Full-Body Art Is Losing Its Luster in Modern Japan

They cost as much as $20,000, hurt like you wouldn’t believe and virtually guarantee pariah status in proper Japanese society. So why in the world would anyone seek such a thing? For those with full-body tattoos, known as horimono, it’s about inner satisfaction, a link with centuries-old tradition and the chance to show you’re a “real man”--or woman.

Unfortunately, say followers of this ancient Japanese art, old masters are dying off--and most young people aren’t interested in lengthy apprenticeships to learn a frowned-upon practice.

“Fewer and fewer people nowadays are doing horimono,” says Yoshiki Nishiyama, a 53-year-old fish wholesaler who sports an elaborate devil over his shoulder and down his arm. “Social bias is scaring many people off.”

While tattoos in the West are often the result of an alcohol-induced whim during adolescence, these costly Japanese treasures take months, even years, to complete and are cherished for a lifetime. Sometimes, they last even longer, as in the case of several half-century-old tattooed specimens preserved for skin research in a Tokyo University medical lab.

Because Japanese bearing these living, breathing works of art are shunned by mainstream society and barred from many pools and saunas, most keep their artwork hidden from almost everyone.

Muneo Uchino, 66, a retired plasterer, managed to conceal his skin canvas from his bride for the first six months of their marriage half a century ago by undressing in the dark and bathing in private.

“She was shocked when she found out” about his tattoo of flowers, waves and a large carp on his buttock, he says. “She’s used to it now, though.”

Voluntarily setting yourself apart from society takes courage in a culture where the value of fitting in is instilled from childhood. The bias faced by those bearing horimono, however, is eased by their discretion and any feeling of isolation by the strong bonds that develop in what sometimes approximates a secret society.

The negative perception many Japanese have of horimono stems in large part from their close identification with yakuza, or organized crime groups.

Many people with horimono decry this guilt by association, which they attribute to decades of formulaic Japanese films that depicted tattoo-clad gangsters committing dastardly deeds.

And while yakuza often display their tattoos to intimidate their victims--it’s been said that simply rolling up a sleeve can be enough to get money paid and trucks moving--real horimono wearers jealously guard their secret beneath robes and other coverings, traditionalists say.

“We hate summer,” says Katsutoshi Shimane, leader of the 101-year-old Edo Choyukai tattoo society. “Most of us don’t have any short-sleeve shirts, and it gets very hot.”

Even some yakuza members say using tattoos to scare people goes against the long-standing spirit of Japanese full-body art.

“Some may do that, but I think using it that way is shameful,” says Mitsuo Naganuma, a 26-year-old crime-family member from Yokohama with a warrior-and-tiger tattoo who just wrapped up a four-year prison term on assault and drug charges.

Despite the cool reception tattoo bearers receive from many ordinary Japanese, full-body art has been widely admired overseas for decades, often transmitted on the backs, arms and thighs of sailors. Britain’s King George V, the grandfather of Queen Elizabeth II, acquired a tattoo in the 1880s while on a port call to Japan with the Royal Navy, according to Murray’s 1891 Guide to Japan.

While Western tattoos are often highly personal, even faddish, with their bias toward ships, crosses, pinup girls, girlfriends and the Marine Corps, full-body Japanese tattoos draw on centuries-old Chinese folk tales or stories from Kabuki theater.

Toshikatsu Mizushiro, 40, a flower shop manager, has chosen various detailed floral themes derived from the classics. And Mikio Kujirai, a small-business owner living in Tokyo, says he chose a devil image from Noh drama to deter temptation.

“U.S. patterns aren’t necessarily linked to history,” says Yoshihito Nakano, a fully tattooed master tattoo artist who practices under the nom de ink Horiyoshi III and is one of the last acknowledged masters. “You might even use Arnold Schwarzenegger. We wouldn’t even consider someone from the Taisho era”--80 years ago.

Most of those with horimono are men, but Yoko Ashimine, 25, a production worker at a Kabuki theater, is on her 10th session with Horiyoshi III. She’s chosen a theme from one of the Kabuki productions she worked on.

“Since I’m involved in a very traditional job, I saw the tattoo tradition as a way to contribute to my work,” she says. “No one at work knows about it. It’s just for me.”

Tattoo masters say there’s been a recent rise in popularity of small, American-style tattoos among young people in Japan, where 18 is the legal age for going under the needle. While a few go on to receive a full-body treatment, enthusiasts say that social prejudice is dampening its appeal and undermining the creed of loyalty, dignity and discretion that traditionally bound this unique world.

Tattooing has a long history in Japan. Tattoo-clad clay figures have been found from the Jomon period, which lasted from 10,000 BC to 300 BC. Chinese texts record the Japanese practice as early as the 3rd century. Native Ainu tattooed mustache-like designs on their daughters as a sign of virtue.

By the late 17th century, tattoos were used to brand criminals--a tradition borrowed from China. Repeated offenses earned more lines and circles. Eventually, in some cases, the recidivists’ markings would form the Chinese character for dog--on their foreheads.

Legend has it that full-body tattoos developed as a way to work these criminal tags into something a bit more respectable. The vibrant designs seen today can be traced to the first half of the 18th century, when Japan’s elite samurai class started to stagnate and commoners from present-day Tokyo developed their own culture, arts and sensibility.

During this period, some woodblock carvers branched out into tattoo work as body art became increasingly popular among rickshaw drivers, laborers and carpenters, some of their wives--and women of ill repute. Most tattoo masters’ working names start with “Hori,” meaning “to carve.”

It was during this golden era of tattooing that tattoos became associated with hard physical labor, tough muscular men with strong community spirit, and bravery among volunteer firefighters.

“When they died in a blaze, their tattoos provided a way to identify them,” says Yohei Horikawa, a printer of old-style calling cards popular with tattoo bearers.

The arrival of Commodore Matthew Perry in 1853 set Japan on a rapid modernization course. The emerging bureaucratic class decided that tattoos had no place in the new order and outlawed them in 1872. The ban was lifted in 1948, but in recent decades, horimono aficionados say, social pressure against them has intensified.

Most full-body tattoos don’t extend to the forearms or shins, and a small bit of skin is left unmarked down the center of the chest and belly. This allows their bearers to preserve their secret, should a kimono open a little too far or a long-sleeve shirt inadvertently edge up.

Those with horimono tend to avoid public baths and hot springs. Go Fukushima, a 30-year-old carpenter, sneaks away after work to dress and wash separately from his colleagues. Laborer Michio Moriya says he’s never told his kids.

Many festivals that once welcomed horimono wearers now discourage them. Tattoo-holders say police sometimes blare warnings over loudspeakers that everyone’s shirt must stay on, to keep tattoo-bearers in check.

As in many traditional crafts, there’s a strong apprenticeship system. Clients often stay in touch with their tattoo artists throughout their lifetimes and frequently share their innermost thoughts the way Westerners might with a longtime family doctor. Moriya, his back bedecked with carp, says he waited 30 years before finding someone whose outlook he shared.

Once a master agrees to take you on, it’s a major commitment. The full piece can take more than a year at a normal pace, involving hundreds of hours. Clients pick designs from books, but the tattoo master often takes the lead in deciding what pattern a client should wear for the rest of his or her life.

Once a year, tattooed members of the Edo Choyukai association, which is proud of its link to “the spirit of real men from Old Tokyo,” get together in the heat of summer for a pilgrimage to the Oyama shrine on the outskirts of Tokyo.

Trains have replaced footpaths, and cell phones ring incessantly on the trip. But the mostly middle-aged men still strip down, don loincloths and dive into a nearby waterfall, just as their counterparts did 100 years ago. The snake-like trail of near-naked colored men wends its way up the steep mountain, bodies undulating, female figures gesturing over spindly muscles, snake figures twisting and flowers glistening under dew-like beads of perspiration.

The men ooh, ah and marvel at one another’s skin art, exchange stories and admire old photos. There’s friendly competition between those in favor of the traditional, labor-intensive hand tattooing methods and those who prefer rapid-fire machine needle work, with its more vibrant colors.

One thing both camps agree on: The pain is searing, particularly on the stomach and lower spine areas. But quiet suffering is also part of the mystique, an initiation rite of sorts, forming a bond of endurance.

Tattoo artists generally start from the middle of the back and expand with postcard-size blocks. Eventually, after many pricks, pokes and blood splatters, the piece comes together. Those customers who go only partway are known as “turtles” for their dark backs and white underbellies. The top artists sign their work--but generally only after the piece is finished, providing an incentive to get the full treatment.

As the shrine day wraps up, the men put their guards back up in preparation for their return to society. Dragons, demons and maidens retreat from the sun under shirts and trousers for another year.

“We are so used to hiding it. It’s the equivalent of a very valuable jewel for us,” says Masahiro Itakura, a 56-year-old plasterer bearing an elaborate dog tattoo. “This is the only day of the year we can really let go and feel free.”

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Hisako Ueno in The Times’ Tokyo Bureau contributed to this report.