Your Skin Is Valuable: Black, LGBTQ Tattoo Artists Overhaul a Whitewashed Industry
When most people envision a tattoo artist, the image of a white male—probably young, possibly a metal fan, and unquestionably heterosexual—comes to mind.
And then there’s Oba Jackson, a tattoo artist flying in the face of expectations both inside and outside the industry.
He’s big—6’3” to be exact—with a penchant for unique fashion a la Grace Jones. He’s unapologetically Black, his social media peppered with “power to the people” fists and exclamations against racist stereotypes in tattooing. He’s gay, looking forward to his 15th anniversary with his hairstylist husband, this spring.
Perhaps most importantly, he’s the owner of Push Tattoo Studio, a Wilmington, Del. shop working to create more inclusion in an industry that’s long been considered a white boy’s club.
“The tattoo community is one of the most homophobic and racist things I’ve ever seen. I feel like I have privilege because I am a male, so I feel like I have to use my privilege to speak up.”
- Oba Jackson
“At our shop, we try to let [customers] know that one, this is owned by a gay and Black person and two, you can be anything you want to be,” says Jackson, 39, whose skills have earned him accolades from other artists as well as a coveted spot on the popular reality TV competition Ink Master.
A lifelong artist, the Wilmington native specializes in hyper-realistic, black and gray portraits, with a special penchant for images of people of color. His portfolio bursts with inked versions of icons like Phyllis Hyman, Malcolm X, and Minnie Riperton alongside everyday moms, nephews, and cousins—each crease, cheekbone, or gapped tooth rendered with a near-photographic 3D quality.
Jackson’s work is about more than simply making art. It’s about breaking through—be it by respecting someone’s pronouns or simply making them feel comfortable in their skin.
He joins a growing community of tattooers pushing back against longstanding glass ceilings in an industry often criticized as exclusionary. From New York to Seattle, they’re opening shops advertised as gay-friendly, adding inclusive language to paperwork, and becoming more vocal about their experiences both as tattoo artists and consumers.
“The tattoo community is one of the most homophobic and racist things I’ve ever seen,” Jackson says. “I feel like I have privilege because I am a male, so I feel like I have to use my privilege to speak up.”
A New Dream
Almost as soon as Jackson could pick up a pencil, he was drawing. One of four siblings born into a family of artists. By the fifth grade, Jackson had already been tapped by his school for private art lessons. Yet despite encouragement from adults, Jackson never planned to make art a career. He instead had his sights set on a career in firefighting.
“I didn’t know anybody who had been a professional artist that was completely living off that,” he says. “I just knew I was gonna have to work for a living.”
Uninterested in college, Jackson graduated high school and moved on to a string of retail jobs before landing in a well-paid position styling windows for Nordstrom.
Along the way, he kept creating art, with his skin quickly becoming a canvas. His tattoo shop of choice was one where his brother had connections; there, they’d heard about Jackson’s talents and began asking if he’d ever considered a career change.
“I didn’t know anybody who had been a professional artist that was completely living off that. I just knew I was gonna have to work for a living.”
- Oba Jackson
“They would ask me if I would tattoo there and I would say no,” says Jackson, who had the same answer for eight years, until a conflict with his manager at Nordstrom made him reconsider.
Before long, Jackson was the shop’s latest apprentice, swiftly passing a trial by fire to become among their best artists, he says. A career change was born.
“I told myself once I make the same amount I do at Nordstrom’s, I would leave,” he says. “I did that in like six to seven months.”
But even as Jackson’s new career took flight, tensions arose.
“It was great,” he says. “But it was lacking something, like diversity.”
A Problematic History
With tattooing long considered the domain of rebels, it’s easy to imagine tattoo culture as welcoming people of all stripes with open arms. The truth is actually the opposite.
Despite tattooing being embraced by a variety of cultures worldwide, as everything from a religious rite to a mark of wealth, here in North America, tattoo culture has a history of being exclusionary at best and overtly discriminatory at worst. Early 19th-century tattooing was limited largely to sailors and soldiers— white men who used ink as a means of identification or even a lucky charm.
Fast-forward to 2022 and as many as 3 in 10 Americans have a tattoo, a number growing amid a cultural shift that’s made them far less taboo than in years past. The industry itself has undergone a glow-up as well, moving from a back-alley process to a multi-billion-dollar industry complete with studios that look more like an art gallery than the dive-like parlors of old. Yet even as the world of tattooing changes, it remains the same.
Professional tattoo artists across the country are 71 percent male and 59 percent white, according to one study that also found the pay among Black tattoo artists, in particular, is the lowest of any racial group. One thing limiting Black artists is lingering stereotypes surrounding the skill, says Rich Parker, a non-binary artist and owner of Atlanta-area studio New Leaf.
“When people see us, they’re going to expect we do hood tattoos—clouds and Tupac,” says Parker, adding those types of tattoos aren’t their main specialty. “I have to now prove to you that I’ve got what it takes beyond what you think.”
Black customers, meanwhile, face another type of subtle racism they may not even recognize, according to Jackson. It stems from an old and debunked notion that melanated skin is harder to tattoo.
“Shops charging people more because they’re Black,” says Jackson, who says he’s seen up to a $300 up-charge simply because an artist isn’t familiar with brown skin. “These people don’t value your skin.”
“When people see us, they’re going to expect we do hood tattoos—clouds and Tupac. I have to now prove to you that I’ve got what it takes beyond what you think.”
- Rich Parker
That’s all before you get to the matter of sexuality—a virtual landmine in the toxically masculine environment of the average old-school tattoo shop. While Jackson says his status as a “huge ass man” shielded him from direct insult, he often heard about what happened when he wasn’t around, from men being sexually harassed to trans clients being insulted. He recalled a specific incident involving a transfeminine customer who had been coming since before their transition.
“The men at the shop would not stop calling her ‘he’,” Jackson says.
Other times the discomfort is directed at the artist, says Parker, whose presentation in both masculine and feminine dress has led to some awkward moments.
“When I work in other peoples’ spaces I always kind of felt a little worried about expressing myself clothing-wise,” Parker says. “People think just because you’re a femme presenting person, or you don’t have a gender, it like weirds them out.”
Shifting The Paradigm
Asked about his unique name, Jackson answers nonchalantly.
“Muslim dad shit,” Jackson says with a laugh.
Yet his moniker—Nigerian for king or mover of nations—has proven to be prophetic as he helps usher in a new era for LGBTQ+ and POC would-be tattoo artists.
“I started to think about opening my own shop because the shop I was at was not it for gay people,” says Jackson, who expanded his shop in 2019. Push now does up to 150 people a week, he says.
Such shops are popping up around the country as LGBTQ+ artists seek to create spaces that not only make them comfortable but their clients as well. It comes as more people are searching for places to affirm their identity.
“On Facebook, I get that all the time,” Parker says. “Someone will say they’re looking for a trans artist in Atlanta of color—people always tag me.”
“I took myself out of that typical shop and put myself in a space where everyone can feel safe.”
- Oba Jackson
Parker moved into their own private space in part, after one too many coworkers burst in on a session with a genderqueer client half undressed. Now they go above and beyond to ensure clients feel at ease in their Atlanta-area space. Sessions take place in low, soothing lighting, with essential oils burning in the background. A sign advertises that they respect all pronouns; cover-ups are offered for those who feel uncomfortable being overly exposed.
“I took myself out of that typical shop and put myself in a space where everyone can feel safe,” says Parker, who also heavily displays Black art in their shop. With weird vibes removed, both artists and customers feel free to focus on their art. The results are spectacular.
Jackson’s Instagram pops with colorful paintings and tattoos that celebrate the Black and LGBTQ+ experience—from a striking arm piece that re-imagines the Statue of Liberty as a Black man, to a black and grey rendering of the iconic Paris is Burning poster.
“Just because the color of your skin may be darker does not mean your skin is less valuable.”
The latter piece emphasizes his role in helping LGBTQ+ people affirm who they are.
“She [a customer] said it was the first movie where people looked like her and her friends and were comfortable,” says Jackson, who urges LGBTQ+ and POC people to choose artists who respect their stories and their melanin.
“Just because the color of your skin may be darker does not mean your skin is less valuable.”
Dionne Walker-Bing is an Atlanta-based reporter with over a decade of experience. Walker offers a distinct voice and unique skill for capturing the stories of diverse communities, perfected while writing for The Associated Press, The Capital-Gazette (Annapolis), and a variety of other daily publications throughout the Southeast. When she’s not writing features, Walker is busy traveling, crafting, or perfecting her vinyasa yoga skills.