Gell

1993; Gilbert 2000), there has been a long history of tattooing in the Pacific, particularly in

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Polynesia and most notably in New Zealand. As with other indigenous body modifications,

such as scarification or the stretching of lips and earlobes, tattooing was done in tribal

groups for a number of reasons including to denote adulthood (as a rite of passage), fertility

(for women in particular) or tribal rank. These markings were generally non-consensual

and were used to show membership of a particular tribe or group.

Tattoos functioned as a type of recordkeeping within the societies in which they were

created. For example, New Guinea women were tattooed at puberty to mark that they could

bear children and were of marriageable age (Brain 1979, p. 50). In many places, tattooing

was associated with rank or chiefdom, with the non-tattooed people being slaves (Brain

1979:57–8). A Maori individual’s moko was also used as their signature (Robley 1896/

2003:11; Gell 1993:245). Tattoos also functioned as records within the broader cultural

contexts of the different societies. Many groups had stories and rituals associated with the

tattooing process. These stories included explanations about why they were tattooed, or

why men were tattooed and women were not (or vice versa; see Gell 1993 for a discussion

and comparison of these stories from different Pacific societies). These stories often

associated tattooing with other cultural practices, such as coming of age ceremonies, or

with particular types of classes (e.g., only priests may be tattooed) or activities. There were

also rituals associated with the application of tattoos, particularly concerned with the

notion of taboo. The person receiving the tattoo was often considered taboo for the

duration of the application process; in New Zealand, for instance, the person receiving the

tattoo could not eat with their hands and instead had to be served by someone (Robley

1896/2003:58–60). In the Marquesas, the complicated taboo system meant that the tattoo

ceremony went on for several days (or weeks) with the tattooed person segregated during

the entire procedure (Gell 1993:197–200).

These examples show that the tattoos cannot be understood from mere recording of the

designs; instead, an extensive knowledge of a society’s belief structure and cultural

practices must be known. The tattoo record is thus surrounded by a number of other records

and cultural artefacts, which together tell the story of the tattoo.

Transmission to the west

From the time of Cook’s rediscovery of tattooing, there was a steady stream of tattooed

people returning to Europe and the United States. Some were ‘tattooed natives’ brought to

Europe from places like the Marquesas and New Zealand for the sole purpose of displaying

them. One famous example is ‘Omai’, painted by Joshua Reynolds in 1776. Joseph Banks

also expressed the desire to bring back a tattooed man; while he did not expect the

government to take interest, he still wished it for his own amusement: ‘I do not know why I

may not keep him as a curiosity, as well as some of my neighbours do lions and tygers at a

larger expense than he will probably ever put me to’ (Banks in Guest 2005:85). Others

were sailors who were tattooed while at sea. By 1789, tattooing was common enough for

the mutineers on William Bligh’s ship to be described with reference to their tattoos as part

of their identifying marks.

Following explorations by European vessels from 1770 to 1810, there were a number of

beachcombers living in Polynesia. These were mainly sailors who either had jumped ship

or were accidentally left behind. They were forced to become tattooed to show their

allegiance or inclusion into their new society. While some were willingly tattooed (and

became fully integrated into their new society), others resisted, and only agreed to the

tattooing when they were told the choice was expulsion or death. Many of these beach-

combers are known because they returned to European or American society and published

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accounts of their experiences. Their tattoos often played a pivotal part in their stories and

were often used to highlight the exotic, savage nature of the societies the beachcombers

found themselves in. However, while their experiences in their new societies were all

different, the beachcombers and sailors all told remarkably similar stories about the cir-

cumstances of their receiving tattoos.

Tattoo narrative

Throughout the nineteenth century, one story was often told in Europe and America to

explain the origins of a person’s tattoos, regardless of the context. I am calling this story

the tattoo captivity narrative. This tattoo captivity narrative has links to the American

Indian captivity narratives from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries (Derounian-

Stodola 1994; Osterud 2007). It can also be linked to the beachcomber diaries and pub-

lications, which emerged in the early 1800s (see, e.g., Dening 1974; Campbell 1998). This

narrative runs through the nineteenth century and in many ways frames Western under-

standing of the practice of tattooing. Some examples will illustrate this.

In 1828, John Rutherford toured Britain, displaying his tattoos. He claimed to have been

captured in New Zealand, held prisoner by Maoris, compelled to marry the chief’s

daughter, and to have been forcibly tattooed to mark him as a member of the tribe (Gilbert

2000:135). However, as Bogdan (1988:242) shows, Rutherford had actually jumped ship,

taken a native wife, and chosen to be tattooed. On his return to Britain, he decided to profit

from his experiences.

It is likely that Rutherford took the framework of his story from Jean Baptiste Kabris, a

French beachcomber who lived in the Marquesas from 1796 to 1804. Upon returning to

Europe in 1804, Kabris told a story of how he was forced to become tattooed on threat of

death. In reality, after being shipwrecked, Kabris became a willing participant in Mar-

quesan culture—he became part of local networks, married a chief’s daughter, and ‘bore

the tattoos that indicated his status’ (White 2005:83). Kabris used the tattoo to negotiate his

contact with the Marquesans, to allow him to remove the stigma of an outsider—his ‘clean’

skin. After leaving the Marquesas, he exhibited himself in Russia, and later toured Europe,

using his tattoos to highlight the savagery of Marquesan culture.

Rutherford’s, Kabris’ and others’ claims of forcible tattooing were validated to some

extent in 1851 in the United States. Olive Oatman’s family was travelling to California

when they were attacked by members of the Yavapai tribe (Stratton 1857/1994; Putzi

2004). Most of the family was killed, with the exception of Olive, her brother who was left

for dead, and her sister Mary Ann. Mary Ann and Olive were taken captive by the Yavapai,

and were soon sold as slaves to the Mohave tribe. After a famine resulted in the death of

Mary Ann, Olive continued to live with the Mohave for approximately 3 years and was

tattooed with their traditional female tattoo design on her chin. In 1856, a Yuma Indian

heard of Olive living with the Mohaves, and negotiated with the commander of Fort Yuma,

a white settlement, to bring Olive to the fort in exchange for blankets and beads. Olive was

returned to white society and embarked on a lecture tour, where her tattoos featured

prominently. She described how she protested at the thought of being tattooed, but were

told that ‘as we belonged to them we should wear their ‘‘Ki-e-chook’’’ (Stratton 1857/

1994:134–5). Her tattoos remained visible reminders of her time with the Indians and

called into question larger issues such as race (was she still ‘white’?) and her femininity

and purity (see Putzi 2004, for a discussion of these issues).

In the 1870s, the European scientific world began reporting on an amazing tattooed

man, who was thought to be a medical marvel. Captain Costentenus, as he was known, was

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thought to be the most tattooed person in the world. He told a story of how he was captured

in Burma and was given the choice of a number of (improbable) punishments leading to

death, one of which was to be tattooed to death. He chose tattooing, thinking it the least

painful alternative, and was then tattooed non-stop for 3 months until he was completely

covered in tattoos. Impressed with his bravery, Costentenus’ captors released him, and he

made his way back to Europe (Konstantinus 1881). In reality, he was tattooed for the

purpose of display and profit (Parry 1933/2006:62; Bogdan 1988:246).

Costentenus toured widely in Europe and was examined by a variety of doctors, soci-

ologists and linguists (see for example, ‘Tattooed from head to foot’ 1871; ‘The tattooed

man at Vienna’ 1872; Farquharson 1872; Franks 1872; ‘The tattooed man’ 1876). In 1873,

he travelled to the United States to join P T Barnum and had a successful sideshow career

during the 1870s and 1880s (Parry 1933/2006:59–63; Bogdan 1988:243–9; see also

Oettermann 2000:200).

The stories told by Rutherford, Kabris, Oatman and Costentenus have similarities in

terms of themes and style. All highlighted the exotic nature of their tattoo designs, and, by

extension, the culture in which they found themselves. The culture was described as

savage, with the protagonists not fully understanding the (tattooing) situation. Furthermore,

the tattooing was always said to have been done forcibly, with physical restraints and no

consent by the protagonist.

Dening (1980) discusses how the beachcombers in Polynesia believed that they had no

choice but to become part of the social group—which was often marked by tattooing.

However, they did not want to explicitly state that they had given up their ‘whiteness’ (and

thus, their culture and superiority), so used the excuse that these marks were forcibly

placed upon them to better rehabilitate themselves into Western society. Similarly, it was

more thrilling—and presumably more profitable—for circus freaks to maintain that they

too had been without choice regarding their tattooing, rather than admitting the more

prosaic truth: that they were tattooed for the sole reason of becoming entertainers.

The records

As Gell (1993:10) notes, ‘Western notions about tattooing are an amalgam of western

notions about tattooing in the West (i.e., in Europe, Anglo-American etc.) and western

notions about exotic tattooing (Polynesia, the Orient, etc.)’. This becomes abundantly clear

when examining the records created about tattooing in the nineteenth century: both images

and written description of tattoos. While attempts have been made to preserve the skin with

the tattoo intact, these are rare and have not been collected in any systematic way, and will

not be discussed here.

Contact records

Images of tattoos were created by explorers, anthropologists or missionaries as they made

contact with other cultures. Drawings of tattoos often concentrated on the tattoos to the

exclusion of the person on whom the tattoos occurred (Thomas 1997). Explorers recorded

disembodied body parts, with no reference to the bodies (or people) from which they came.

Tattoo designs also tended to be drawn ‘flat’ on paper, without showing how they ‘fit’ on a

particular body or body part.

Photographs, often taken by anthropologists or missionaries, also recorded the practice

of tattooing. As both Webb (1995) and Wright (2003) describe in relation to ethnographic

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photographs, it is often hard to determine whether the photograph tells us more about the

subject of the photo or the creator of the photo. Webb emphasizes that these photographs,

while appearing natural and unspoilt, were actually posed and prepared in the same way

that society photographs were prepared. The photographs were often constructed so that

the subjects of the photographs appeared more ‘savage’ than they really were, particularly

through the use of backgrounds and props (such as spears, boomerangs and body

adornments).

Another way in which photographs were manipulated was through retouching of neg-

atives or drawing on the photographs themselves. As Webb notes, retouching was done

extensively by anthropologists in New Zealand to better highlight the moko tattoos in

photographs (Webb 1995:178–9). Robley also discusses how this was a common practice:

Photography came into use just in time for the recorder of moko… One often notices

that a photographer has inked in the lines, a magnifying glass shows where he has

failed to follow them accurately; or one sees the native just touched up with the brush

to give the requisite strength and make the pattern come out well (Robley in Webb

1995:178).

Wright (2003) shows how Francis Barton, an anthropologist in Papua New Guinea,

darkened his subjects’ tattoos and drew on the negatives to highlight the design. Wright

calls into question Barton’s supposedly objective gaze, and argues instead that Barton both

fetishized and infantilized his subjects, reducing them to their tattoos only.

Written records were also created about tattoos, mostly to accompany the pictures. First-

hand accounts of tattooing were recorded by the beachcombers upon their return to

Western society. The beachcombers used their experiences in Polynesia as fodder for

lecture tours and publicity (see for example, O’Connell 1836/1972; Dening 1974). Their

published diaries often played up the savage nature of the societies they found themselves

in by referring to the ‘barbaric’ practice of tattooing.

Circus records

The rise of the tattooed man (and woman) in the circus sideshow in the 1870s–1900s also

led to records about tattoos being created within the circus world. These records were

primarily in the form of pamphlets produced as material to advertize or sell a performer’s

show. Some of the more famous pamphlets were written for Captain Costentenus (Kon-

stantinus 1881) and Nora Hildebrandt (Hildebrandt 1882).

The Costentenus pamphlet is unique in that it is 32 pages long and presents a detailed

account of Costentenus’ life, stating that he was a ‘direct descendent of Constantine the

Great’ (Konstantinus 1881:1) before describing his encounter with pirates and his sub-

sequent adventures in Burma, which led to his enforced tattooing.

Both the Hildebrandt and Costentenus pamphlets use the tattoo captivity narrative to

create drama for their acts and to link into the idea of the tattooed savage. In Hildebrandt’s

pamphlet, the story described how her father was forced to tattoo her at the behest of an

Indian chief, by whom they had been captured:

The chief told the prisoner if he would tattoo his daughter he would give him his

liberty—and that he must tattoo her from her toes to her head… she was tied to a tree

and the painful operation commenced. He was compelled to work six hours a day for

one year before she was rescued, accomplishing three hundred and sixty-five

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designs… it was a pleasure for the red skin devils to see her tortured. It was worse

than a thousand deaths (Hildebrandt 1882:9–10).

Throughout the nineteenth century, most European and American tattoos were done by

hand, using modified tools similar to those used in Polynesia. In 1894, Samuel O’Reilly

invented the electric tattoo machine, which revolutionized the tattooing world. Not only

could designs be applied much faster, but finer lines and more detail could also be achieved

(Govenar 2000:215). The electric tattoo machine led to the proliferation of tattooed

entertainers in the 1890s, and to the increased popularity and visibility of tattooing in the

Twentieth Century.

Tattoo records as evidence

While it is clear that a number of different types of records were created about tattooing

in the nineteenth century, it must be asked what these records are actually evidence of. In

the case of anthropologists’ and explorers’ records, they provide evidence of particular

explorations and discoveries of cultures and societies. Gell (1993) and Dening (1980)

both discuss how the contact between European explorers and Polynesians (particularly

the Marquesas in Dening’s case) changed their cultures irrevocably. Following along

these lines, it can be argued that these records of tattooing provide evidence of the

contact between the two cultures and the interpretation of one culture (the indigenous

culture) by another (European cultures). In this context, records about tattooing can be

linked to the records created about other forms of cultural rituals, such as dances and

stories.

As actual tattoos cannot be recorded or preserved in any conventional way, records

created about tattooing are representative only. This is comparable to oral histories, where

it could be argued that the original record is the oral ‘telling’ of the story, rather than any

transcription of it. Hamilton (2002), in her discussion of oral histories and archives, argues

that the ‘fluidity’ of oral history is part of its form. Likewise, with a tattoo, part of what

makes it a ‘tattoo’ is its particular form. This mediation of the tattoo means that much (if

not all) context regarding the tattoo is lost through the necessarily representative recording

of a specific tattoo. In particular, the relationship between an individual tattoo record (one

design) and other tattoo records (e.g., a tattooed body) is lost, as is the relationship between

one tattooed body with other bodies (both tattooed and non-tattooed). The rituals sur-

rounding the application of the tattoo, the stories told about tattoos and specific designs,

and the way bodies interacted through their tattoos are all examples of contextual infor-

mation, which is lost.

This lack of contextual information through the mediation of tattoos means that the

transactional aspect of creating these types of records is also lost, highlighting the

importance of the capturing of information relating to the transaction, which caused the

(tattoo) record to be created in the first place. This would allow the tattoo to be better

understood not only in terms of the transactions undertaken to create the tattoo but also in

relation to how other transactions occurred after the tattoo was created to change or

reinforce its meaning (e.g., the application of new tattoos or the lack of other tattoos)

within the society in which it was created.

In the case of the circus records, these provide evidence of a particular aspect of popular

culture in both the United States and Europe at a specific time. They also show how the

tattoo captivity narrative was used and adapted throughout the nineteenth century, and in

many ways remained a stable element about tattooing while the context of tattooing

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changed dramatically. All records created about tattooing in the nineteenth century also

show how the tattoos themselves were mediated.

It is clear that the records created about tattooing provide more evidence about the

creators of the records than about the actual tattoos. The contextualizing information in

terms of transactions, evidence and how it related to other tattoos is also lost when records

about tattoos are archived.

The archive

With ways of accessing the archive changing dramatically, the challenge for archival

institutions is to provide access to records in a meaningful and useful manner. As discussed

previously, the records created about tattooing in the nineteenth century present numerous

difficulties on their own regarding context and evidence; the situation becomes even more

complex when they are part of large archival collections. I will use two case studies to

investigate this.

Archival institution: University of Syracuse

The Ronald G Becker collection of Charles Eisenmann photographs and memorabilia is

part of the Special Collections in the University of Syracuse Library in the United States.

The collection consists largely of photographs of circus entertainers, mainly those who

made up the ‘freak show’ section of the circus, including the tattooed freaks. As Bogdan

(1988:11–16) observes, photographs were often used as publicity material by entertainers,

or sold as mementos at their shows.

The Ronald G. Becker collection presents tattooing as a facet of circus culture, par-

ticularly sideshow or freakshow culture. Tattoos are thus contextualized within the circus

world, showing how tattooed entertainers fitted in with other elements of the sideshow, and

how the invention of the electric tattoo machine in 1894 led to the proliferation of tattooed

performers.

By 1900, the tattooed entertainers had virtually disappeared from the circus. The

increase in their numbers, and subsequent gimmicks they did to draw in the crowds, meant

they were no longer viewed as unique or ‘proper freaks’:

The slide began when a New York dime-museum made the error of advertising a

‘Congress of Tattooed Men.’ This had the effect of convincing the public that, since

there was a congress of them, such freaks could be rare no longer… As early as the

1880s, to outstrip the rivals, New York’s dime museums had whole Tattooed

Families on exhibit. Captain Burt Thompson tried to follow suit and tattooed his pet

dog for a Coney Island show… at about the same time, in the same Coney Island,

another entrepreneur showed a tattooed cow (Parry 1933/2006:67).

After the invention of the electric tattoo machine, tattooing also enjoyed a brief period

of popularity in the upper and middle classes of both the United States and Europe (see for

example, Bolton 1897; Burchett 1958; Bradley 2000:147–9). This fad may also have led to

the decline in the popularity in tattooed freaks, as they were no longer considered suitable

in the primarily working-class arena of the circus.

The Ronald G Becker collection helps to position the practice of tattooing within the

circus world, and also charts its popularity and decline from the 1870s to 1900. However,

while the records are contextualized within the circus world, the emphasis of the collection

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on circus material means that other contextualizing material and information are lost. For

example, while the collection includes both photographs and pamphlets about Captain

Costentenus, it does not include any information relating to the examinations conducted on

him by sociologists and doctors, despite many of these materials having been written

contemporaneously. Researchers hoping to find information about Costentenus will thus

not find all records in the same place. Furthermore, the metadata added by Library staff

does not contextualize Costentenus within the broader social and cultural history of the

time, but instead only refer to his (American) circus connections.

The Ronald G Becker collection forms what Ketelaar (2001) calls a tacit narrative, in

this case about the American circus in the late nineteenth century. While the collection

may appear to be presented in an objective way, the organizing and describing of specific

material means a particular story is told through the records.

Archiving a practice: the Tattoo Archive

The Tattoo Archive was established by Chuck Eldridge, an American tattoo artist, in 1980.

A research centre, the Paul Rogers Research Center, was also established by Eldridge, Don

Ed Hardy and Henk Schiffmacher, also tattoo artists and tattoo historians (Eldridge 2008).

As well as maintaining a collection, the Tattoo Archive issues publications based on its

collection, including posters, reproductions of business cards and pamphlets, collections of

flash and books about tattoo history.

While the Tattoo Archive cannot be considered an archival institution, it does represent

an attempt to collect and arrange materials around a specific practice. The collection at the

Tattoo Archive has primarily been built up by donations from collectors and tattoo artists

over a number of years. Thus, fundamental archival principles of original order and

provenance are not used. In particular, the concept of describing the original order of the

records and the recordkeeping systems they were part of (and the people or organizations

who created the records) is not followed.

It should also be noted that these records come from disparate disciplines such as

anthropology, archaeology, natural history, circus history, art, social history, medical

history and criminology. The records in the Archive also cover many different continents,

languages and belief systems. Without the Archive providing information about these

different contexts, knowledge sources and recordkeeping frameworks, the researcher has

no way of contextualizing the records in the Archive.

While the mandate of the Tattoo Archive is markedly different from that of those

archival institutions discussed previously, it faces similar issues in terms of establishing the

social context in which the records were created. By focusing solely on the practice of

tattooing to link the records, the cultural and social contexts of the records are lost. While

the Tattoo Archive allows a history of tattooing to be traced, this history is without culture

or context of any sort. The example of the Tattoo Archive calls into question the concept of

an archive based around a particular practice. However, it also shows how users may

choose to classify and arrange records, if given the opportunity.

Inclusive archives

From the previous examples, it is clear that conventional methods of archival arrangement

and description have not been successful in adequately describing records about tattoos

in archives. The same may be true about records currently being created about tattoos.

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As Rubin (1988) shows, the popularity of tattoos since the 1970s has grown dramatically,

particularly in sectors not traditionally associated with tattoos. Rubin links this increased

popularity to the rise of fine-art trained tattoo artists, who removed some of the stigma and

seediness generally associated with tattooing. With more ‘acceptable’ artists available, and

better understanding of other tattoo practices (such as tattoos done in the Japanese style),

many more people began to get tattooed (see also Sanders 1989; DeMello 1995, 2000).

This increased popularity of tattoos has not waned in recent years; if anything, the

popularity of tattoos continues to increase. It is worth investigating how people today go

about recording, describing and archiving their tattoos, and asking whether any of these

methods can also be used to describe the nineteenth-century records. It is arguable that the

tattoos created today are just as much a part of complex ritual structures as those created in

the nineteenth century, although meanings and motivations behind getting tattoos may be

different.

The Internet has meant that description and (virtual) archiving are easier for individuals.

Sites like www.tattoos.com or www.bmezine.com are specifically devoted to the collection

of tattoo stories and photographs. Bmezine, for example, allows users to submit both

photographs of their tattoos and written descriptions of their experiences surrounding the

tattoo process. A more rounded view of the tattoo and the tattoo process can then be

developed. Generic photography sites such as Flickr (www.flickr.com) also allow people to

store photographs of their tattoos and describe their tattoos through tags and user classi-

fication schemes. In many ways, this deliberate, self-conscious personal archiving provides

a new way people can provide ‘evidence of me’ (McKemmish 1996).

A recent notion to be developed is that of folksonomy. The term ‘folksonomy’ first

appeared in 2004 as a way of describing the new phenomenon of users labelling or tagging

Web sites and photographs with their own words. Thomas Vander Wal, who invented the

term, defines a folksonomy as follows:

Folksonomy is the result of personal free tagging of information and objects … for

one’s own retrieval. The tagging is done in a social environment (usually shared and

open to others). Folksonomy is created from the act of tagging by the person con-

suming the information (Vander Wal 2007).

Users have been creating and utilizing folksonomy, particularly in an online environ-

ment, since 2004 (or earlier), and institutions such as archives, libraries and museums are

beginning to use folksonomy as a way of providing a different type of access to their

materials.

As Trant and Wyman (2006) point out in relation to the use of folksonomy in museums,

folksonomy and user tagging can be used to bridge the gap between professional

descriptions (e.g., those by curators, archivists and art historians) and user-generated

descriptions (those by users or viewers of the records). The examples given by Trant and

Wyman show that there is a marked difference between descriptions of pieces provided by

curators or museum staff (who concentrate on provenance, style and iconography) and

those provided by museum patrons (who provide a number of keywords based on their

reaction to the piece; Trant and Wyman 2006:4). The discussion of tattoo records earlier in

this paper shows a similar gap between descriptions provided by users and descriptions

provided by archivists.

While Trant and Wyman show that users or viewers, through folksonomy, provide

different descriptions from those provided by professional practitioners, they also make it

clear that user-generated descriptions are not without problems. Because they are idio-

syncratic and individual, they may provide little or no access for other users. Therefore, it

108 Arch Sci (2009) 9:99–111

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seems prudent that a combination of user-generated and professional descriptions should

be used to provide user access while retaining the necessary control elements.

Various archives have investigated using folksonomy and user-generated content to add

value to their collections. One example is the Your Archives wiki project run by The

National Archives (TNA) in the United Kingdom. Your Archives allows anyone to edit and

add content, but TNA staff moderate the wiki. This type of site highlights ways for

folksonomy and archival techniques of arrangement and description to be used together.

This may be one method, which inclusive archives can use to make their collections

relevant to their users while still permitting archival staff to provide the necessary

arrangement and control for records.

Using an inclusive archive in relation to the tattooing records will also allow a more

holistic view of these records (and the tattoos themselves) to be created. The tattoos created

in the Pacific in the nineteenth century were often part of elaborate cultural structures and

rituals, involving certain stories, practices and taboos. An inclusive archive may allow

these cultural structures and rituals to be described, so that the context in which the tattoo

was created can be better understood. Records created by explorers and missionaries could

then be viewed not only as evidence of contact and exploration, but also as evidence of the

cultural practices, which resulted in the tattoo in the first place.

Conclusion

The records created about tattoos in the nineteenth century highlight how conventional

archival arrangement and description may not be sufficient for some types of records. As

tattoos are always mediated in some way, other techniques should be used to allow greater

understanding of the creation of tattoos, the context in which they were created, the

surrounding rituals and how they function as a form of recordkeeping.

The inclusive archive could be used for records, which do not easily fit into conven-

tional archives, such as records created about tattooing. The inclusive archive can be used

to connect the records back to the tattoos themselves, and to bring into focus the notion that

the tattoos are themselves records. Utilizing an inclusive archive approach will allow these

records to be more adequately arranged and described, leading to greater discovery and

access by users, and a greater understanding of why the tattoos were originally created.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank two anonymous reviewers for their comments on an earlier draftof this paper.

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Author Biography

Kirsten Wright works in the area of records and archives in Melbourne, Australia. This article is based onresearch conducted during her Master of Information Management and Systems, which she completed atMonash University in 2007. Kirsten is interested in ideas around what constitutes a record, particularlyrecords not normally associated with conventional ideas of the archive.

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