“Bad tattoos are a trend,” Bijan, 22-year-old human sketchbook and TikToker, says thoughtfully, the black text inked into his eyelids flickering as he blinks. Dyed blue locks curl over the side of his trucker hat, and his cat darts up the window, clattering the blinds in his Jacksonville apartment. Bijan, kindhearted and soft-spoken, is tatted from head to toe. His legs, particularly, are crammed with scraggly lines and pockets of color. Untouched real estate is scarce, but he’s not nervous about running out of room. 

Unlike the detailed ink work of intricate sleeves you would possibly find on bikers or pro-soccer players that require hours, if not days, within the tattoo parlour, Bijan will complete a tattoo session within the time it takes him to place up the TikTok video. His patchwork collection of nearly 400 tattoos (including a stick figure rendition of Fez from HBO’s Euphoria, grungy text reading “favourite tattoo” and the 100 per cent emoji) make it seem like his extremities are collaged with the doodles from a stoner’s math notebook. It begs the query – why would anyone need a “bad” tattoo, let alone 400 of them?  

Bijan was in rehab, had 20 followers on Instagram, and wasn’t on TikTok in any respect when he had the concept for “365 Days of Tattoos,” a series for which he would tattoo himself every day and document the journey on TikTok. The series gained attention immediately, pushing Bijan’s work to hundreds of thousands of people that would then engage in fiery debates concerning the quality, purpose and value of his tattoos. 

Some checked out Bijan’s sketchbook skin – a casual hodgepodge of scribbles, text, line work and unshaded sketches – and located his style absent of artistry and craftsmanship. “The skilled tattooers call it ’scratchers,’” Bijan says, with a laught, “but that feels, like… low-key offensive.” The opposite names given to the emerging style are “sketch style,” “ignorant,” and “bad tattoos.”

Dr Lee Baron, lecturer within the School of Design at Northumbria University and writer of Tattoo Culture, explains that generational shifts in tattoo style and what those tattoos represent is natural, even expected, and that “you’ll be able to now see a split between Millennials and Gen Z.” The divide is palpable, especially on TikTok. Through the usage of the video stitch feature, users are capable of interact with – and more specifically, diss, roast and heckle – other content by splicing another person’s video with their very own commentary. Bijan stitches over a video by which the user is deciphering the meaning behind her leafy tattoo (spoiler alert: buds and flowers correlate with life chapters). The camera cuts to his feet: “These R My Toes,” the tattoo reads beneath jagged arrows. The message is obvious: it’s not cool to take yourself too seriously. This could be seen in the shortage of precision on this style that “has a punkish feel to it,” explains Barron, and a “DIY quality.”

Public criticism of tattoos on social media illuminates the generational attitudes at war with each other. Millennials find Gen Z’s informality to be sloppy and denigrating, hole in meaning. Gen Z finds the Millennial obsession with allegorical symbols overearnest and played out. “I feel just like the older persons are getting upset,” Bijan says, smiling. “But nice tattoos get type of boring.” 

TikTok is a manic trend-setting machine capitalising on irony. Whether it’s this 12 months’s Ketamine chic or 2020’s E-Girls and Boys, shock value, “bad” aesthetics and, more importantly, humour are used to mirror the precarious existence of young maturity. But clothes could be taken off, septum rings removed and hair stripped of its bilious color. Everlasting ink pushes trend culture to its limits, inking a generation’s blasé view of life onto skin perpetually.

When Bijan posted his first video, he deleted it after half-hour, nervous concerning the public’s response. But inside per week, he had over a thousand followers and what he calls “a tiny cult following” that acted each as hype-man and protector – checking in every day for the tattoo vlog and defending him from any haters. “Seeing people wish to have my back gave me confidence in myself,” Bijan admits. @Bijan888 now has half 1,000,000 followers on TikTok. 

Bijan is the primary to confess that the series is purposefully attention-grabbing. “Truthfully, it was for the followers.” Despite the fact that he would have tattooed himself with or without an audience, the series was done with the intentional purpose of gaining followers and connecting with a bigger community by utilising what he calls the “shock factor.” “It’s cool to do performance art. Like David Blaine type shit – I all the time thought that was cool,” Bijan says. For young people, the lines between production and reality are blurred, and visibility is a requisite of expression. In the identical way that an Instagram post of the night out is as much a component of the experience as the event itself, the general public performance of the tattoo is as elemental because the design of it, or, often, why they got it in the primary place. 

Through the early days of Bijan’s sobriety, he says the simplicity of the every day ritual gave him a “weird purpose of accomplishing something and never feeling like a loser that day.” The practice of tattooing became a habit for each Bijan and his followers. “It distracts me from whatever I’m enthusiastic about, and I just should give attention to that moment,” Bijan explains. “It’s very therapeutic.” TikTok creator Noah Brady AKA @pworddestroyer69 and an internet pal of Bijan, is constant the series in his friend’s stead. Over Instagram DMs, Bijan sent me eight other users which can be doing the identical.

@bijan888

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♬ 5 degrees lil peep – jay????

Psychologist Dr Joseph Pierre explains that for young tattoo artists, “showing off their tattoos to a large audience on social media is where skin art becomes performance art.” While there could also be changing tattoo trends, the motivation for tattooing seems timeless – tattoos as a mode of self-expression, adornment and act of agency. “Tattoos are an expression of solidarity,” says Dr. Barron, citing subcultures that used tattoos as visual signals. As an example, the Hells Angels famous emblem, a skull wearing a winged-motorcycle helmet, is commonly branded in ink on its club members’ bodies.

Now, the quantity of tatted-up Americans is at an all-time high at 35 per cent of the population. So, Barron asks, “How do you employ a tattoo to be rebellious?” You possibly can either follow Ozzy Osborne’s advice and never get one – or you’ll be able to subvert the expectations for socially acceptable tattoos. You possibly can tattoo your face, cover your body or get “bad tattoos.”

Our cavalier attitude toward risk-seeking behaviour is anything but accidental. The adoption of nihilistic tropes has helped an anxious generation embrace their uncertain futures, using bodily alterations to affect control and agency from the insurgent camps of their bedrooms. “Yeah, I’ve never thought loads concerning the future,” Bijan says, shaking his head. Bad tattoos are proof that nothing really matters, a war cry against Millennial sincerity, and a tongue-in-cheek ode to youth culture. “I feel like I’ll all the time have room [on my skin]. There’s all the time gonna be room somewhere [to tattoo],” Bijan says, his brown eyes looking off into the space. “I don’t really give it some thought that much.”