This is 45 -Ink Shiller

Ink Shiller It was 1999, and the shop was my second home — a mix of soap, blood, and burnt ink that hit your nose the second you walked in. The hum of the needles wasn’t noise; it was music — the morning coffee for a different kind of artist. Every day brought a new confession, a new canvas with skin that bled stories. Some wanted roses, others demons, and a few wanted things I still can’t unsee. Boobs, butts, armpits — if it could stretch, someone wanted it inked. The needle had no shame. But behind every piece of art was a price — not just in cash, but in pain. They paid with screams, I paid with numb hands that buzzed long after the machines stopped. Sometimes I’d wonder if I’d wake up the next day with fingers still steady enough to draw another line into someone’s forever. Still, I loved it — the chaos, the smell, the laughter, the blood. It was pure, real, human. Every piece was a moment burned into both of us.And when the clock hit closing time, I’d look around at the mess — gloves, rags, ink splatter on the floor — and call it what it was: a masterpiece of madness. I still remember the manger say every night 12am the "Shop’s closed, bitches. Get the fuck out." This work was made from old drawing that I did while I was a tattoo artist in 1999. I then animated this year 2025 to bring them to life. (Drawings made 1998-1999/animated in 2025) "Death can wait ,because I still have shit to Create." AKA Chambo