William “Taylor” Wirthlin sat criss-crossed on a traditional Japanese floor mat with a chilled glass bottle of Coca-Cola and a metal tray of vibrant orange and yellow ink beside him. All six-foot-something of him folded over, ink covering every available space on both arms, and chunky clear framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing loose-fitting nylon pants that zipped off into shorts with a faded pair of leather loafers. He called the look “business casual.”
A VHS tape of Sofia Coppola’s “Lost in Translation” played off an ancient, boxy Toshiba television on the far end of the room. It smelled of incense and freshly steeped herbal tea, quite contradictory to the distinguishable scent of rubbing alcohol and latex in a standard tattoo shop.
A young woman winced as he held the skin of her upper arm taut, threading a rod of curved needles into her skin at an angle as if he was shooting pool. The motion was fast and drew droplets of blood to the surface of her skin with each poke. On each removal of the rod, her skin made a faint popping sound.
Wirthlin explained this was an extremely important sound in the practice of Tebori, the technique of tattooing by hand using a bamboo or metal tool in Japan. Tebori directly translates to ‘to carve by hand’ in Japanese, resembling the practice of carving a wooden block for printmaking. Tebori tattoos are traditionally large and yield bright colors.
Wirthlin was tattooing a Japanese cherry blossom with bright orange petals and a yellow center on the young woman. Cherry blossoms, he explained, have a short life and are celebrated in Japan when they bloom each spring. They symbolize the fleetingness of human life, historically signifying the brief yet colorful life of a Samurai. A reminder to live life and to live it well.
From a very young age, Wirthlin devoted his life to tattooing and recently opened his own private studio with one of his best friends in the Upper East Side of Milwaukee. He is one of only a few people who can do traditional Tebori tattooing in the city, as it is tedious and not many do it right. This is one of many things that sets Wirthlin apart from other tattoo artists.
Wirthlin grew up in West Greenville, South Carolina, raised by his grandparents in a town he described as rough around the edges. His grandfather had tattoos of his own and would draw tattoos on Wirthlin when he was younger.
One of his favorite tattoos now, as a 34 year old, is the dagger on his upper left arm that his grandfather tattooed himself at 90-years-old, replicating what he used to sketch on a younger, much more rebellious Wirthlin.
Wirthlin was a wild-child with a love for skateboarding, punk, hip-hop and graffiti – which he began doing at just 12-years-old.
“There was a freight line that laid up in the back of the place that I was living and I had seen graffiti on the trains anytime I would go back there to sneak a cigarette and I was under the impression that it was an archeological find nobody had painted since the ‘80s,” Wirthlin said. “So, I would be back there painting the trains in middle school and anytime I would hangout with a friend I would check their garage and see if they had an old can of spray paint I could have.”
After a few years of graffiti, Wirthlin was ready for something more permanent. The story of his very first tattoo is one he said he’ll never forget.
“This girl’s uncle had just gotten out of prison and was tattooing someone’s last name in old English out of a trailer off of paper plates and smoking a cigarette with no gloves, and to me it was awesome,” Wirthlin said. “It was probably the coolest tattoo I’ve ever seen go down still to this day.”
So, 15-year-old Wirthlin returned to the trailer the following week and got the word ‘Carolina’ tattooed on him by the recent ex-convict, nicknamed Snake Eyes, who only had one needle he soaked in alcohol between each use.
Not long after his first tattoo, Wirthlin got his first tattoo kit from the pawn shop in which he worked at 16-years-old.
“The dude that ran the place knew that I had been into tattoos and bought a super lousy tattoo kit off of someone who definitely had used needles and ink left in the box, but it was my first kit,” Wirthlin said. “One of my cousins and I tattooed a bunch of potatoes the day that I got it and his looked way better than mine – I was actually super jealous and mad about it.”
He quickly transitioned from potatoes to local skateboarders who willingly trusted Wirthlin with his newly sparked passion. When he turned 21-years-old he got his first tattooing gig at a shop in New York City where he learned to clean up his craft.
As a beginning tattoo artist in an unforgiving city, Wirthlin said the most important skill was to know how to talk his way out of mistakes that any rookie artist was bound to make.
“I feel like when you suck at tattooing when you first start, you have to kind of decide before you tattoo the person if you think you could whoop their ass if you fuck it up,” Wirthlin said. “If you make a mistake but are good at talking, you can usually pull it back from the fires.”
Wirthlin referred to New York as a “young man’s game.” The shop he started out at in the West Village kept their doors open until 4 a.m., supplying him with quite the portfolio of bizarre stories.
He told the story of a 40-year-old Puerto Rican man from the Bronx who wandered in near closing time with the vision of a dragon print covering his arm. It was Wirthlin’s turn in the rotation.
“I was tattooing this guy for about three hours and he’s got sunglasses on in the middle of the night,” Wirthlin said. “Midway through the tattoo he tells me that he’s a vampire and starts showing me pictures of weird vampire parties that he goes to. He had sharp fangs on while I’m tattooing him, and after he pays me he takes his sunglasses off and the whole time he’s had white contact lenses on which made the whole situation so much weirder.”
“It was fucking weird, but it’s New York City ya know?” Wirthlin said. “I’ve got a zero tolerance policy with white contact lenses now.”
Nick Cogswell, now Wirthlin’s best friend and business partner, said their acquaintance began back in New Orleans when they were introduced through a mutual friend. When Wirthlin moved up to New York, Cogswell followed him, and vice versa when Milwaukee native Cogswell returned home.
“Almost 10 years ago, Taylor suggested that the coolest thing we could possibly do was to end up in the same place, doing something to make money – tattoos ideally – and just have all of our friends close by,” Cogswell said. “So this right here is a ten year plan come to fruition.”
Both Wirthlin and Cogswell recently welcomed daughters into their lives and plan to raise them together as they’d someday always hoped to do. Wirthlin joked that he missed being young in New York, but said nothing could compare to his life now in Milwaukee.
“New York was really fun and I’m happy that it happened, but I have a daughter now and that’s way cooler than that,” Wirthlin said.
Being raised in a tattoo-friendly household and now with a daughter of his own, Wirthlin said he’s curious if she will even want one.
“I feel like everybody thinks their parents are dorky and whatever their parents do is not cool,” Wirthlin said. “I’m curious to know if her rebellion will be to not get tattoos. She’s obviously my daughter, but is a different person than me, and I hope that in between here and there I can lead my life as a father and parent who can be proud of – and impressed by – all of her decisions without having to intrude on them.”
For the last 15 years, Wirthlin has been exclusively focused on Japanese traditional tattooing. In Japanese tattooing, the tattooer will often have a pseudonym. Wirthlin’s pseudonym is Horishishi: hori meaning “carve” and shishi, short for “karajishi”, meaning Chinese lion – also one of the graffiti names he went by. He was given the name “Taylor Horishishi” by fellow Japanese tattoo artists.
Wirthlin, however, does not consider himself an artist, but rather a deliberate craftsman.
“While I think that I have artistic tendencies, I think that those are accidents,” Wirthlin said. “I’m trying to be a craftsman. I think it’s a lot like being an athlete – people have different starting abilities and you can always improve upon things.”
Wirthlin recites the Japanese saying, wabi-sabi: the acceptance of imperfection. He says his mistakes often lead to a more satisfying outcome than his intentions, allowing him to enjoy the creative process rather than rushing the final product.
“I really, really enjoy being in the middle of the tattoo,” Wirthlin said. “I had a buddy, whose graffiti name was Fish Glue, and I remember he said something I’ve always thought about … where he didn’t care what it looked like in the end and that he just liked to push the button. If I enjoy making it and I try as hard as I can, it’s gonna look awesome.”
Emma Sauriol, a first time customer of Wirthlin, said watching him bring her crazy thoughts to life was unlike any tattoo artist she’s ever had.
“I’d have to say my favorite part of the session with Taylor was working out our ideas for my tattoo,” Sauriol said. “I came in with a few pictures and he turned it into something I never could have imagined.”
Sauriol said she appreciated how Wirthlin cared more about her personal experience during the tattoo process rather than worrying about the next client coming through the doors.
“With Taylor it was very personal,” Sauriol said. “He wasn’t on a time crunch where he was worried about multiple appointments, it was just me, and you could tell he cared. Taylor was very patient and willing to hear out my thoughts and millions of corrections and it felt very welcoming.”
The final credits of “Lost in Translation” rolled until TV static consumed the screen. Cogswell and Wirthlin filled the silence with inside jokes and stories back and forth, like two brothers on opposite ends of the dining room table.
“Last petal,” Wirthlin assured his client, loading up the needles with ink once more.
The young woman jammed the bend of her knuckle into her front teeth, focusing on Bill Murray singing karaoke on the television rather than the flicking sound of her own skin – occasionally glancing over to see the blossom gradually fill in with color. Wirthlin moved the hand-carved bamboo rod meticulously with each angled insertion.
Cogswell worked feet away, a small teacup filled to the brim with green tea next to him. It was the exact manifestation of their ten year plan. Same city, same workplace, and ideally, they continued tattooing.
As he finished the cherry blossom, Wirthlin couldn’t conceal his pride in his work as he cleaned the leftover ink off of the needles. And the young woman couldn’t conceal her happiness as she stood in front of a large circular mirror reflecting a beautiful orange blossom on her right shoulder.
“With tattooing you’ve got one chance – do it right,” Wirthlin said. “I think it takes a lot of courage to display who you are on the inside and what you’re capable of.”
