This essay appeared in the March 23, 2017 edition of the Anchorage Press. In the Crosshairs explores the work of Roger Sparks, an artist and former Air Force Pararescueman who experienced many years of intense combat during deployment overseas. Art became a way for him to navigate issues related to PTSD.

in the crosshairs with Roger sparks

Smoke rises from a bundle of burning sage, wafting towards the ceiling like a curious ghost. The earthy ambrosia is an introduction into the unorthodox ways of a complex artist, working in his studio. The tangy smoke puts him at ease, setting the stage.

In the background is a bluesy voice on the stereo, William Elliott Whitmore singing Who Stole the Soul. It's a fitting song that complements a more immediate sound in the foreground. An enigmatic, electric buzz emanates from a primitive looking, hand-held machine no bigger than a deck of cards. 

A tattoo machine. 

A small electric coil powers an equally small armature that cycles a hollow needle full of ink. 

Described as "Honkey Tonk Technology," by the man wielding it, artist and former Air Force Pararescueman, Roger Sparks.

The device is simple yet effective. And distinctively noisy. The finest tattoo artists believe that refined technology is the antithesis of authentic experience. 

Tattooing is a subculture where simple is better. Where the grittier things are, the closer we get to the truth. 

This ethos, everything involved with getting to the bottom of things, is part of Roger's creative process.

He's a giant of a man possessing a demeanor that belies his gladiator appearance. Intimidating until you hear his first words, he puts you at ease with a style of language not unlike poetic verse. He's a study in contrasts. Dichotomy pervades every corner of his existence, especially as it relates to his former career as an elite, special forces soldier. Twenty years dealing with the most unsavory elements of combat led him here—to tattooing. And it was that which led him to a form of salvation, and to developing a body of work that helps heal others. 

During repeated tours overseas he kept coming home to discover that the enemy was within him. 

In part this explains how my path serendipitously crossed his, and why I'm here in his studio, observing one deeply eccentric artist lost in the nuances of his craft. He's working on a man who's at an existential crossroads. Both are intertwined in a cathartic process, the intimate nature of which is palpable. The tangible result is a tattoo. But the collective experience is more complicated. 

Part of this exchange involves acceptance that the inked symbol being created will outlast the body it's on. Still affixed long after the lungs take their final breath. The concept of our own impermanence, and our own mortality (as religious as it seems) is paramount to understanding the truer meaning of getting inked by an artist who strives for mastery of an art form where perfection is unattainable. After all, the canvas is human—the quintessence of imperfection. 

Which brings us to a paradox.

While perfection might be unattainable in the art form itself, the best tattoo artists are some of the most uncompromising artists in the world. That, too, is inseparable from the process. 

At the moment I'm watching Roger meticulously execute the geometric radius of an elegant line underneath two superscript words. Mere words, and yet for the man receiving the tattoo there's a spiritual significance that transcends any literal meaning. 

The middle-aged man being tattooed here in Eagle River, Alaska is Matt Delcomyn, a resident of Washington state. Leader of corporate teams for half his life, successfully managing challenging projects. Esteemed by colleagues. At 52 years old, he wondered if he was living someone else's dream. 

After flying home he reflected.

"It was a surrendering of perfection and the need to maintain the limitless options of youth, the letting go of options... because having countless options is no longer as powerful as energizing what's most important." 

The imperative in Matt's mind became reality when he flew to Alaska on a whim, skied in the woods for four days, and then afterwards found himself in Roger's studio being tattooed with two words:

Roam & Discover

Matt left Alaska emboldened, and branded—with a permanent piece of art on his arm.

Scott Campbell, one of the most honored and iconic contemporary tattoo artists (and also Roger Spark's mentor), offered his perspective. 

"When you're tattooed you're left with a piece of art that can't be resold. It can never be put on eBay." 

"Roger's a powerful artist because of the things he's seen and done, because of his experience. With the emotional economics of the world what they are, tattooing someone becomes a generous craft."

"He's a healer," says Campbell. 

During a previous session at Roger's studio I observed an odd trail of black ink behind the needle he was guiding across his client's skin, more specifically the rib cage of a beautiful woman by the name of Ally Snow. Black ink was pooling like a metaphoric trail of blood as Roger tattooed the large image of a raven. 

"Pain and change are inseparable," Roger suggests, with the sort of compassion you'd expect from a Buddhist monk. 

Just like pain and tattooing are inseparable.

Creating Ally's raven required several hours of design work but ten grueling hours of actual tattooing. Ally admitted that she never would have gotten the tattoo if Roger was unwilling to do the work. She connected with him because of his life experience and his empathy. It wasn't just about the tattoo. 

Using a clean towel Roger periodically wiped away the ink left behind a pass of the tattoo machine, exposing the raven's wing under the skin. As the image unfolded it slowly gave rise to purpose. But the deeper meaning was in moment-by-moment process.

Roger stopped and dipped the needle into a tiny well of ink and then brought his attention back to the raven. His hand shaking ever so slightly at first seemed incongruent with the intricacy of the work. But when he rested his arm on the table, and he moved the tattoo machine closer to the skin, his hand was so steady it seemed as if he let go. It was then when I realized that tattooing is his meditation. 

Like the sage that Roger ceremoniously burns, and like William Elliott Whitmore's lyrics about heartbreak and redemption—watching Roger work reminds me that staying in this moment is about as close as we will ever come to true perfection. And that what we seek often remains elusive, even if means wanting a perfect tattoo.