About Travis Dale
The Beginnings of a Legacy
Art, Love, and well More Art
Turns out, my early years involved a surprising amount of earnest do-goodery. Picture this: me, a certified ambassador in the Youth Allies Sustainability Leadership Institute. Yes, you read that right, I was saving the planet, one awkwardly facilitated workshop at a time. I probably needed a sash (which, sadly, never materialized). Apparently, I was rather good at organizing things and rallying the youth, skills that, in hindsight, were just early training for managing demanding tattoo clients and their even more demanding design requests. I also spent a good chunk of my free time at Warehouse 21, the former Center for Contemporary Arts Teen Project in Santa Fe, mentoring the next generation of...well..something artistic. Fast forward a bit, and my pursuit of artistic enlightenment led me to the hallowed halls of the Santa Fe University of Art and Design. Then, in a move that proves even the most focused artists can be delightfully derailed, I followed my heart (and a woman whose name shall remain as mysterious as the whereabouts of my missing socks) to the Academy of Art University in San Francisco. It was there amidst the fog, and the existential dread of student loans, that I actually started believing in my artistic superpowers – a confidence I now wield to make sure your tattoo isn't just ink, but a tiny masterpiece with a touch of societal impact. Because, let's be honest, a well-placed tattoo can't change the world… It’s about the care, the craft, and leaving a little bit of positive ink on the world.
My Earliest Tattoo Journey
An early journey into the hallowed halls of skin art began, as many legendary tales do, with a questionable mail-order decision fueled by teenage angst and the siren call of the back pages of Mad Magazine. Armed with a tattoo kit that likely wouldn't pass muster in a flea market today, I boldly (read: foolishly) decided my 13-year-old cousin's epidermis was a blank canvas yearning for… something. The clandestine tattooing took place in the sacred, floral-wallpapered sanctuary of my Grandmother’s back bedroom, a location whose inherent innocence was immediately and irrevocably tainted. This pivotal moment remained shrouded in secrecy until my professional star had ascended to a respectable height, at which point it emerged like a poorly healed tattoo scar. While not exactly the "Eureka!" moment da Vinci experienced, I figured a true artist's origin story deserves a touch of mortification, so here you have it.
