Inking in the details Tom Tivnan
Was so enthralled by a portrait of an Inuit man at SNPG that he not only wrote a novel inspired by him, but got a tattoo of his likeness too
Avisit to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery some years ago changed my life, inspiring me to write a novel about immigration, love and an Inuit – and propelling me to a lengthy spell on a tattooist’s table.
First, the Inuit. I was walking through the SNPG’S Age of Improvement room and there was a portrait of a dark-skinned man dressed in sealskins and holding a harpoon. He was handsome, heroiclooking and somewhat at odds with the pasty-faced Georgian-era high heid yins scattered over the rest of the walls. I had to know more about him.
He was called John Sackhouse (also Sakeouse and Saccheuse, sources vary) and his story is incredible. A native Greenlander, in the early 1800s he stowed aboard an Edinburghbound whaler. When he arrived, he became a celebrity, doing wildly popular harpoon and kayak demonstrations in Leith harbour, was a must-have at posh New Town dinner parties and a friend to the intelligentsia and artists. One of these associates was Alexander Nasmyth, who made the portrait of John that now hangs at the SNPG (you may not know of Nasmyth, but you have undoubtedly seen his muchreproduced
He was a must-have at New Town dinner parties and a friend to the intelligentsia
and imitated painting of Robert Burns, such as the ones on the Clydesdale Bank’s £5 and £10 notes).
I was determined to write about John, but there were scant primary sources on him. So, I decided to fill in the blanks and use his story for the backbone of a novel.
Fast-forward a few years and life had brought me to London. My novel had expanded and departed from the source material, adding a diversion to Nantucket, a tempestuous love triangle and a whisky-soaked priest with Tourette’s. But was I going too far? Did I need to pull myself back to the real John Sackhouse?
I had on my desktop – both the physical one and my computer’s – replicas of John’s portrait. Nasmyth had captured him as a Romantic hero – in the prime of youth, piercing eyes looking into the distance, dramatic storm clouds swirling overhead. An idea dawned: I should take this one step further and make this portrait a bit more part of me, more permanent. I should get a tattoo of it.
This could have been risky. If I never sold the book to a publisher it would be a constant reminder of failure, a literary equivalent of those celeb exes tattoos like Johnny Depp’s Winona Forever or Zayn Malik’s cartoon image of former squeeze Perrie Edwards.
I had been inked before – a rather fetching, if discreet, raven on my shoulder – and I was looking for something similar. By that I mean small and relatively painless. Yet the tattooist said a design like John’s portrait would require a “big canvas, maybe your back”.
“Yeah, cool,” I said, nodding and attempting to keep my voice level. Our consultation was taking place in the middle of the shop and we had to speak loudly above the buzz of needle guns gouging into the flesh of five other clients, all of whom were pretending not to listen. As everyone – including the weedy hipster and the teenage girl holding her mum’s hand – seemed to be getting on with their procedures with sangfroid, I decided to man up. I was in.
The day of my appointment dawned and, as it was hayfever season, I popped a Claritin. You may know a side effect of antihistamines is they make you bleed more than normal. I didn’t. Blood is an inevitable by-product of any tattoo and it is expected. A lot of blood is cause for alarm, and means frequent stoppages to staunch the flow. As a result, the four-hour session I had steeled myself for turned into a somewhat more painful eight-hour marathon.
As I finally left, reeking of antiseptic and my torso mummified by the cellophane that is meant to aid the healing process, I thought everything was all right. Maybe the extra difficulty was part of the birthing process. I came to view the idea as a sort of pact, as if marking myself with his image would seal the deal between me and John – that I would do my level best to tell my version of his remarkable story. I hurried home, sat down and started to write. n