Friday Jones inks up Aubrey O'Day by Peate Hero Suzuki
As I lingered on the edge of the dance floor at Tuesday night’s Friday Jones Fifth Avenue Tattoo Couture party, clutching a cup of Hpnotiq and something, looking desperately for the friends I had brought here, a publicist tried to bounce me.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, glaring suspiciously at my button-down and tie. I had just come from work, and that fact alone set me apart from this scene: For most of the T-shirted, tattoo-sleeved men and the corseted, big-haired women with whom they were grinding, this party was work.
“I want to meet Friday Jones,” I shouted to the woman over the thumping, shimmering club jam. She hesitated. Was I fit to meet Friday Jones, tattoo visionary, one-time apprentice at marquee shop Inksmith & Rogers, hostess of tonight’s event—the same Friday Jones who is rumored to have inscribed Billy Bob’s name on Angelina Jolie’s vagina? “Follow me,” she said.
We fought our way across the floor, through a curtain and down a hallway, dodging tattooed couples emerging from back rooms. I spotted my friend, who said he had to split: The party was too reminiscent of a nightmare he once had about a gay dance club in the ’90s.
Jones was very tall, very tattooed and flanked by two Nordic men. She shook my hand enthusiastically and told me about the couture tattoo process, in which the artist takes account of the subject’s muscle structure and prescribes treatment lotions, creating a more vivid and durable tattoo. The procedure seemed sort of the opposite of badass, but then again, inking is now fairly main stream (there had been a tattoo runway show here before the party). Indeed, Friday’s couture parlor, which opened in June, serves a growing demand: It’s the first tattoo studio on Fifth Avenue, and tattooed luminaries including Aubrey O’Day, apparently some sort of songbird, graced the party with their presence.
Friday asked if I would like a tattoo. I said nothing at first, contemplating that immense honor. The Nordic men laughed. I opened my mouth, ready to accept, ready for a Friday Jones tattoo, when she asked, with a wink, where I wanted it done.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, glaring suspiciously at my button-down and tie. I had just come from work, and that fact alone set me apart from this scene: For most of the T-shirted, tattoo-sleeved men and the corseted, big-haired women with whom they were grinding, this party was work.
“I want to meet Friday Jones,” I shouted to the woman over the thumping, shimmering club jam. She hesitated. Was I fit to meet Friday Jones, tattoo visionary, one-time apprentice at marquee shop Inksmith & Rogers, hostess of tonight’s event—the same Friday Jones who is rumored to have inscribed Billy Bob’s name on Angelina Jolie’s vagina? “Follow me,” she said.
We fought our way across the floor, through a curtain and down a hallway, dodging tattooed couples emerging from back rooms. I spotted my friend, who said he had to split: The party was too reminiscent of a nightmare he once had about a gay dance club in the ’90s.
Jones was very tall, very tattooed and flanked by two Nordic men. She shook my hand enthusiastically and told me about the couture tattoo process, in which the artist takes account of the subject’s muscle structure and prescribes treatment lotions, creating a more vivid and durable tattoo. The procedure seemed sort of the opposite of badass, but then again, inking is now fairly main stream (there had been a tattoo runway show here before the party). Indeed, Friday’s couture parlor, which opened in June, serves a growing demand: It’s the first tattoo studio on Fifth Avenue, and tattooed luminaries including Aubrey O’Day, apparently some sort of songbird, graced the party with their presence.
Friday asked if I would like a tattoo. I said nothing at first, contemplating that immense honor. The Nordic men laughed. I opened my mouth, ready to accept, ready for a Friday Jones tattoo, when she asked, with a wink, where I wanted it done.
