In

 the  Skin:    
An  Ethnographic-­‐Historical  Approach  to  a  Museum  Collection    
of  Preserved  Tattoos.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Gemma  Angel  
PhD  History  of  Art  
University  College  London  
2013  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Volume  I  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

DECLARATION  
 
I,  Gemma  Angel,  confirm  that  the  work  presented  in  this  thesis  is  my  own.  Where  information  
has  been  derived  from  other  sources,  I  confirm  that  this  has  been  indicated  in  the  thesis.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

Abstract  
 
This  thesis  deals  with  a  collection  of  300  preserved  tattooed  human  skin  fragments  held  in  
storage  at  the  Science  Museum,  London.  Historically  part  of  the  Wellcome  medical  collections,  
these  skins  are  of  European  origin  and  date  from  c.1850-­‐1920.  The  collection  was  purchased  in  
1929  on  behalf  of  Sir  Henry  Wellcome  from  a  Parisian  physician,  and  is  exemplary  with  respect  
to  its  size  and  coherence.  The  thesis  argues  for  the  significance  of  such  collections  for  the  
understanding  of  the  material  culture  of  medicine.    
  As  little  archival  material  relating  to  this  particular  collection  survives,  it  is  
contextualised  both  in  relation  to  the  contemporary  museum  setting,  and  within  nineteenth-­‐
century  medical  and  criminological  discourses  surrounding  the  tattoo.  Through  the  adoption  
of  a  combined  auto-­‐ethnographic  and  historiographical  approach,  this  thesis  sets  out  to  
explore  all  aspects  of  the  collection.  The  structure  of  the  thesis  demonstrates  this  method  and  
reflects  my  working  process:  The  project  is  first  situated  within  the  contemporary  museum  
context,  and  framed  within  an  ethical  and  political  field  in  which  human  remains  have  been  
problematised.  This  context  underpins  a  theoretical  approach  that  redefines  these  remains  as  
hybrid  entities,  and  informs  a  multi-­‐sensory,  auto-­‐ethnographic  working  method  within  the  
museum  environment.  A  close  visio-­‐material  analysis  of  the  tattooed  skins  then  explores  both  
their  substance  and  iconography  in  some  detail.  The  collection  of  skins  is  then  situated  within  
the  broader  historical  contexts  of  flaying;  nineteenth-­‐century  collecting  practices  and  medical  
and  criminological  discourses  on  the  tattoo;  an  analysis  of  historical  procedures  and  contexts  
of  skin  preservation  and  display;  and  a  visual  analysis  of  the  iconography  of  the  tattoos  and  
critical  discussion  of  their  reading.    
  Through  this  approach,  I  demonstrate  that  the  tattoo  was  a  highly  ambiguous  and  
frequently  stigmatised  sign  in  the  late  nineteenth  century,  whose  polysemic  and  fugitive  
meaning  eluded  criminologists  who  sought  to  assimilate  them  into  taxonomies  of  deviance.  
Similarly,  as  contemporary  museum  artefacts,  they  resist  simple  categorisation  and  
interpretation,  necessitating  an  interdisciplinary,  ethnographical-­‐historical  approach,  which  
enables  a  multi-­‐faceted  understanding  of  their  substance,  significance  and  origins.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

CONTENTS  
 
VOLUME  I  
                      Page  
 
Introduction                   5  
 
1. Subjects,  Objects,  Entities:  Defining  the  Collection         23  
 
2. Material  Analysis  and  Research  Context             53  
 
3. The  Body  Strip't  Bare:  Flaying  in  Myth,  Folklore  and  Medicine       87  
 
4. Collecting  and  the  Body  in  the  Archive             124  
 
5. The  Tattoo  in  Nineteenth-­‐Century  Criminological  and  Medical         158  
Discourse  
 
Conclusions                   187  

Bibliography       199  

VOLUME  II  

Appendices          
 
i. Appendix  I:  Figures                 iii.  
 
ii. Appendix  II:  Science  Museum  Catalogue  Object  List         cliii.
  

 INTRODUCTION  
 
I  don't  know  if  a  written  history  of  tattoos  has  already  been  attempted;  I  believe  
that   it   wouldn't   lack   interest.   In   an   article   on   human   skin   and   its   connoisseurs  
that  I  published  in  a  medical  journal,  I  am  reminded  of  a  hospital  surgeon  who  
recently   died,   Dr.   G...   who   recommended,   during   every   autopsy,   to   carefully  
scalp  the  skins  of  subjects  wearing  tattoos  [...]  Do  you  not  think,  dear  colleagues,  
that  a  written  history  of  tattoos  and  those  who  collect  them  (because  there  are  
connoisseurs)   could   interest   some   spirit   in   love   with   curiosity...   Macabre,   I  
admit.1  
 
                  Anon.,  1889  
 
The  above  comments  appeared  in  the  1889  volume  of  L'intermediaire  des  Chercheurs  et  
Curieux,2  in  an  article  entitled  Les  tatouages  et  leurs  collectionneurs  (Tattoos  and  their  
collectors).  Whilst  a  number  of  scholarly  works  on  the  tattoo  had  been  written  by  this  
time,  notably  in  the  fields  of  criminology  and  forensic  medicine,3  the  rather  specialised  
collecting  interest  that  the  anonymous  author  refers  to  -­‐  the  preservation  of  tattooed  
human  skin  -­‐  had  certainly  not  been  addressed  in  the  literature.  This  most  niche  of  
European  collecting  pursuits  first  emerged4  during  the  nineteenth  century,  reflecting  
the  growing  academic  interest  in  the  tattoo  amongst  criminologists,  medical  
professionals  and  anthropologists.  The  collectors  themselves  were  not  necessarily  
directly  engaged  in  the  scholarly  debates  on  tattooing,  taken  up  during  the  final  decades  
of  the  nineteenth  century  in  specialised  academic  journals,  such  as  the  French  Archives  
de  l'anthropologie  criminelle.  These  individuals  are  an  historically  elusive  and  eclectic  
group  of  (as  far  as  we  know)  doctors,  forensic  specialists,  police  officials,  and  
bibliophiles;  men  who  did  not  generally  advertise  their  collecting  interests,  and  
occasionally  even  found  themselves  embroiled  in  public  scandals  as  a  consequence  of  

                                                                                                               
1  Anon.  Pont-­‐Calé,  L'intermediaire    des  Chercheurs  et  Curieux,  No.  496,  Col.  11,  (1889).  Translated  from  the  

French:    
Je  suis  si  l'on  jamais  tenté  une  monographie  du  tatouage;  j'ai  quelque  lieu  de  croire  qu'elle  ne  manquerait  pas  
d'intérêt.  Au  course  d'un  article  sur  la  peau  humaine  et  ses  amateurs,  publié  dans  un  journal  médicale,  j'ai  
rappelé  qu'un  chirurgien  des  hôpitaux,  mort  récemment,  le  Dr  G...,  recommandait,  à  chaque  autopsie,  de  
scalper  soigneusement  la  peau  des  sujets  portent  des  tatouages.  [...]  Ne  pensez-­‐vous  pas,  très  chers  confrères,  
qu'une  monographie  du  tatouage  et  de  ceux  qui  les  collectionnent  (car  il  y  a  des  amateurs)  pourrait  tenter  un  
esprit  épris  de  curiosité...  macabre,  j'en  conviens.    
2  L'intermediaire    des  Chercheurs  et  Curieux  is  the  French  version  of  Notes  and  Queries,  a  long-­‐running  

English  academic  correspondence  journal  founded  in  1849,  publishing  short  articles  on  language,  
literature,  lexicography,  history,  and  scholarly  antiquarianism.  
3  See,  for  example  Mathurin  Félix  Hutin,  Recherches  sur  les  tatouages,  (1853);  Ernest  Berchon,  Histoire  

Medicale  Du  Tatouage,  (1869);  and  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  Le  Tatouages:  etude  anthropologique  et  medico  
legale,  (1881).    
4  There  are  a  number  of  earlier  reports  of  tattooed  human  skin  exhibited  in  anatomical  collections  and  

cabinets  of  curiosities,  which  will  be  discussed  at  greater  length  in  chapter  four.  The  majority  of  these  
specimens  do  not  survive  today.  
5  
 
  

their  collecting  practices.5  The  anonymous  author  quoted  above  offers  us  a  glimpse  of  
the  professional  context  of  such  a  collector,  as  well  as  hinting  at  their  source  of  
fascination  with  tattoos:  The  doctor  in  his  pathology  lab;  and  the  broader  appeal  of  
preserved  tattooed  human  skin  as  a  kind  of  macabre  curiosity.  The  figure  of  the  
nameless  doctor  who  routinely  stripped  tattoos  from  the  bodies  of  cadavers  is  
encountered  more  than  once  in  the  historical  material  on  tattoo  collecting.  Similarly,  a  
morbid  fascination  with  such  collections  -­‐  and  with  collections  of  human  skin  objects  
more  generally  -­‐  is  frequently  encountered  in  the  columns  of  the  L'intermediaire  des  
Chercheurs  et  Curieux  and  its  English  equivalent  Notes  and  Queries,  as  well  as  in  popular  
press  such  as  the  Mercure  de  France,  from  c.1850  until  the  early  1930s.  
  This  thesis  is  the  first  attempt  to  write  a  history  of  tattoo  collections  and  those  
who  collected  them.  It  explores  their  practices  and  motivations,  the  academic  
discourses  which  frame  and  contextualise  the  assembly  and  display  of  collections  of  
tattooed  human  skin,  and  their  place  within  medical  and  forensic  collections,  past  and  
present.  This  history  does  not  claim  to  be  an  exhaustive  account  of  all  tattoo  collections  
everywhere;  but  rather  it  is  the  culmination  of  four  years  of  historiographic  and  
ethnographic  research  into  a  specific  collection  of  preserved  tattoos  held  in  the  
Wellcome  Collection,  London.  Though  comparative  collections  form  an  integral  aspect  
of  my  discussion  and  analysis,  the  specific  historical  and  geographic  context  of  the  
Wellcome  Collection  tattoos  is  foregrounded  throughout.    
 
The  Wellcome  Tattoo  Collection:  History  and  Context  
 
The  collection  in  focus  seems  to  perfectly  match  the  macabre  compilation  of  skins  the  
anonymous  author  of  Intermediaire  des  chercheurs  et  des  curieux  had  in  mind.  Whilst  it  
has  proved  impossible  to  establish  under  what  circumstances  the  individual  pieces  
were  gathered,  the  little  we  do  know  comes  from  Wellcome  Library  archival  records.  In  
June  1929,  an  itinerant  English  purchasing  agent  named  Peter  Johnson-­‐Saint  met  with  
one  of  his  contacts  in  Paris,  a  Dr.  Lavalette,  to  finalise  the  sale  of  a  collection  of  curious  
objects.  Where  exactly  this  meeting  took  place  is  not  clear;  the  only  reference  to  an  
address  is  recorded  on  an  accession  slip  and  simply  reads  ‘Rue  Ecole  de  Medecine’6.  

                                                                                                               
5  There  are  a  handful  of  accounts  of  women  collectors  of  tattooed  skin,  all  of  whom  were  American.  The  

collecting  practices  of  these  women  are  not  addressed  by  this  research,  the  focus  of  which  is  on  the  
European  context  in  general,  and  the  French  milieu  in  particular.  As  for  scandals,  see,  for  example,  Andre  
Pascal's  account  of  the  Pranzini  scandal:  Pranzini.  The  Crime  in  the  Rue  Montaigne,  (London:  Rich  &  Cowan,  
1935),  pp.  273-­‐278.  
6  As  is  frequently  the  case  with  the  Wellcome  Collection  archives,  there  are  many  inconsistencies  and  

mistakes  in  the  records  -­‐  the  correct  spelling  in  this  instance  should  be  ‘Rue  de  l’Ecole  de  Medecine’.  Indeed,  
6  
 
  

This  particular  street  is  significant  since  it  is  at  the  historic  heart  of  Parisian  medical  
studies,  home  to  the  Université  Paris  Descartes  as  well  as  the  important  pathological  
collection  of  the  Musée  Dupuytren.  But  whether  or  not  Johnston-­‐Saint  was  visiting  a  
member  of  the  medical  faculty  that  day,  or  a  man  who  occupied  himself  in  private  
practice,  is  unknown;  Parisian  medical  registers  for  the  period  record  no  trace  of  a  
physician  or  surgeon  going  by  the  name  'Lavalette'  or  'La  Valette'.  Johnston-­‐Saint  did  
however  keep  a  record  of  his  purchasing  activities  for  his  employer,  including  a  brief  
description  of  the  objects  he  acquired.  His  journal  entry  for  Saturday  June  15th  reads  as  
follows:  
 
I  then  went  to  see  Lavalette  in  the  rue  Ecole  de  Medecine.  This  is  the  man  who  
had  the  collection  of  over  300  tattooed  human  skins.  These  skins  date  from  the  
first   quarter   of   last   century   down   to   the   present   time;   many   of   them   are   very  
curious   and   extremely   interesting,   consisting   of   skins   of   sailors,   soldiers,  
murderers   and   criminals   of   all   nationalities.   He   also   has   the   very   unique  
mummified   head   of   an   Arab,   mummified   in   such   a   manner   as   to   preserve   the  
features  in  a  most  lifelike  condition.  He  says  that  this  was  a  special  process  of  his  
own   and   is   unique   in   mummification.   There   was   also   a   galvanised   human   brain,  
the   only   example   of   its   kind   in   the   world,   prepared   in   the   laboratory   of   the  
Musée  Dupuytren  in  Paris  […]  Lavalette  told  me  that  the  skins  are  unique,  that  
no   more   could   now   be   got   under   any   circumstances   and   that   each   skin   had  
taken  him  a  long  time  and  cost  him  a  certain  amount  to  cure  and  prepare  for  his  
permanent  collection.7  
 
The  details  of  Lavalette’s  mysterious  and  ‘unique’  preservation  methods,  and  how  
exactly  he  came  to  possess  such  a  large  quantity  of  fragments  of  tattooed  human  skin,  is  
not  revealed  in  Johnston-­‐Saint’s  notes.  One  thing  however,  is  clear;  Henry  Wellcome  -­‐  
Victorian  entrepreneur,  prolific  collector  and  Johnston-­‐Saint’s  employer  -­‐  was  keen  to  
acquire  the  particular  objects  Lavalette  had  on  offer  for  his  ‘historic  medical  museum’.8  
His  notes,  scrawled  in  the  margins  of  Johnston-­‐Saint’s  typed  reports,  emphatically  state,  
'these  of  great  interest  to  us  for  certain  section'9  (see  Figure  1).  What  exactly  were  
Wellcome’s  intentions  for  this  motley  collection  of  human  remains?  More  than  eighty  
years  later,  they  remain  in  storage  at  the  Science  Museum’s  archives  at  Blythe  House  in  
London,  and  aside  from  the  inclusion  of  a  few  tattooed  skins  in  a  small  number  of  recent  
exhibitions  on  diverse  themes,  most  of  the  collection  has  never  been  on  display  to  the  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
there  is  some  question  as  to  the  correct  spelling  of  the  name  of  Johnston-­‐Saint’s  contact;  his  handwritten  
journal  entries  read  ‘Lavalette’,  but  are  frequently  typed  in  subsequent  records  as  ‘La  Valette’  (Figure  1).  
7  Peter  Johnston-­‐Saint,  1929a.  Johnston-­‐Saint  Reports  Jan-­‐Nov  1929,  (Saturday  June  15th),  p.  9.  Wellcome  

Library,  London.  
8  For  more  on  this  subject,  see  chapter  five  in  Frances  Larson’s  engaging  account  of  Henry  Wellcome’s  life  

and  work,  An  Infinity  of  Things:  How  Sir  Henry  Wellcome  Collected  the  World,  (2009).  
9  Johnston-­‐Saint,  1929a.  Johnston-­‐Saint  Reports  Jan-­‐Nov  1929,  (Saturday  June  15th),  p.  9.  

7  
 
  

public.10  Henry  Wellcome’s  interest  in  the  history  of  human  health  and  medicine  
spurred  his  prolific  collecting  of  a  wide  range  of  artefacts  from  human  bones,  tissue  and  
skin,  to  medicine  chests,  x-­‐ray  machines  and  iron  lungs,  to  birthing  chairs  and  
prosthetic  limbs  -­‐  over  a  million  objects  by  the  time  of  his  death  in  1936.  This  thesis  is  
concerned  with  a  small  fraction  of  this  vast  collection  -­‐  a  mere  three  hundred  individual  
items  housed  in  a  single  storage  cupboard.  Three  hundred  preserved  tattooed  human  
skins,  a  complete  collection  in  itself,  acquired  in  a  single  purchase  from  Lavalette.  
  Little  is  known  about  the  seller  aside  from  the  suggestion,  also  made  in  Johnson-­‐
Saint’s  journals,  that  he  acquired  the  skins  through  his  work  in  military  hospitals,  
barracks  and  prisons.  Three  years  of  archive  research  has  revealed  no  trace  of  a  medical  
professional  named  Lavalette  during  the  relevant  time  period  in  Paris.  It  is  thus  highly  
doubtful  that  this  was  the  seller's  real  name.  If  indeed  he  did  use  a  pseudonym,  this  
perhaps  suggests  that  his  post-­‐mortem  collecting  practices,  or  the  sale  of  these  remains,  
were  already  sensitive  issues  in  1929.    
  The  thorny  question  of  the  ethics  -­‐  and  indeed  the  politics  -­‐  of  the  preservation,  
use  and  display  of  human  remains,  are  not  only  matters  of  historical  importance,  but  
are  also  of  contemporary  relevance.  These  problematics,  encountered  in  the  present  
day  museum  context,  have  framed  and  informed  this  thesis  from  the  outset.    
  Public  opinion  and  professional  approaches  to  human  remains  became  
sensitised  in  the  UK  during  the  late  1990s  and  early  2000s  following  a  combination  of  
medical  scandals,  controversial  exhibitions  and  new  legislation.11  Controversy  first  
erupted  in  1999,  following  revelations  that  pathologist  Dirk  Van  Velzen  had  ordered  the  
systematic  removal  and  retention  of  children’s'  organs  during  autopsies  at  Alder  Hey  
Hospital  in  Liverpool,  without  the  informed  consent  of  parents.  Subsequent  media  
coverage  of  the  scandal  and  public  outcry  called  into  question  the  working  practices  of  
pathologists,  and  lead  to  a  crisis  of  authority  in  both  the  health  and  heritage  sectors,  
where  historical  collections  of  human  remains  were  increasingly  becoming  viewed  as  
problematic.  Sensationalist  stories  in  the  press,  which  described  the  activities  of  the  

                                                                                                               
10  Two  of  the  Wellcome  Collection’s  preserved  tattooed  human  skins  are  on  display  as  part  of  the  

permanent  exhibition,  Medicine  Man  (http://www.wellcomecollection.org/whats-­‐

on/exhibitions/medicine-­‐man.aspx);  seven  of  the  skins  were  also  displayed  during  the  course  of  this  
project  in  the  exhibition  Skin,  also  at  the  Wellcome  Collection  (http://www.wellcomecollection.org/whats-­‐
on/exhibitions/skin.aspx);  a  further  two  specimens  were  displayed  as  part  of    the  Science  Museum  
exhibition,  Psychoanalysis:  The  Unconscious  in  Everyday  Life  from  October  13th  2010  to  April  15th  2011  
(Digital  catalogue  available  online  at:  http://www.beyondthecouch.org.uk/digital-­‐catalogue).  
11  Lisa  O'Sullivan,  ‘Material  Legacies:  Indigenous  Remains  and  Contested  Values  in  UK  Museum  Collections’,  

in  Susanne  Berthier-­‐Fogler,  Sheila  Collingwood-­‐Whittick  and  Sandrine  Tolazzi  (eds.)  Biomapping  

Indigenous  Peoples:  Towards  an  Understanding  of  the  Issues,  (2012),  p.  394.  
8  
 
  

pathologist  at  Alder  Hey  as  'the  dismemberment  of  children',12  were  further  fuelled  by  
the  inflammatory  statements  of  Alan  Milburn,  the  then  Minister  of  Health,  who  publicly  
condemned  post-­‐mortem  practice  as  'gruesome'  and  'grotesque'.  From  the  point  of  view  
of  many  medical  professionals,  pathologists  (and  especially  paediatric  pathologists)  in  
particular,  this  negative  publicity  inflicted  lasting  damage  on  their  field.  According  to  
one  concerned  practitioner,  'some  very  senior  and  experienced  paediatric  pathologists  
have  left  the  speciality  and  whole  departments  have  closed.  Twenty  percent  of  senior  
posts  and  almost  half  of  trainee  posts  remain  unfilled.'13      
  In  the  museums  and  heritage  sector,  the  broader  debate  about  the  repatriation  
of  indigenous  human  remains  to  source  communities  in  North  America,  Canada,  
Australia  and  New  Zealand,  from  museums  in  the  United  States  and  Britain,  had  already  
primed  museum  professionals  for  a  change  in  approach  to  the  collections  of  human  
remains  in  their  care.  In  the  UK,  the  human  remains  debate  was  further  complicated  by  
a  series  of  controversial  exhibitions  of  human  bodies  that  went  on  display  in  London  
from  the  late  1990s  onwards.  These  included:  London  Bodies:  The  Changing  Shape  of  
Londoners  from  Prehistoric  Times  to  the  Present  Day  at  the  Museum  of  London  in  1998;  
Spectacular  Bodies:  The  Art  and  Science  of  the  Human  Body  from  Leonardo  to  Now  at  the  
Hayward  Gallery  in  2000;  and  the  commercial  exhibition  Body  Worlds:  The  Anatomical  
Exhibition  of  Real  Human  Bodies  at  the  Atlantis  Gallery  in  2002.  The  most  significant  of  
these  was  Body  Worlds,  which  displayed  twenty  five  whole  anatomised  and  posed  
human  bodies,  as  well  as  one  hundred  and  seventy  five  organs  and  body  parts,  
preserved  according  to  the  patented  plastination  method  developed  by  German  
anatomist  and  showman  Gunther  von  Hagens.  Whilst  this  exhibition  was  highly  popular  
with  the  public,  ethical  questions  were  raised  in  the  press  regarding  the  source  of  some  
of  von  Hagens'  cadavers.  Writing  in  The  Observer  newspaper  in  2002,  journalists  Paul  
Harris  and  Kate  Connelly  revealed  that  whilst  the  twenty-­‐five  whole  bodies  had  been  
donated  to  Hagens'  Institute  of  Plastination,  the  provenance  of  the  organs  was  
somewhat  more  vague:  
 
Last   year   he   took   a   consignment   of   56   corpses   from   the   Medical   Academy   in   the  
Russian   city   of   Novosibirsk.   Some   were   believed   to   be   from   prisoners,   homeless  
people  and  the  mentally  ill  whose  bodies  were  unclaimed  after  they  died.14  

                                                                                                               
12  Sarah  Boseley,  ‘Grotesque  breach  of  trust  at  Alder  Hey.’  The  Guardian,  29th  January  2001.  

(http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/2001/jan/29/health.alderhey?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487)  
13  Waney  Squier,  'The  Human  Tissue  Bill:  the  death  of  pathology?'  in  Developmental  Medicine  and  Child  

Neurology,  Vol.  46,  (2004),  p.  572-­‐575.  

14  Paul  Harris  and  Kate  Connolly,  'World  trade  in  bodies  is  linked  to  corpse  art  show,'  The  Observer,  Sunday  

17th  March,  2002.  (http://www.theguardian.com/world/2002/mar/17/paulharris.kateconnolly).    There  

has  also  been  some  controversy  surrounding  Von  Hagens'  plastination  'factories'  in  Kaszachstan  and  China.  
9  
 
  

Though  the  status  of  these  bodies  could  not  be  fully  substantiated  or  denied,  many  
responded  with  unease  to  what  some  considered  the  'freak  show'  theatricality  of  
Hagens'  exhibits.  The  pressure  group  Pity  II,  which  was  set  up  by  parents  whose  
children  were  involved  in  the  Alder  Hey  scandal,  were  among  the  most  vocal  critics,  
demanding  that  the  exhibition  be  closed.  John  O'Hare,  the  chairman  of  the  group,  
described  the  exhibition  as  'tasteless'  and  'insensitive  to  the  suffering  of  all  the  parents  
who  are  still  going  through  so  much  trauma.'15      
  The  impact  of  converging  scandals  and  controversies  relating  to  the  retention  
and  display  of  human  remains  ultimately  influenced  the  development  of  new  legislation  
in  the  form  of  the  2004  Human  Tissue  Act  (HTA).  In  response  to  public  concern  over  the  
use  of  the  human  body  in  clinical  and  research  settings,  informed  consent  is  the  
cornerstone  of  the  new  Act;  however  it  also  encompasses  the  storage  and  display  of  
human  remains,  bringing  museum  collections  into  its  legislative  remit.  Lisa  O'Sullivan  
has  noted  that  'the  inclusion  of  public  displays  of  remains  in  the  Act  related  to  ethical  
concerns  about  the  source  of  bodies  displayed  in  exhibitions  such  as  Gunther  von  
Hagens'  Body  Worlds,  as  much,  if  not  more,  than  existing  museums  collections',  pointing  
out  that  this  exhibition  was  repeatedly  referenced  in  Parliamentary  discussions  relating  
to  the  passing  of  the  HTA  Bill.16  This  legislation  has  had  far-­‐reaching  implications  for  the  
museums  sector,  and  historical  medical  collections  in  particular.  In  response  to  the  Act,  
many  institutions  have  drafted  their  own  codes  and  guidelines  relating  to  storage  
arrangements,  handling,  public  access  and  display,  which  are  aimed  at  promoting  the  
respectful  treatment  of  the  human  remains  in  their  care.  
  The  Human  Tissue  Authority  was  set  up  to  act  as  a  watchdog  and  govern  the  
licensing  of  organisations  that  store  and  use  human  tissue  for  purposes  such  as  
research,  patient  treatment,  post-­‐mortem  examination,  teaching,  and  public  exhibitions.  
Public  display  is  defined  by  the  watchdog  as:  'An  exhibition,  show  or  display  in  which  a  
body  of  a  deceased  person  or  relevant  material  which  has  come  from  the  body  of  a  
deceased  person  is  used  for  the  purpose  of  being  exposed  to  view  by  the  public.'17  
However,  the  Human  Tissue  Authority  website  also  notes  that  it  'does  not  license  the  
display  of  photographic  or  electronic  images,  for  example  on  TV  or  in  a  textbook',  since  
photography  and  moving  images  fall  outside  of  the  remit  of  the  Act.  Despite  this,  some  
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
See,  for  example:  Jeremy  Laurance,  'Gunther  Von  Hagens:  Under  the  skin  of    Doctor  Death',  The  
Independent,  Tuesday  30th  October,  2007.  
(http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/profiles/gunther-­‐von-­‐hagens-­‐under-­‐the-­‐skin-­‐of-­‐doctor-­‐
death-­‐395556.html)  
15  Thomas  Martin,  'Anger  at  corpses  on  show.  Pity  II  shock  at  art  exhibit',  Liverpool  Echo,  Tuesday  12th  

March,  2002.  
16  O'Sullivan,  'Material  Legacies'  p.  395.  
17  See:  www.hta.gov.uk/licensingandinspections/sectorspecificinformation/publicdisplay.cfm  

10  
 
  

institutions  have  chosen  to  restrict  or  prohibit  photography  of  the  human  remains  in  
their  collections.18  As  well  as  impacting  upon  access  and  display  policies,  the  legislation  
has  also  resulted  in  a  restructuring  of  archives  and  their  storage  procedures  in  many  
institutions,  including  the  Science  Museum.  In  accordance  with  new  guidelines19,  which  
foregrounded  the  'respectful  treatment'  of  human  remains,  these  collections  were  in  
many  cases  separated  from  other  objects  within  the  museum  archive.    Tiffany  Jenkins  
writes  that  this  has  had  a  significant  effect  on  the  way  in  which  human  remains  are  
conceptualised  within  the  museum:  
 
Whereas  in  the  past,  human  remains  were  not  considered  'a  collection'  but  parts  
of   different   ways   of   organizing   the   whole   collection   and   thus   part   of   different  
disciplines,  this  policy  begins  to  consider  human  remains  as  a  category  in  and  of  
themselves.20  
 
  In  the  Science  Museum,  a  separate  space,  known  as  the  ‘Human  Remains  Room’,  
had  already  been  established  on  the  ground  floor  of  Blythe  House  before  I  began  my  
research  on  the  tattoo  collection.  This  room  was  dark  and  cool,  and  filled  with  glass  
cabinets  housing  human  remains  from  the  anatomy  and  physiology  collections  and  
ethnographic  collections  alike.  The  glass  doors  in  the  majority  of  these  cabinets  were  
covered  with  white  paper,  so  as  to  screen  the  contents  of  the  cases  from  the  passing  
view  of  museum  staff  entering  the  room  during  the  course  of  their  work.  These  
'shrouds'  had  the  peculiar  effect  of  endowing  the  unseen  material  within  the  cabinets  
with  a  kind  of  taboo  presence;  on  entering  the  room  for  the  first  time,  I  was  
immediately  aware  of  the  regulation  of  my  gaze  imposed  by  these  covers.  The  
restructuring  and  regulation  of  this  space  had  been  deliberately  organised  to  engender  
an  atmosphere  in  which  one  must  be  more  contemplative  about  the  nature  of  the  
'objects'  in  storage.  Whilst  the  reorganisation  of  museum  spaces  may  in  itself  encourage  
different  ways  of  thinking  about  human  remains  amongst  museum  staff,  some  industry  
guidelines  make  this  more  explicit.  One  American  publication  aimed  at  the  heritage  
sector,  for  instance,  makes  the  following  recommendations  regarding  object  handling:    
 
At  a  minimum  human  remains  should  be  accorded  gentle  handling,  and  handlers  
must   have   an   awareness   of   the   potency   of   the   remains,   the   privilege   given   to  

                                                                                                               
18  The  Policy  on  Human  Remains  (2006)  for  the  Royal  Cornwall  Museum  in  Truro,  for  example,  states  that:  

'No  images  of  human  remains  other  than  wrapped  mummies  will  be  available  online  or  will  be  used  for  
marketing  purposes,'  p.  6.        
19  See  the  Department  of  Culture  Media  and  Sport,  Report  of  the  Working  Group  on  Human  Remains  

(2003b);  and  Guidance  for  the  Care  of  Human  Remains  in  Museums,  (2005).    
20  Tiffany  Jenkins,  Contesting  Human  Remains  in  Museum  Collections:  The  Crisis  of  Cultural  Authority,  (2011),  

p.  134.  
11  
 
  

handlers,  and  their  responsibility.  Human  remains  are  not  specimens;  they  were  
people  -­‐  they  are  individuals.  To  begin  with,  handling  should  be  undertaken  only  
with   a   specific   purpose.   One   should   not   browse   as   if   in   a   library,   picking   up  
bones   and   articulated   joints   without   purpose.   Simply   put,   a   mental   state   of  
propriety  is  required  of  handlers.21    
 
This  statement  is  remarkable  for  its  quasi-­‐spiritual  overtones  and  its  prescription  that  
object  handlers  observe  an  almost  religious  code  of  behaviour  and  'mental  propriety.'  
Such  guidelines  may  be  read  as  a  direct  response  to  professional  anxieties  regarding  the  
contested  presence  and  status  of  indigenous  remains  acquired  during  the  colonial  era  
for  British  museum  collections.  Guidelines  such  as  these,  however,  fail  to  take  into  
account  human  remains  whose  purpose,  assemblage  and  day-­‐to-­‐day  handling  as  
specimens  is  a  necessary  and  integral  part  of  medical  education.  Thus  a  certain  degree  of  
ambivalence  has  arisen  among  scientists  and  curators  of  medical  collections,  who  
understand  the  human  remains  in  their  care  as  both  specimens  essential  to  the  teaching  
of  pathology  and  anatomy,  and  as  fragments  of  deceased  individuals,  whose  consent  
may  or  not  have  been  sought  for  their  body  parts  to  be  retained  post-­‐mortem.22  The  
edict  that  'one  should  not  browse  as  if  in  a  library'  is  entirely  at  odds  with  the  structure  
and  function  of  most  pathology  and  forensic  collections.  In  these  museums  and  spaces,  
specimens  are  categorised  according  to  diseases  of  specific  parts  of  the  body  or  manner  
of  death,  and  lined  up  on  open  shelves  with  catalogue  numbers,  from  which  their  case  
histories  may  be  looked  up  in  nearby  reference  files.  The  open-­‐access  shelving  system  
facilitates  the  handling  of  these  specimens,  which  students  and  medical  professionals  
may  pick  up  and  examine  at  their  leisure.  Thus,  what  may  be  considered  to  be  
appropriate  display  and  handling  practice  for  human  remains  in  one  museum  context  
may  be  unworkably  prohibitive  in  others.    
  Whilst  the  repatriation  of  indigenous  human  remains  from  British  Museums  to  
ex-­‐colonies  such  as  Australia  and  New  Zealand  have  sensitised  the  issue  of  human  
remains  in  the  UK,  the  case  for  repatriation  of  remains  of  European  origin  has  yet  to  be  
made  successfully.  The  repatriation  debate  has  been  framed  largely  in  terms  of  colonial  
remains;  collections  such  as  the  three  hundred  tattooed  skins,  the  majority  of  which  are  
of  French  origin,  do  not  generally  figure  within  discourses  of  repatriation.  This  is  
despite  the  likely  North  African  origin  of  at  least  some  of  the  specimens,  and  the  

                                                                                                               
21  Vicki  Cassman  and  Nancy  Odegaard,  'Examination  and  Analysis.  Human  Remains  Guide  for  Museums  and  

Academic  Institutions',  in  Vicki  Cassman,  Nancy  Odegaard,  and  J.  Powell,  (eds.)  Human  Remains:  Guide  for  
Museums  and  Academic  Institutions,  (2007),  p.  49.  
22  An  element  of  individuation  of  human  remains  may  usually  be  found  in  medical  collections  in  the  form  of  

case  notes,  without  which  the  preserved  specimen  may  be  unintelligible.  Whilst  specimens  may  be  
connected  to  a  specific  case  history,  the  identity  of  the  patient  is  not  usually  recorded,  perhaps  reflecting  a  
medical  culture  of  patient  confidentiality.    
12  
 
  

similarly  dubious  ethics  of  the  practices  involved  in  their  acquisition23  -­‐  one  of  the  
frequently  cited  factors  that  has  been  deemed  to  render  the  return  of  indigenous  
remains  imperative.  The  scope  of  the  HTA  is  restricted  to  remains  less  than  one  
hundred  years  old,  a  limit  considered  to  be  'a  sensible  and  pragmatic  cut-­‐off  point,  
being  one  that  means  there  is  unlikely  to  be  a  living  relative  with  a  memory  of  the  
individual  concerned';  but  it  is  also  a  limit  which  excludes  many  colonial  era  scientific  
and  ethnographic  collections.24  As  an  historical  collection  officially  classified  over  one  
hundred  years  old,  but  without  a  clearly  defined  community  of  origin,  it  is  unlikely  that  
anyone  could  or  would  come  forward  to  make  a  claim  for  repatriation.25    
  The  contemporary  political  and  ethical  context  within  which  human  remains  
have  been  reframed  and  sensitised  have  thus  exerted  a  significant  influence  on  both  my  
working  practices  within  the  museum  archive  and  my  theoretical  approach.    
 
Working  With  the  Collection:  Theory  and  Methods  
 
  During  the  first  year  of  my  research,  my  work  on  the  tattoo  collection  primarily  
took  place  within  the  Science  Museum  archives,  in  the  Human  Remains  Room,  research  
rooms  and  conservation  lab  at  Blythe  House.  I  began  with  the  tattooed  skins  
themselves,  familiarising  myself  with  their  catalogue  descriptions  and  closely  analysing  
their  material  properties  and  iconography.  The  skins  are  dry-­‐prepared,  though  through  
what  process  and  using  what  particular  chemicals  is  inconclusive;  the  skins  vary  in  size,  
colouration,  thickness  and  texture,  and  though  many  bear  signs  of  careful  preparation,  
others  appear  crudely  cut  from  the  body,  sometimes  to  the  detriment  of  the  tattoos,  
which  are  not  preserved  fully  intact.  My  approach  to  analysing  this  collection  of  
                                                                                                               
23  Whilst  I  do  not  wish  to  conflate  contemporary  medical  ethics  with  nineteenth-­‐century  medical  practices,  

there  are  nevertheless  striking  parallels  between  the  origin  and  acquisition  of  indigenous  remains  and  the  
Lavalette  tattoos:  specifically,  the  people  from  whom  these  remains  were  extracted  were  subject  to  
institutional  and/or  colonial  control,  and  did  not  give  prior  consent  for  their  remains  to  be  preserved  and  
retained  in  European  collections.  
24  O'Sullivan,  ‘Material  Legacies’,  p.  394;  citing  Lord  Warner,  speaking  in  a  Lords  debate  on  the  Human  

Tissue  Bill,  September  16th  2004.    

25  The  earliest  of  the  tattoos  date  from  1830-­‐1850  according  to  the  museum  catalogue;  these  are  estimates  

based  upon  various  dates  tattooed  onto  the  skins,  as  well  as  Johnston-­‐Saint's  written  record,  which  stated  
that  the  tattoos  dated  'from  the  first  quarter  of  the  last  century  to  the  present  time.'  There  is  an  obvious  
flaw  in  dating  based  on  the  tattoos  themselves  -­‐  an  individual  may  have  received  the  tattoo  in  the  year  
inscribed,  or  it  may  simply  be  a  memento  commemorating  past  experience,  such  as  a  tour  of  duty  served  
with  a  particular  regiment  of  the  army.  In  either  case,  the  excision  and  preservation  of  the  tattoo  would,  in  
most  cases,  have  occurred  many  decades  after  the  tattoo  was  made.  It  is  unclear  from  museum  catalogue  
records  whether  the  dates  refer  to  the  execution  of  the  tattoo,  or  the  preparation  of  the  skin;  thus  the  exact  
dating  of  this  collection  is  problematic  and  inconsistent.  Whilst  it  is  reasonable  to  assume  that  the  majority  
of  tattoos  originate  in  the  late  nineteenth-­‐century,  based  on  material  analysis  and  historiography,  a  number  
of  the  tattooed  specimens  may  date  far  more  recently.  This  raises  a  potential  dilemma  where  living  
relatives  may  be  able  to  identify  their  deceased  family  members  -­‐  particularly  in  the  case  of  specimen  
numbers  A555  and  A542  (Figure  2),  which  have,  in  the  course  of  this  research,  been  conclusively  identified  
with  a  specific  individual  who  died  no  earlier  than  1901.      
13  
 
  

tattooed  skins  is  necessarily  interdisciplinary,  drawing  upon  a  range  of  fields;  in  
particular  anthropology,  the  histories  of  medicine  and  criminology,  philosophy  and  
social  theory,  histories  of  collecting,  as  well  as  the  history  of  art  and  visual  culture.  The  
objects  themselves  are  difficult  to  define  as  such,  and  pose  a  unique  set  of  problematics,  
particularly  regarding  their  place  within  contemporary  museum  collections.  Taking  a  
multidisciplinary  approach  to  studying  this  collection  is  a  reflection  of  the  nature  of  the  
material  under  study.  Thus  these  ‘objects’  emerge  from  my  analysis  as  multiple  also;  as  
I  will  elaborate  in  the  first  chapter  they  may  be  regarded  as  hybrid  entities,  constituted  
through  a  range  of  complex  historical  socio-­‐material  practices.  This  multiplicity  is  
developed  in  my  discussion  of  the  uneasy  subject/object  positioning  of  the  tattooed  
skins,  in  which  I  draw  centrally  upon  the  work  of  philosopher  and  ethnographer  
Annemarie  Mol,  anthropologists  Cara  Krmpotich,  Joost  Fontein  and  John  Harries,  and  
historians  of  science  Lorraine  Daston  and  Bruno  Latour.  As  assembled  human  remains,  
the  tattooed  skins  both  disrupt  and  complicate  easy  categorisation  and  stimulate  
broader  cross-­‐disciplinary  thinking.  Their  material  substance  is  best  explored  through  a  
combination  of  contemporary  conservation  science  and  forensic  anthropology  
techniques,  and  my  own  careful  visual  and  tactile  analysis.  An  assessment  of  the  
material  properties  of  the  tattooed  skins  provides  valuable  insights  into  their  post-­‐
mortem  lives  within  medical  and  museum  collections.  
  The  materiality  of  the  collection  is  also  approached  historically,  through  an  in-­‐
depth  discussion  of  the  cultural  significance  and  symbolism  of  human  skin,  and  the  
flayed  skin  in  particular.  Iconographic  and  mythological  representations  of  the  theme  of  
flaying,  as  well  as  historical  practices  of  punitive  excoriation  and  the  fabrication  of  
various  objects  from  human  skin,  are  explored  in  relation  to  practices  of  tattoo  
collecting.  As  well  as  a  consideration  of  the  historical  contexts  of  flaying  and  the  
preservation  of  human  skin,  the  most  significant  aspect  of  the  materiality  of  the  skins  is  
of  course  the  tattoos  themselves.  The  collection  was  undoubtedly  assembled  
predominantly  for  the  purpose  of  the  preservation  of  the  tattoos  as  images  and  icons,  
thus  the  tattoos  are  the  linking  factor  in  my  material  analysis  and  my  choice  and  
discussion  of  historical  sources  throughout.  Close  study  of  the  iconography  of  the  
tattoos  on  the  one  hand,  and  consideration  of  their  techniques  of  production  on  the  
other,  led  me  back  to  the  archive  and  to  the  discourses  pertaining  to  tattooing  during  
the  nineteenth  century,  where  the  images  themselves  can  appear  as  a  kind  of  ‘text’.  
Indeed,  some  nineteenth-­‐century  scholars  themselves  viewed  tattoos  as  a  form  of  
textual  language,  reflected  by  the  tendency  in  their  work  to  read  tattoos  as  a  form  of  

14  
 
  

encrypted  writing.  Last  but  not  least,  a  considered  analysis  of  nineteenth-­‐century  
scholarly  debates  on  tattooing  grounds  the  material  in  a  broader  discursive  context.    
  Material  analysis  conducted  within  the  context  of  a  twenty-­‐first-­‐century  
museum  and  university  history  of  art  department  is  the  starting  point  for  my  research  
into  this  collection  within  the  framework  of  an  AHRC  collaborative  doctoral  award.  
Consequently,  there  are  certain  theoretical  issues  and  methodological  practicalities  at  
stake.  Drawing  upon  the  work  of  Mol,  and  in  particular  her  ethnography  of  disease  The  
Body  Multiple,  I  begin  from  my  own  day-­‐to-­‐day  interactions  with  the  Wellcome  
Collection  tattooed  skins,  attempting  to  engage  in  what  Mol  describes  as  a  
'praxiographic  inquiry  into  reality'26.  This  approach  involves  an  explicit  abandonment  
of  the  epistemological  tradition  of  philosophy,  which  'tried  to  articulate  the  relation  
between  knowing  subjects  and  their  objects  of  knowledge.'27  Rather,  Mol  argues,  
knowledge  is  to  be  located  in  practices  and  their  attendant  technologies,  instruments,  
papers,  materials,  conversations  and  so  on.  Revisiting  the  notion  of  ontology,  Mol  thus  
mobilises  a  relational  and  multiple  conception  of  ontology,  which  lends  itself  to  the  
study  of  a  collection  of  objects  as  incongruous  and  ambivalent  as  preserved  tattooed  
human  skins.  As  living  tissue  the  body  is  modified  through  the  acquisition  of  a  tattoo,  
enacting  a  range  of  social  relationships  and  meanings  –  bravery  demonstrated  through  
tolerance  of  pain;  camaraderie  with  peers;  identification  with  a  social  group  or  
assertion  of  personal  identity  or  beliefs;  these  are  but  a  few  possibilities.  In  another  
context  the  tattooed  segment  of  skin  is  removed  from  the  body  after  death,  beginning  a  
new  post-­‐mortem  life  as  fetishised  object,  or  stigmata  collected  for  criminological  or  
medical  study.  In  each  historical  moment  and  location,  through  each  change  of  hands,  
the  tattooed  skins  are  enacted  anew,  afforded  new  significance,  imbued  with  the  ability  
to  produce  new  meanings  and  participate  in  the  production  of  new  knowledge.  
Attending  to  these  possibilities  is  central  to  my  research  practice,  both  historically,  
through  the  careful  excavation  of  historical  documents  and  texts;  and  ethnographically,  
through  my  own  day-­‐to-­‐day  interaction  with  the  objects  and  involvement  in  knowledge  
production.    
  Taking  a  reflexive  approach  to  methodology  and  theory-­‐in-­‐practice  requires  a  
consideration  of  the  materials,  technologies,  and  physical  and  social  milieu  through  and  
in  which  my  work  takes  place.  My  active  engagement  in  the  production  of  knowledge  in  
a  museum  setting  must  be  the  starting  point  for  analysis,  as  this  is  the  lens  through  
which  my  view  into  the  history  of  the  objects  in  question  is  focussed.  To  describe  

                                                                                                               
26  Annemarie  Mol,  The  Body  Multiple,  (Durham  and  London:  Duke  University  Press,  2002),  p.  32.  
27  Ibid.    

15  
 
  

something  of  this  working  context:  first  of  all  I  am  formally  inducted  into  the  museum,  
must  learn  its  protocols  and  storage  systems,  pass  security  checks  and  object  handling  
training.  I  am  introduced  to  the  conservation  staff  and  given  a  curator’s  pass.  All  of  
which  allows  me  to  enter  the  storage  archives  freely:  On  arrival  I  sign  the  staff  log  at  
security,  where  I  am  then  given  a  pass  and  keys  to  the  human  remains  room.  The  pass  
admits  me  through  a  turnstile  and  a  further  three  alarmed  doors  before  I  reach  the  part  
of  the  building  where  the  tattooed  skins  are  stored.  Thus  my  work  at  the  museum  
archive  involves  key  passes,  log  books,  trolleys,  storage  rooms  with  distinctive  smells,  
cool  corridors,  as  well  as  conversations  with  conservationists,  curators  and  security  
staff.  It  involves  veiled  cabinets,  fume  hoods  and  latex  gloves,  computers,  cameras  and  
measuring  tools.  I  use  my  senses  to  analyse  each  tattooed  skin:  I  look,  I  touch,  I  can  
smell  them.  I  cannot  hear  anything  except  for  the  constant  suction  of  the  fume  hood,  but  
I  experience  them  as  'talkative  things'28  nonetheless;  things  that  inspire  fascination,  
stimulate  discussion  and  continually  prompt  new  questions.  I  bring  my  own  experience  
and  knowledge  to  bear  on  them,  and  make  them  bear  information  on  this  basis:  My  
previous  training  and  practice  as  a  tattooist,  for  instance,  attunes  my  eye  to  the  
technical  features  of  the  tattoo  marks  themselves,  the  way  in  which  they  have  been  
designed  and  executed.  I  am  in  ‘dialogue’  with  them.  But  what  can  they  tell  me  through  
this  essentially  sensory,  ethnographic  way  of  knowing?  Many  things,  which  I  take  care  
to  write  down.  
  This  first  methodological  approach  is  embedded  in  the  contemporary,  lived  
practices  which  take  place  within  a  museum  context,  and  could  be  called  ethnographic,  
or  to  use  Mol’s  term,  praxiographic.  For  my  purposes,  this  term  has  particular  relevance,  
since  Mol's  emphasis  is  on  the  intersecting  and  multiple  social  practices  that  bring  into  
being,  or  'enact',  specific  knowledge  objects.  The  second  method  entails  the  analysis  of  
historical  sources  and  academic  literature.  This  too,  is  of  course  embedded  in  my  day-­‐
to-­‐day  practices  of  reading  and  the  like,  and  so  is  bound  up  with  the  first  approach.  I  am  
interested  in  the  ways  in  which  tattooed  skins,  as  complex  material  and  discursive  
assemblages,  were  enlisted  and  mobilised  in  shaping  and  defining  knowledge  practices  
in  distant  historical  periods.  What  practices  were  they  enacted  in-­‐and-­‐through  a  
hundred  years  ago  or  more?  Taking  a  praxiographic  approach  to  research  becomes  
considerably  more  problematic  when  dealing  with  the  fragmentary  traces  left  behind  
by  deceased  historical  actors.  How  does  one  go  about  doing  historical  ethnography?  Is  
this  possible?  On  the  one  hand,  Mol  discusses  practical  activities  in  the  hospital  setting  

                                                                                                               
28  Lorraine  Daston  (ed.),  Things  That  Talk:  Object  Lessons  from  Art  and  Science  (New  York:  Zone  Books,  

2004).  
16  
 
  

of  her  ethnography  that  are  intrinsically  bound  up  with  papers,  files,  instruments,  
documents,  images  –  inscription  devices  which  are  variously  mobilised  to  coordinate  
and  translate  information.  On  the  other,  she  claims  to  privilege  practices  over  
principles,  eschewing  'knowledge  articulated  in  words  and  images  and  printed  on  
paper.'29  However,  if  the  agency  of  materials  and  technologies  is  to  be  acknowledged  as  
vital  a  component  of  the  enactment  of  entities  as  the  human  beings  involved,  then  the  
presence  of  all  these  papers,  words  and  images  must  be  recognised  as  a  significant  
element  of  practice  itself  -­‐  particularly  when  one  is  engaged  in  writing  history.  In  fact,  all  
these  papers  and  objects  can  provide  a  window  into  the  praxiological  realities  of  distant  
times  and  places.  In  the  context  of  my  work,  I  am  necessarily  required  to  work  with  
historical  texts  and  objects;  objects  which  were  mobilised,  bound  up  with  and  utilised  in  
the  bringing  into  being  of  elusive  historical  entities  such  as  the  nineteenth-­‐century  
criminal  or  the  tattoo.    
  What  I  attempt  then,  is  a  kind  of  historical  ethnography,  moving  from  close  
visual  and  material  analysis  of  the  tattooed  skins,  to  an  excavation  of  historical  sources  
they  may  lead  me  to,  and  back  again.  Beginning  work  within  an  institution  devoted  to  
the  collection  and  preservation  of  historical  artefacts  of  one  sort  or  another,  it  seems  
appropriate  to  also  take  the  history  and  context  of  collecting  into  account  as  a  departure  
point.  The  period  from  1870  to  1930  saw  the  most  prolific  era  of  ethnographic  
collecting,  coinciding  with  the  emergence  of  both  anthropology  and  criminology  as  
distinct  academic  disciplines,  and  it  is  within  this  historical  window  that  the  Wellcome  
Collection  tattooed  skins  were  assembled  as  artefacts  and  body  parts  for  Henry  
Wellcome's  Medical  Museum.  During  the  early  development  of  academic  anthropology,  
the  body  of  the  native  held  great  currency  as  both  the  signifier  of  exotic  cultures  and  
European  knowledge-­‐mastery  of  them.  Indeed,  numerous  anthropologists  of  the  late  
nineteenth  century  actually  ‘collected’  the  natives  themselves,  bringing  'exotic'  peoples  
to  world  fairs,  museums  and  lecture  theatres.30  This  early  practice  provided  visibility  of  
distant  cultures  for  anthropological  and  public  audiences  alike  in  Europe.  However,  as  
David  MacDougall  points  out,  this  visibility  was  frustrated  by  a  muteness  regarding  the  
culture  from  which  the  native  was  extracted;  '[…]  the  body  in  question,  removed  from  

                                                                                                               
29  Mol,  The  Body  Multiple,  p.  32.  
30  David  MacDougall  cites  two  examples;  an  occasion  when  prominent  anthropologist  Franz  Boas  assisted  

in  the  organization  of  the  Anthropological  Hall  at  the  World’s  Columbian  Exposition  of  1893  in  Chicago,  
where  fourteen  Kwakiutl  were  displayed;  and  the  case  of  Ishi,  last  of  the  Yahi,  who  spent  his  final  years  at  
the  University  of  California’s  Museum  of  Anthropology  as  a  kind  of  ‘living  exhibit’  MacDougall,  'The  Visual  
in  Anthropology',  in  Marcus  Banks  and  Howard  Morphy  (eds.),  Rethinking  Visual  Anthropology,  (1997),  p.  
276.  
17  
 
  

its  usual  surroundings,  was  often  singularly  uncommunicative  about  culture.'31  An  
alternative  was  to  photograph  the  people  and  their  environments,  and  to  collect  
examples  of  their  material  culture,  which  began  pouring  into  museums  and  swelling  
private  collections  by  the  turn  of  the  century.32  In  the  absence  of  ‘the  real  thing’  visual  
images  and  objects  came  to  acquire  the  look  of  knowledge,  standing  in  for  distant  places  
and  peoples  and  giving  the  gloss  of  scientific  knowledge  and  respectability  to  museum  
collections  which  were  arranged  to  'communicate  a  religious  aura  of  science  celebrating  
mankind  […]  Here  the  visual  stood  in  for  absent  humanity,  as  church  architecture  stood  
in  for  the  invisibility  of  God.'33  In  a  similar  sense,  the  collection  of  tattoos  purchased  for  
the  Wellcome  collections  came  to  stand  for  knowledge  itself;  indeed,  for  Sir  Henry  
Wellcome,  one  of  the  most  prolific  collectors  of  the  period,  collecting  things  was  very  
much  'a  way  of  thinking  through  ideas'.34  Artefacts,  along  with  physical  measurements  
and  linguistic  data,  were  sent  back  to  metropolitan  centres  by  colonial  officers,  
explorers  and  missionaries,  providing  the  ‘intellectual  currency’  upon  which  early  
anthropological  theories  were  based.35  This  intense  period  of  collecting  gave  rise  to  the  
amassing  of  vast  repositories  of  artefacts  from  all  corners  of  the  globe.  However,  what  
to  do  with  all  this  material  presented  a  problem,  both  logistically  (in  the  case  of  
collections  of  the  scale  and  scope  of  Wellcome’s)  and  theoretically:    
 
There   was   something   disquieting   about   visual   images.   They   appeared   to   show  
everything,  and  yet,  like  the  physical  body,  remained  annoying  mute.  The  visual  
world  was  like  the  husk  you  removed  to  get  at  the  conceptual  and  verbal  worlds  
inside,  but  having  done  so  you  couldn’t  in  good  conscience  throw  it  away.  Visible  
objects,   having   exerted   great   fascination   as   the   product   and   indicators   of  
culture,   but   failing   as   expositors   of   it,   began   to   acquire   a   new   function   (in  
museums)   as   metaphors   for   anthropology.   And   as   metaphor,   the   visual  
flourished.”36  
 

                                                                                                               
31  Ibid.  
32  Henry  Wellcome  was  an  exemplary  collector  of  this  period,  and  sustained  his  goal  of  the  ‘complete  

comparative  collection’  right  up  until  his  death  in  1936,  long  after  objects  had  ceased  to  hold  primary  
interest  for  anthropologists  in  the  study  of  culture.    
33  MacDougall,  'The  Visual  in  Anthropology',  p.  278.  
34  Frances  Larson,  An  Infinity  of  Things:  How  Sir  Henry  Wellcome  Collected  the  World,  (2009),  p.  16.  It  is  

interesting  that  the  renewed  academic  interest  in  ethnographic  objects  and  museum  collections  in  recent  
times  has  often  invoked  this  conception  of  knowing  through  things.  Amiria  Henare  et  al’s  2007  edited  
collection  Thinking  Through  Things:  Theorising  Artefacts  Ethnographically,  and  Lorraine  Daston’s  2004  
volume  Things  That  Talk  are  two  recent  examples  that  I  draw  upon  in  my  work.    
35  There  is  an  interesting  historical  account  of  the  ‘gifting’  of  human  bones  and  other  artefacts  from  medical  

officials  based  in  colonial  Australia  and  Tasmania  in  Helen  MacDonald’s  book  Human  Remains:  Dissection  
and  its  Histories.  In  this  book,  MacDonald  takes  three  very  different  but  equally  controversial  cases  of  
dissection  in  Tasmania  -­‐  Mary  McLauchlan,  William  Lanney  (the  ‘last  Tasmanian  Aboriginal’)  and  Thomas  
Ross  -­‐  as  well  as  other  cases  from  Britain,  to  illustrate  how  the  exchange  of  human  remains  between  the  
colonies  and  the  metropolitan  centre  built  relationships  of  reciprocity  and  obligation  over  vast  distances.    
36  MacDougall,  'The  Visual  in  Anthropology',  p.  277.  

18  
 
  

The  image  invoked  here  of  the  ‘visual  husk’  which  is  stripped  away  to  get  at  the  core  of  
cultural  meaning  concealed  within,  is  intriguingly  paralleled  in  the  historical  practice  of  
removing  tattooed  skin  from  the  body.  Tattoo  collections  were  primarily  assembled  in  
medical  settings  during  a  period  of  intense  criminological  scrutiny  of  the  tattoo,  which  
was  read  as  a  sign  of  'degeneracy'  or  latent  criminality.  From  the  1880s  onwards,  
criminologists  and  forensic  specialists  became  increasingly  interested  in  the  capacity  of  
the  tattoo  to  convey  psychological  information  about  their  criminal  subjects.  Whilst  the  
isolated  tattoo-­‐mark  seemed  to  offer  a  clear  cultural  code  with  which  to  decipher  the  
interiority  of  the  criminal  other,  the  conceptual  or  verbal  kernel  of  meaning  presumed  
to  lie  within  the  psyche  of  the  tattooed  nevertheless  remained  obscure.  The  question  of  
the  symbolic  signification  of  tattoos,  their  potential  as  markers  of  identity  for  
criminologists,  and  their  status  as  a  form  of  ‘writing’  is  further  discussed  in  relation  to  
the  historical  literature  on  tattooing  in  chapter  5.    
  However,  the  relationship  between  tattooing  and  writing  is  also  worth  
considering  with  regards  to  modalities  of  collecting,  a  theme  that  will  be  explored  in  
more  depth  in  chapter  4.  The  European  impulse  to  view  tattoos  as  a  form  of  writing  
during  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries  is  taken  up  by  historian  of  science  
Simon  Schafer  in  his  discussion  of  inscription  devices  and  exchange  in  the  South  Pacific.  
In  his  2007  article  On  Seeing  Me  Write:  Inscription  Devices  in  the  South  Seas,  Schaffer  
draws  upon  a  specific  historical  encounter  between  a  Marquesan  chief  and  British  
astronomer  William  Gooch,  to  illustrate  the  surprising  symmetry  between  perceptions  
of  tattooing-­‐as-­‐writing  and  vice  versa  held  by  Polynesians  and  Europeans  alike.  During  
the  1792  voyage  of  the  Daedalus  to  the  Marquesas  Islands  of  which  Gooch  was  a  part,  an  
instance  is  described  in  which  Gooch  was  apparently  invited  to  tattoo  a  Marquesan  
chief.  Misinterpreting  the  astronomer’s  pen  and  ink,  the  Marquesan  lay  down  to  be  
tattooed.  Gooch  later  recorded  this  in  his  diary:  'On  seeing  me  write,  deem’d  it  
tattooing'37.  This  episode  reveals  fascinating  symmetrical  affinities  between  European  
inscription  devices  and  those  of  the  South  Seas  Islanders.  Moreover,  Schaffer  makes  the  
observation  that  for  European  travellers  during  this  period,  'tattooing  became  a  form  of  
peculiarly  apt  collection.'38  In  the  context  of  eighteenth-­‐  and  nineteenth-­‐century  Europe,  
being  tattooed  may  be  viewed  as  a  form  of  ethnographic  collecting  in  itself,  embedded  
within  a  wider  cultural  paradigm  of  collecting.  Nicholas  Thomas  also  discusses  the  
tattoos  of  sailors  on  early  scientific  expeditions  in  terms  of  collecting;  Cook’s  early  
voyages  in  particular  were  marked  by  a  shipboard  culture  in  which  all  personnel  were  
                                                                                                               
37  Simon  Schaffer,  ''On  Seeing  Me  Write':  Inscription  Devices  in  the  South  Seas',  in  Representations,  Vol.  97,  

(Winter  2007),  cited  p.  91.  

38  Ibid,  p.  100.  

19  
 
  

encouraged  to  take  part  in  the  gathering  of  cartographic  and  navigational  data.  The  
impulse  to  collect  was  shared  by  all  of  the  crew,  from  the  botanist  Joseph  Banks  who  
was  famously  tattooed,  to  the  average  sailor.  Thomas  writes:  
 
Getting   tattooed   was   a   singular   form   of   collecting,   but   also   a   form   which  
exceeded  the  acquisition  of  a  material  object.  Tattooing  overlapped  contingently  
with   collecting   in   that   both   represented   ways   of   acquiring   curiosities,   and  
tattoos  were  curiosities  par  excellence.39  
 
  Thus  the  acquisition  of  the  tattoo  may  be  regarded  as  the  first  collection  in  a  
series  –  a  notion  supported  by  a  formal  analysis  of  the  tattoos  of  European  sailors  
themselves.  Whilst  native  Polynesian  tattooing  may  be  regarded  as  'a  unity  and  a  
totality,  not  a  form  susceptible  to  numeration',40  European  tattooing  by  contrast  is  
frequently  marked  by  the  proliferation  of  distinct  elements  which  can  exist  in  series,  to  
be  added  to  over  time.  The  Wellcome  collection  of  tattooed  skins  contains  a  number  of  
such  examples,  which  will  be  explored  in  greater  depth  throughout  the  thesis.    A  
secondary  group  of  tattoo  collectors  emerges  in  my  analysis  of  comparative  collections  
of  drawings  and  photographs  documenting  tattoos,  as  well  as  similar  preserved  tattoo  
specimens,  and  in  the  related  discourses  and  research  practices  of  criminologists  and  
medico-­‐legal  experts  writing  on  tattooing  during  the  later  part  of  the  nineteenth  
century.    
  It  is  important  to  note  that  whilst  a  significant  literature  devoted  to  the  study  of  
criminal  (and  to  a  lesser  extent  military  servicemen’s)  tattoos  from  this  period  provides  
an  important  contextualising  discourse,  sources  which  explicitly  refer  to  the  collection  
and  preservation  of  tattooed  human  skin  are  extremely  rare.41  Nevertheless,  authors  
studying  tattoos  through  the  assembly  of  drawings  or  photographs  which  were  
published  in  richly  illustrated  books,  may  still  be  considered  collectors;  and,  regarded  
as  such,  their  work  provides  a  significant  comparative  body  of  visual  material  within  
which  to  situate  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattooed  skins.  In  particular,  forensic  scientist  
and  criminologist  Alexandre  Lacassagne  (1843-­‐1924)  assembled  an  exceptional  
compendium  of  images  of  tattoos  traced  from  life,  as  well  as  drawings  and  some  
photographs.  It  is  particularly  interesting  to  note  that  Lacassagne  had  a  strong  personal  
interest  in  the  iconography  of  tattooing  –  so  much  so  that  he  commissioned  a  series  of  
dinnerware  printed  with  selected  tattoo  designs  gathered  through  his  work  in  French  
                                                                                                               
39  Thomas,  Nicholas:  ‘Introduction’,  in  Nicholas  Thomas,  Anna  Cole  and  Bronwen  Douglas  (eds.),  Tattoo:  

Bodies,  Art  and  Exchange  in  the  Pacific  and  the  West,  (London:  Reaktion  Books,  2004),  pp.  19-­‐20.      
40  Ibid,  p.  223.  
41  To  date,  I  have  uncovered  only  one  such  article,  which  has  proved  invaluable  to  my  material  analysis  of  

the  collection,  further  explored  in  chapter  two.  

20  
 
  

prisons.42  Lacassagne’s  most  important  criminological  text  on  tattooing  is  his  1881  
monograph,  Les  Tatouages.  Etude  Anthropologique  et  Medico-­‐Legale,  in  which  he  sets  
out  to  describe  tattooing  amongst  prison  populations  according  to  a  scheme  which  he  
developed  in  order  to  systematically  classify  tattoos  according  to  seven  categories  of  
images  and  specifications  of  ten  locations  on  the  body.43  Lacassagne  collected  around  
1,800  tattoo  images  traced  from  life,  on  which  he  based  his  conclusions  about  the  
relationship  between  tattooing  and  criminality.  
  According  to  historian  Jane  Caplan,  scholarly  interest  in  the  tattoo  in  France  can  
be  dated  back  to  the  1830s,  and  was  initiated  by  a  combination  of  colonial  and  medico-­‐
legal  interest  in  the  practice.44  Early  researches  by  French  pathologists  such  as  
Mathurin  Félix  Hutin  and  Auguste  Ambroise  Tardieu  focussed  upon  the  permanency  of  
the  mark,  and  the  practical  potential  of  the  tattoo  as  a  marker  of  identity.  Tardieu  
stressed  that  the  primary  aim  of  such  research  was  'to  fix  [the  tattoo’s]  value  as  a  sign  of  
identity.'45  Thus  tattoos  became  a  cogent  part  of  the  developing  repertoire  of  French  
police  science.  However,  the  scope  for  identification  of  criminals  by  their  tattoos  was  
ultimately  limited  to  that  of  any  other  distinguishing  physical  feature,  and  despite  their  
indelibility,  tattoos  could  always  be  effaced,  altered  or  augmented  over  time.  In  light  of  
these  difficulties,  interest  in  the  tattoo  as  a  sign  of  identity  gradually  waned  through  the  
1860s  and  1870s,  especially  given  that  'tattoo  images  were  not  readily  assimilable  to  
the  serialised  systems  of  measurement  and  classification  that  had  meanwhile  been  
devised  for  the  body’s  other  physical  signs.'46  By  the  1880s  a  new,  broader  shift  in  
criminological  discourse  was  taking  place.  Whereas  earlier  schools  of  penology  
focussed  on  the  anatomy  of  the  crime,  the  new  criminology  and  police  practice  
associated  in  France  in  particular  with  François  Bertillon,  now  advocated  an  approach  
that  focussed  on  the  anatomy  of  the  criminal.  At  this  point,  and  to  some  extent  under  
the  influence  of  theories  of  social  Darwinism,  there  was  a  shift  away  from  conceptions  
of  the  tattoo  as  a  marker  of  individual  identity,  replaced  by  a  view  of  the  tattoo  as  the  

                                                                                                               
42  See  pp.  64-­‐65  for  photographic  reproductions  of  some  of  these,  in  Philippe  Artieres  and  Muriel  Salle’s  

Papiers  Des  Bas-­‐Fonds,  Archives  D’un  Savant  Du  Crime,  1843-­‐1924,  (2009).    
43  These  are  described  as  patriotic  and  religious  emblems,  professional  emblems,  inscriptions,  military  

insignia,  metaphoric  emblems,  love  tokens  and  erotic  tattoos,  and  mythical  or  historical  tattoos.  This  
scheme  was  adapted  from  the  earlier  categorisation  system  compiled  by  Auguste  Ambroise  Tardieu  in  
1855.  
44  Jane  Caplan,  '"One  of  the  Strangest  Relics  of  a  Former  State",  Tattoos  and  the  Discourses  of  Criminality  in  

Europe,  1880-­‐1920',  in  Criminals  and  Their  Scientists,  (2006),  p.  340.  
45  Ambroise  Tardieu,  Etude  medico-­‐legale  sur  le  tatouage,  considere  comme  signes  d’identite,  (1855);  cited  in  

Caplan,  '"One  of  the  Strangest  Relics  of  a  Former  State"',  p.  342.  
46  Caplan,  ‘'One  of  the  Strangest  Relics  of  a  Former  State'’  p.  344.  

21  
 
  

stigmata  of  a  ‘collectively  pathological  criminal  class’.47  In  this  new  context,  Caplan  
remarks  that:  
   
Although  most  of  the  surviving  evidence  of  European  tattooing  in  the  nineteenth  
century   was   delivered   by   criminological   controversy,   it   also   was   only   through  
this   controversy   that   the   tattoo   was   vested   with   its   association   with  
criminality.48    
 
  Whilst  Lacassagne  was  certainly  the  most  prominent  French  scholar  writing  on  
tattooing  during  this  time,  his  research  helped  to  stimulate  a  flurry  of  smaller  research  
projects  into  the  practice.  As  Caplan  has  noted,  much  of  this  work  involved  the  
gathering  of  data,  usually  presented  according  to  Tardieu  or  Lacassagne’s  schemas,  and  
did  not  offer  much  in  the  way  of  analysis,  but  was  largely  descriptive  in  nature,  
intending  their  research  to  provide  the  raw  material  for  other  scholars.  This  original  
research  was  primarily  carried  out  by  practitioners  within  the  military  or  penal  system  
–  prison  or  army  medical  officers  who  were  in  a  privileged  position  when  it  came  to  
accessing  the  tattooed  individual  in  confined  populations.  However,  my  archive  
research  has  also  revealed  a  strong  interest  in  the  collecting  of  tattooed  human  skin  
amongst  anatomists  and  pathologists,  particularly  within  the  Académie  de  Médecine  
around  the  turn  of  the  twentieth  century.  
  Nineteenth-­‐century  criminological  discourse,  with  which  I  engage  in  chapters  4  
and  5,  provides  a  valuable  context  in  which  to  locate  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattooed  
skins.  Central  to  my  reading  of  the  historical  French  literature  is  the  foregrounding  of  
the  role  of  collecting  within  the  enactment  of  these  debates.  Gathered  images,  both  
drawn  and  photographed,  as  well  as  the  collection  of  tattoos  themselves,  were  part  of  
the  practical  activity  of  nineteenth-­‐century  criminological  knowledge  production.  Thus  
an  ethnographically  grounded,  historically  informed  analysis  of  the  Wellcome  Collection  
tattooed  skins  and  their  varying  contexts  of  enactment-­‐in-­‐practice  form  the  core  of  my  
methodology.  Drawing  upon  Actor-­‐Network-­‐Theory,  and  in  particular  the  work  of  
Annemarie  Mol  and  Bruno  Latour,  as  well  as  the  historical  work  of  Jane  Caplan,  Michel  
Foucault,  and  approaches  from  material  culture  studies,  anthropology  and  museum  
studies,  I  locate  these  objects  within  a  multi-­‐disciplinary  framework  which  seeks  to  
trace  their  ontological  conditions  of  possibility  and  historical  trajectory  through  shifting  
locations  and  practices.  
 

                                                                                                               
47  Ibid.  
48  Ibid,  p.  339.  

22  
 
  

CHAPTER  ONE  
  Subjects,  Objects,  Entities:  Defining  the  Collection    
 
Beginning  a  PhD  project  with  a  collection  of  museum  artefacts,  rather  than  a  defined  
research  question,  necessitated  a  specific  approach.  From  the  outset,  I  was  confronted  
with  the  problematic  of  how  to  define  these  artefacts  as  such,  and  soon  came  to  
question  whether  conceiving  of  them  in  conventional  terms  was  in  any  way  productive.  
In  a  certain  sense,  coming  to  a  collection  of  preserved  skins  lacking  detailed  historical  
documentation,  opened  up  a  research  space  that  enabled  me  to  look,  feel,  reflect  -­‐  and  
listen  to  what  they  could  tell  me.  I  was  immediately  struck  by  the  sense  that  the  tattooed  
skins  were  in  some  way  'loquacious'.  The  notions  of  voice  and  presence,  combined  with  
their  visceral  materiality,  brought  a  sense  of  subjectness  to  what  would  otherwise  be  
considered  inanimate  -­‐  dead  -­‐  objects.  So  how  might  they  be  defined,  in  such  a  way  as  to  
take  account  of  this  apparent  duality  of  subject  and  object?  My  encounter  with  them  
provoked  many  uncertainties:  What  are  they?  Who  were  they?  What  was  their  purpose?  
To  whom  did  this  purpose  belong?  What  do  they  mean  today?    
  These  are  just  a  few  of  the  questions  and  themes  with  which  this  thesis  deals.  
The  answers  are  multiple,  entangled  and  thorny,  leading  me  to  new  queries  -­‐  some  of  
which,  in  the  end,  are  unanswerable.  The  tattooed  skins  in  the  Wellcome  collection  are  
first  and  foremost  human  remains;  but  they  are  also  residues  of  former  lives,  memories  
made  flesh,  inscriptions  of  identity  or  of  institutional  domination.  Like  all  human  
remains,  they  inspire  both  fascination  and  repulsion  in  many  contemporary  viewers.49  
They  occupy  the  strange  liminal  space  of  boundary  phenomena  -­‐  things  that  pass  
between  or  slip  through  categories;  that  defy  singular  definition;  things  that  may  be  
regarded  as  ontologically  multiple.    
 
 
 
                                                                                                               
49  As  outlined  in  my  introduction,  the  sensitisation  of  human  remains  is  contingent  upon  recent  political  

and  cultural  movements,  which  are  both  historically  and  geographically  specific.  However,  this  is  not  an  
exclusively  contemporary  phenomenon.  Ruth  Richardson  has  shown  how  human  remains  and  their  
treatment  by  have  periodically  become  politicised  throughout  history  following  similar  scandals  relating  to  
the  medical  profession.  For  example,  she  relates  an  incident  from  1795,  in  which  the  parishioners  of  the  
village  of  Lambeth  in  London  learned  that  three  men  had  been  caught  stealing  five  bodies  from  their  parish  
burial  ground:    
'[...]  in  consequence  of  such  a  discovery,  people  of  all  descriptions,  whose  relatives  had  been  buried  in  that  
Ground,  resorted  thereto,  and  demanded  to  dig  for  them  [...]  being  refused,  they  in  great  numbers  forced  
their  way  in,  and  in  spight  of  every  effort  the  parish  Officers  could  use,  began  like  Mad  people  to  tear  up  the  
ground.  [Many  empty  coffins  were  found.]    Great  Distress  and  agitation  of  mind  was  manifest  in  every  one,  
and  some,  in  a  kind  of  phrensy,  ran  away  with  the  coffins  of  their  deceased  relations.'  Cited  p.  156,  'Human  
Dissection  and  Organ  Donation:  A  Historical  and  Social  Background',  in  Mortality:  Prompting  the  
interdisciplinary  study  of  death  and  dying,  Vol.  11,  No.  2  (2006),  pp.  151-­‐165.  
23  
 
  

Subjects,  Objects,  and  Ontologies  

 
In  the  first  place,  the  tattooed  human  skins  prompt  the  question:  what  is  it  exactly  that  I  
am  dealing  with?  The  answer  to  this  question  is  neither  straightforward  nor  
immediately  apparent  -­‐  their  material  substance50,  historical  significance,  and  place  
within  contemporary  museum  collections,  are  all  contingencies  that  are  enacted  
through  complex,  and  sometimes  obscured,  practices.  Human  remains  present  a  
particularly  interesting  challenge,  since  the  ‘post-­‐mortem  lives’  of  substances  such  as  
tissue,  skin,  hair  and  bone  are  frequently  re-­‐invested  with  subjectness  through  their  
interaction  with  living  human  beings  in  archives,  museums,  funeral  homes,  morgues,  
and  the  like.  They  continually  resist  the  de-­‐centring  of  the  subject  brought  about  by  the  
processes  of  dissection,  fragmentation  and  preservation  of  isolated  body  parts.  
Focussing  their  analysis  on  the  substance  of  bones,  anthropologists  Krmpotich,  Fontein  
and  Harries  work  through  these  particular  problematics,  making  the  observation  that,  
'the  humanness  of  bones  was  inescapable  […]  as  reconstituted  forms  and  arranged  
objects,  they  defied  us  to  ignore  their  subjectivity.'51  In  fact,  human  remains  are  always  
something  more  than  the  category  of  subject  or  object,  and  it  is  this  excess,  this  
restlessness  and  uncertainty,  that  makes  them  such  compelling  research  materials.  
Their  uneasy,  contradictory  status  provokes  'emotional,  political,  visceral  and  
intellectual  responses';  indeed  these  responses  to  objects  of  human  remains  have  
received  considerable  scholarly  attention  in  recent  times.52    
  Writing  on  the  interdependence  of  bones  and  the  embodied  practice  of  
anatomists  who  literally  and  figuratively  ‘articulate’  human  remains  post-­‐mortem,  
Elizabeth  Hallam  discusses  the  multiple  manifestations  that  bones  may  take  on  through  
their  enactment  in  practice,  describing;    
 
The  different  kinds  of  entities  bones  can  come  to  be  during  their  diverse  post-­‐
mortem  lives:  trophies,  souvenirs,  sources  of  knowledge,  things  to  possess  and  
trade,  deceased  relatives,  scientific  data,  once  living  persons,  traces  of  previous  

                                                                                                               
50  In  the  day-­‐to-­‐day  handling  of  the  objects,  even  this  most  straightforward  of  material  facts  is  problematic,  

since  it  is  unknown  what  chemicals  may  or  may  not  have  been  used  to  preserve  or  conserve  the  skins  in  the  
past.  Biohazard  stickers  are  applied  to  all  plastic  containers  which  store  the  collection.  Latex  gloves  must  be  
worn  at  all  times  during  handling,  and  the  skins  cannot  be  handled  outside  of  their  containers  unless  a  
fume  hood  is  used  to  extract  any  potentially  hazardous  fumes  or  particles.  In  practice,  conservation  staff  
assume  that  either  Mercury(II)  Chloride  or  Arsenic  Trioxide  may  be  present,  and  appropriate  technologies  
and  protocols  are  employed  as  a  consequence.  
51  Cara  Krmpotich,  Joost  Fontein  and  John  Harries,  'The  Substance  of  Bones:  The  Emotive  Materiality  and  

Affective  Presence  of  Human  Remains',  in  Journal  of  Material  Culture,  Vol.  15  (December  2010),  p.  374.  
52  See  on  the  emotive  materiality  and  affective  presence  of  bones  for  example,  the  recent  special  issue  of  the  

Journal  of  Material  Culture  (December  2010);  see  also  Tiffany  Jenkins,  Contesting  Human  Remains  in  
Museum  Collections  (London  and  New  York:  Routledge,  2011).  
24  
 
  

violence,  channels  of  communication,  potent  political  substance  and  remains  of  
ancestors.53    
 
These  multiple  characterisations  or  incarnations  of  bones  in  the  work  of  Hallam  and  
others  also  resonate  with  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattooed  skins:  What  kind  of  entities  
may  they  have  been  and  do  they  continue  to  be?  If  they  are  objects,  what  do  they  consist  
of,  substantively?  How  were  they  assembled  as  objects  of  knowledge,  and  according  to  
whose  criteria?  How  does  their  ‘subjectness’  continue  to  assert  itself?  Writing  on  
dissection  and  anatomical  practice  in  the  nineteenth  century,  Helen  MacDonald  makes  
the  observation  that;  'the  human  body,  in  whole  or  in  parts,  is  never  just  an  object  like  
any  other  [...]  it  slips  between  subject  and  object.'54  These  ‘objects’,  whilst  possessing  
the  defining  characteristics  required  of  object-­‐hood,  are  also  endowed  with  a  latent  
subjectivity  still  visible  in  the  tattooed  trace  etched  indelibly  into  the  skin.55  And  their  
fabrication  into  objects  conjures  another  subject,  that  of  the  collector  who  selected,  
excised  and  prepared  the  tattoos  for  the  display  cabinet  or  teaching  collection.  
  However,  the  conceptualisation  of  bone,  skin  or  indeed  any  other  kind  of  human  
remains,  as  possessed  of  an  'oscillating  status  as  subjects  and  objects'56,  may  not  go  far  
enough,  since  such  formulations  retain  and  re-­‐inscribe  a  fundamental  dualism  at  their  
core.  Human  remains  are  far  more  than  merely  ‘objects’  in  the  simple  material  sense;  
but  nor  are  they  easy  ‘subjects’,  which  may  be  presumed  to  act  and  speak  quite  as  the  
living  do  (though  they  do  ‘act’  and  ‘speak’  in  their  way,  which  I  will  return  to).  This  is  
the  case  even  when  a  name  can  be  attached  to  this  or  that  skull,  scrap  of  flesh  or  any  
other  fragment  of  a  human  body.  Drawing  on  the  work  of  Annemarie  Mol,  it  is  perhaps  
more  productive  to  consider  such  artefacts  as  entities.  ‘Objects’  and  ‘things’  tend  to  have  
solid,  static  connotations,  conjuring  commonplace  artefacts  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  -­‐  
books,  chairs,  paperweights,  for  example,  are  all  things  devoid  of  animating  
characteristics.  ‘Entity’  on  the  other  hand,  has  a  much  more  ambiguous  set  of  
associations  -­‐  an  entity  may  be  something  alive,  something  immaterial,  or  something  
abstract,  but  it  is  also  something  with  a  distinct  identity  or  subset  of  identities,  and  

                                                                                                               
53  Elizabeth  Hallam,  'Articulating  Bones:  An  Epilogue',  in  Journal  of  Material  Culture,  Vol.  15  (December  

2010),  p.  465.  

54  Helen  MacDonald,  Human  Remains:  Dissection  and  its  Histories,  p.  3.  
55  In  most  of  the  Wellcome  Collection  specimens,  the  presence  of  the  tattoo  is  an  important  factor  in  the  

perception  of  this  latent  subjectivity,  since  preserved  human  skin  is  often  difficult  to  distinguish  from  very  
fine  calf  or  vellum  to  the  untrained  eye.  Leather  objects  manufactured  from  animal  skins  are  both  
commonplace  and  familiar,  and  without  some  authenticating  mark  -­‐  a  tattoo,  or  an  embossed  inscription  
(which  are  almost  always  present  on  human  skin  bookbindings,  for  example)  -­‐  the  humanness  of  a  
preserved  skin  can  easily  be  overlooked.  Of  course,  this  observation  does  not  apply  so  readily  to  some  of  
the  larger  specimens  which  retain  the  features  of  recognisable  body  parts  -­‐  pieces  of  skin  taken  from  the  
torso  that  still  possess  nipples  and  belly  buttons  are  unmistakably  human.  
56  Hallam,  'Articulating  Bones',  p.  465.  

25  
 
  

which  may  be  presumed  to  be  animate.  It  is  this  possibility  of  an  animate  object,  or  a  
multiple  conglomeration  of  identities,  that  I  wish  to  mobilise  in  using  the  term  entity.  
The  very  existence  of  human  remains  in  museum  collections  disrupts  and  dissolves  
taken-­‐for-­‐granted  categories  of  subject  and  object  and  necessarily  confronts  us  with  the  
ontologically  distinctive  entity  of  the  hybrid.    
  Hybridity  is  a  useful  concept  to  work  with  in  relation  to  human  remains,  as  it  
allows  us  to  move  beyond  unhelpful  dualisms  and  to  confront  the  multiple  nature  of  
things;  things  that  inhabit  not  just  more  than  one,  but  more  than  two,  potentially  
oppositional  states,  which  nevertheless  co-­‐exist  whilst  remaining  in  tension  with  one  
another.  This  hybridity  emerges  from  the  embeddedness  of  entities  within  complex  
socio-­‐material  practices,  which  continually  enact  their  ontological  conditions  of  
possibility  in  multiple,  sometimes  contradictory  ways.  Hybrid  entities  can  take  the  form  
of  many  different  species;  a  non-­‐human  animal  such  as  a  bird,  spider  or  chimpanzee,  a  
substance  such  as  milk,  or  a  socio-­‐technical  assemblage  such  as  the  internet.  Where  
material  substances  are  involved  in  this  process,  my  approach  is  significantly  influenced  
by  Actor-­‐Network-­‐Theory  (ANT),  which  is  distinctive  in  its  insistence  upon  the  agency  
of  non-­‐human  entities  (technologies,  organisms,  materials  etc.)  within  socio-­‐material  
networks.57  Indeed,  some  of  these  entities  (and  human  remains  in  particular)  are  often  
experienced  by  those  who  interact  with  them  as  possessed  of  a  will  or  ‘life’  of  their  own,  
occasionally  compelling  people  to  behave  or  act  in  unanticipated  ways.58  In  her  
discussion  of  ‘living  presence  response’  to  the  viewing  of  works  of  art,  Caroline  van  Eck  
describes  just  such  a  phenomenological  experience:  
 
[…]   in   which   viewers   react   to   works   of   art   as   if   they   are   living   beings   or   even  
persons  that  act  upon  the  viewer,  enter  into  a  personal  relationship  with  them,  
and  elicit  love,  hate,  desire  or  fear.59    
 
This  kind  of  experience  has  a  long  history  in  relation  to  art  objects  –  be  it  in  museums,  
churches  or  other  environments  -­‐  and  often  these  kinds  of  overwhelming  or  visceral  

                                                                                                               
57    'Objects  are  real  but  they  look  so  much  like  social  actors  that  they  cannot  be  reduced  to  the  reality  'out  

there'  invented  by  the  philosophers  of  science',  Bruno  Latour,  We  Have  Never  Been  Modern,  (Essex:  Pearson  
Education  Ltd.,  1993),  p.  6.  See  also  Bruno  Latour,  Reassembling  the  Social,  (Oxford:  Oxford  University  
Press,  2005),  p.  63:  'Objects  too  have  agency'.  
58  Caroline  van  Eck  discusses  something  akin  to  this  phenomenon  in  her  article  on  viewer  experiences  of  

‘living  presence’  in  art  works.  She  relates  the  following  story  as  recent  example:  'In  July  2007  the  artist  
Rindy  Sam  left  the  lipstick  traces  of  her  kisses  on  the  entirely  white  surface  of  a  Cy  Twombly  painting.  In  
her  statement  to  the  press,  she  declared  that  she  had  become  so  ‘overcome  with  passion  for  this  work  of  
art’  that  she  ‘had  to  kiss  it’.'  p.  643,  'Living  Statues:  Alfred  Gell’s  Art  and  Agency,  Living  Presence  Response  
and  the  Sublime',  in  Art  History,  Vol.  33,  No.  4  (September  2010),  pp.  642-­‐659.  
59  Caroline  Van  Eck,  'Gell's  theory  of  art  as  agency  and  living  presence  response'.  Online:  

http://www.hum.leiden.edu/research/artandagency/subprojects/deel-­‐proj-­‐eck.html  Accessed  December  

2012.  
26  
 
  

emotional  responses  lead  to  a  desire  to  touch,  manually  examine  and  even  kiss  objects  
of  art:  
 
Kissing  pictures  of  saints,  for  example,  was  a  common  devotional  practice.  
Particularly  if  the  subject  matter  of  a  painting  were  sacred,  touching  it  could  
provide  vicarious  contact  with  the  divine.60    
 
These  touching  practices  are  not  only  linked  to  religious  sensibilities,  however.  As  
Constance  Classen  notes,  'portraits  in  particular  have  long  called  forth  gestures  of  
intimacy  because  of  their  ability  to  evoke  a  human  presence.'61  The  desire  to  touch  
museum  or  art  objects  does  not  always  imply  confounding  representation  and  
represented,  or  assuming  a  sacred  or  quasi-­‐religious  power  of  the  object,  but  may  also  
be  a  means  with  which  to  better  know  and  verify  the  material  properties  of  that  object.  
In  The  Book  of  Touch,  Classen  recounts  a  seventeenth-­‐century  experience  of  object  
handling  within  the  museum  setting:    
 
In  1694  the  English  traveller  Celia  Fiennes  recorded  a  visit  she  made  to  the  
Ashmolean  Museum  of  Oxford.  Among  the  various  things  she  admired  there  
were  a  loadstone,  which  she  held  in  different  positions  to  test  its  magnetic  
properties,  and  a  cane  'which  looks  like  a  solid  heavy  thing  but  if  you  take  it  in  
your  hands  [is]  as  light  as  a  feather'.62  
 
This  manual  investigation  of  museum  artefacts  was  an  experience  which  could  be  taken  
for  granted  by  the  seventeenth-­‐century  museum  visitor  and  even  more  so  by  collectors  
and  those  with  whom  they  shared  the  experiences  of  their  collections.  Over  the  course  
of  the  eighteenth  century  however,  a  transition  occurred  in  European  collections,  which  
saw  prohibition  of  the  touching  of  museum  artefacts  become  institutionalised  in  public  
museums  from  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  onwards.  The  seventeenth-­‐century  
experience  of  Celia  Fiennes  couldn't  be  further  away  from  the  experience  of  today's  
museum  visitors,  who,  ever  under  the  watchful  eye  of  security  guards  and  museum  
staff,  are  admonished  everywhere  by  signage  indicating:  Do  Not  Touch.  Despite  some  
exceptions,  such  as  handling  collections  consisting  of  non-­‐precious  items  used  in  
interactive  spaces  designed  for  children,  it  is  now  generally  accepted  that  museum  
collections  are  not  for  touching.  This  is  particularly  marked  with  respect  to  
contemporary  collections  of  human  remains;  in  the  wake  of  the  Human  Tissue  Act,  
many  museums  have  explicit  policies  in  relation  to  human  remains.  The  policy  on  the  

                                                                                                               
60  Constance  Classen,  'Touch  in  the  Museum',  in  The  Book  of  Touch,  (Oxford  and  New  York:  Berg,  2005),  p.  

279.  
61  Ibid.,  p.  280.  
62  Ibid.,  p.  275.    

27  
 
  

display  of  human  remains  for  Leicester  City  Museums  and  Galleries,  for  example,  states  
that:  
There   is   a   high   probability   of   the   risk   of   offending   religious   and   other  
sensitivities   far   outweighs   the   benefits   of   using   human   remains   in   handling  
sessions.  A  case  could  be  made  against  this,  but  it  must  be  carefully  considered.  
At   the   present   time,   Leicester   Museums   and   Galleries   is   not   comfortable   for  
human   remains   to   be   used   as   handling   material   to   maintain   respect   for   their  
past  lives.63  
 
  Over  time,  the  museum  has  become  a  predominantly  visual  site  -­‐  but  what  
underpins  this  particular  sensory  formation  of  the  museum,  and  how  does  this  affect  
our  experience  of  its  objects?  According  to  Classen,  the  early  museum  retained  many  
characteristics  of  the  private  collections  on  which  they  were  based  -­‐  the  museum  tour  
led  by  a  curator  during  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  may  be  compared  
with  the  house  tour  offered  by  a  host.64  The  curator,  like  the  host,  would  be  expected  to  
provide  information  about  the  collection  and  offer  objects  to  be  handled  and  touched.  
By  allowing  visitors  to  touch,  and  in  some  cases  even  make  gifts  of,  museum  objects,  the  
curator  was  enacting  ancient  notions  of  hospitality.65    
  Scientific  practice  also  supported  multisensory  investigations  of  objects.  The  
seventeenth-­‐century  empirical  philosopher,  Robert  Hooke,  for  example,  explicitly  
stated  that  'ocular  inspection'  must  be  accompanied  by  'manual  handling  [...]  of  the  very  
things  themselves.'66  In  the  contemporary  museum  context,  this  manual  exploration  of  
objects  is  reserved  solely  for  curators  and  conservationists,  where  a  scientific  approach  
to  the  object  is  still  required  to  maintain  and  conserve  collections.  Although  these  
members  of  staff  are  generally  exempt  from  the  prohibition  to  touch,  object  handling  is  
nevertheless  very  clearly  defined  according  to  a  series  of  strictly  observed  codes  and  
procedures,  and  is  kept  to  a  minimum.  As  Classen  points  out,  the  'sense  of  touch  was  
believed  to  have  access  to  interior  truths  to  which  sight  was  unaware,'  as  in  the  case  of  
Celia  Fiennes  quoted  above,  in  which  she  remarked  that  the  cane  looked  heavy  but  was  
actually  light  when  she  lifted  it.67  Touch,  then,  can  be  regarded  as  functioning  to  correct  
the  misconceptions  -­‐  or  even  deceptions  -­‐  of  sight.  However,  the  handling  of  museum  
objects  not  only  gave  visitors  the  opportunity  to  verify  their  material  nature  through  

                                                                                                               
63  Leicester  City  Museums  and  Galleries,  The  Curation,  Care  and  Use  of  Human  Remains  in  Leicester  City  

Museums  Service,  (Leicester:  Leicester  City  Museums  Service,  2006),  s.91.  

64  Classen,  'Touch  in  the  Museum',  p.  275.  
65  Ibid.,  p.  276.  
66  Cited  in  Ken  Arnold,  'Skulls,  Mummies  and  Unicorns'  Horns:  Medicinal  Chemistry  in  Early  English  

Museums,'  in  R.  G.  W.  Anderson,  M.  L.  Caygill,  A.  G.  MacGregor  and  L.  Syson  (eds.),  Enlightening  the  British:  
Knowledge,  Discovery  and  the  Museum  in  the  Eighteenth  Century,  (London:  The  British  Museum  Press,  
2003),  p.  76.    
67  Classen,  'Touch  in  the  Museum',  p.  277.  

28  
 
  

touch  -­‐  it  also  allowed  them  to  experience  objects  intimately.  As  a  'distance'  sense,  sight  
tends  to  detach  the  viewer  from  that  which  they  observe;  touch,  on  the  other  hand,  
physically  unites  the  person  who  touches  with  the  object  touched,  and  thus  allows  an  
immediacy  of  experience  that  transcends  spatial  boundaries.  Classen  writes  that:  
 
In  the  case  of  human-­‐made  artefacts,  [touching]  also  provided  the  thrill  of  
coming  into  vicarious  contact  with  their  original  creators  and  users,  and  even  -­‐  
through,  for  example,  hefting  a  spear  or  trying  on  a  ring  -­‐  a  sense  of  what  it  
would  be  like  to  be  an  artefact's  original  owner.68  
 
Implicit  within  this  formulation  is  the  notion  of  a  latent  subject’s  presence  embodied  in  
the  inanimate  object,  which  may  be  reanimated  or  invoked  through  a  kind  of  haptic  
transference.  A  particularly  telling  example  of  this  kind  of  vicarious  experience  is  
related  by  German  traveller  Sophie  de  la  Roche,  who  wrote  of  her  visit  to  the  British  
Museum  in  1786:  
 
With  what  sensations  one  handles  a  Carthaginian  helmet  excavated  near  Capua,  
household  utensils  from  Herculaneum...There  are  mirrors  too,  belonging  to  
Roman  matrons...with  one  of  these  mirrors  in  my  hand  I  looked  amongst  the  
urns,  thinking  meanwhile,  "Maybe  chance  has  preserved  amongst  these  remains  
some  part  of  the  dust  from  the  fine  eyes  of  a  Greek  or  a  Roman  lady,  who  so  
many  centuries  ago  surveyed  herself  in  this  mirror..."  Nor  could  I  restrain  my  
desire  to  touch  the  ashes  of  an  urn  on  which  a  female  figure  was  being  mourned.  
I  felt  it  gently,  with  great  feeling  [...]  I  pressed  the  grain  of  dust  between  my  
fingers  tenderly,  just  as  her  best  friend  might  once  have  grasped  her  hand.69    
 
The  sense  of  touch  here  has  the  power  not  only  to  transcend  space,  but  also  time,  
through  de  la  Roche's  imagined  gesture  of  holding  the  hand  of  a  long-­‐dead  person.  
Furthermore,  she  writes  that  the  female  figure  depicted  on  the  urn  is  being  mourned,  
translating  her  own  experience  in  the  present  moment  into  the  ancient  images  
inscribed  on  the  artefact  itself.  Although  the  woman  whose  ashes  she  touches  is  long  
dead,  there  is  nevertheless  a  powerful  sense  of  immediacy  in  de  la  Roche's  description.  
Classen  argues  that  this  perceived  ability  of  touch  to  bridge  space  and  time  'gave  it  
special  value  in  the  museum  setting,  where  visitors  were  separated  by  considerable  
spatial  and/or  temporal  distances  from  the  cultures  of  origin  of  many  of  the  objects  
displayed.'70  
  When  that  artefact  is  indeed  a  piece  of  a  once-­‐living  person,  this  tactile  
experience  becomes  much  more  complex.  Tactility  may  be  adopted  as  a  particularly  apt  

                                                                                                               
68  Ibid.  
69  Cited  in  Classen,  pp.  277-­‐278.  
70  Ibid.,  p.  278.  

29  
 
  

method  of  investigation  of  the  Wellcome  tattooed  human  skins,  both  in  terms  of  what  
touch  may  yield  to  phenomenological  experience  as  well  as  to  a  material-­‐scientific  
analysis.    This  is  not  without  its  risks,  however  -­‐  there  is  uncertainty  as  to  what  
substances  have  been  used  to  preserve  and  conserve  the  skins,  and  the  presence  of  
potentially  toxic  chemicals  in  their  surface  makes  their  handling  fraught  with  difficulty.  
But  I  do  handle  them  -­‐  and  in  fact  this  has  been  an  integral  aspect  of  my  work.  In  my  
own  experience  of  handling  the  tattooed  skins,  I  was  initially  struck  by  the  inter-­‐
sensoriality  of  my  engagement  with  them.  First,  I  apprehend  each  one  visually.  The  skin  
may  at  first  appear  as  a  flat  parchment-­‐like  surface;  the  presence  of  the  tattoo  has  a  
kind  of  reducing  effect,  which  encourages  this  interpretation,  rendering  the  skin  merely  
a  surface  ground  for  its  inscription.  This  is  perhaps  similar  to  the  way  in  which  the  
apprehension  of  image  content  may  at  first  distract  attention  from  the  materiality  of  a  
photograph.  But  whilst  I  initially  perceive  the  tattooed  skin  as  a  surface  -­‐  fragile,  papery,  
and  brittle  -­‐  my  visual  perception  of  its  texture  compels  me  to  verify  these  impressions  
manually.  On  picking  the  skin  up  between  my  fingers,  testing  its  weight  and  pliability,  
turning  it  over  in  my  hand  and  observing  its  grooves  and  contours,  I  find  that  its  
materiality  defies  my  initial  expectations:  the  skin  may  be  tough,  bark-­‐like  and  opaque,  
or  leathery,  soft  and  powdery.  It  is  not  a  flat  surface  but  a  multidimensional  entity  
which  reveals  its  human  origins  in  an  array  of  surface  features  such  as  hairs,  punctures,  
capillaries,  fascia,  scars,  lesions,  and  of  course,  the  tattoo.  
  This  multidimensional  materiality  is  an  aspect  I  attempt  to  explore  and  convey  
through  my  own  photographic  documentation.71  In  a  close-­‐up  photograph  of  specimen  
number  A636  (Figure  3)  for  example,  the  image  highlights  the  distorted  and  undulating  
skin  surface,  which  has  occurred  as  a  result  of  inadequate  stretching  during  the  drying  
process.  The  reticulated  surface  pattern,  resembling  a  photographic  emulsion  cracked  
with  age,  reveals  the  tattoos'  location  beneath  the  wrinkled  and  dried  outer  layers  of  

                                                                                                               
71  There  were  several  limitations  to  photographing  the  skins  which  affected  my  approach  to  photography.  

The  major  limitation  was  health  and  safety  -­‐  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  have  a  fume  extraction  hood  
suspended  around  18  inches  above  my  workspace  whenever  I  had  the  skins  out  of  their  boxes,  to  extract  
any  potentially  harmful  dust  or  volatile  organic  compounds  (VOCs)  that  may  be  present  in  their  surface.  
This  restricted  both  the  space  within  which  I  could  operate  my  camera,  and  available  light.  The  portable  
fume  hood  was  equipped  with  a  spotlight,  which  compensated  for  the  shadow  cast  over  my  workspace  by  
the  hood  itself  and  the  sizable  flue  pipe.  I  always  worked  with  this  light  on.  When  it  came  to  photographing  
the  skins,  this  light  was  very  useful,  as  I  could  hold  a  specimen  in  one  hand,  adjusting  its  angle  in  the  light  to  
bring  out  its  textural  features,  whilst  operating  the  camera  in  the  other.  Whilst  this  produced  some  
beautiful  and  striking  multi-­‐textured  images,  it  was  nevertheless  a  very  tight  space  in  which  to  photograph  
the  specimens  -­‐  wide-­‐angle  shots  did  not  work  well  with  the  strong  directional  lighting  of  the  lamp  and  
with  the  fume  hood  in  the  way.  The  light  also  gave  a  warm  yellow  colour  cast,  which  sometimes  distorted  
the  true  colour  of  the  skin  surface.  I  have  tried  to  compensate  for  this  to  some  extent  digitally,  but  most  of  
the  images  are  a  true  reflection  of  my  working  environment  and  tools.  The  workspace  and  depth  of  field  
limitations  also  necessitated  operating  my  camera  on  automatic  and  semi-­‐automatic  settings,  which  
reduced  my  focusing  control  over  the  images.  
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epidermis.  In  a  number  of  specimens,  the  condition  of  the  skin  obscures  the  tattoo  
almost  to  the  point  of  complete  illegibility.  The  photograph  of  specimen  number  A566  
(Figure  4)  shows  an  example  of  a  poorly  preserved  skin  -­‐  its  surface  appears  patchy,  
alternately  rough  and  almost  shiny-­‐smooth.  The  texture  of  this  particular  skin  hints  at  
the  conditions  under  which  it  was  removed  from  the  body.  The  smoother,  paler  areas  
towards  the  lower  edges  of  the  skin  show  signs  of  desquamation,  indicating  the  onset  of  
decomposition  prior  to  preservation.72  Desquamation  occurs  when  the  upper  layers  of  
the  skin  blister  and  are  shucked  off  as  decomposition  progresses,  suggesting  that  the  
surgical  conditions  under  which  this  specimen  was  collected  were  rudimentary  -­‐  
perhaps  in  a  military  field  hospital,  or  in  a  prison.  Other  skins,  such  as  specimen  number  
A669  (Figure  5),  bear  the  marks  of  their  excision.  This  image  brings  the  reverse  or  
fleshy  'inside'  of  the  skin  to  the  fore,  as  well  as  the  trace  of  surgical  tools:  the  technique  
of  making  an  initial  cut  using  a  scalpel  and  then  tearing  the  skin  from  the  underlying  
tissue  manually  is  visible  as  a  series  of  ridged  grooves.  The  ridges  are  formed  by  fascia,  
the  connective  tissue  between  the  skin  and  fat  layers,  which  is  left  behind,  rather  than  
being  cut  cleanly  away.  Handling  these  objects  does  more  than  simply  render  their  
textural  complexity  palpable,  however.  The  senses  of  course  do  not  operate  
independently  of  one  another,  and  the  visual  apprehension  of  textured  things  may  
encourage  a  tactile  impulse  to  touch  -­‐  but  it  may  also  provoke  a  visceral  response.  This  
is  especially  the  case  when  examining  examples  like  those  above,  in  which  it  is  easy  to  
conjure  processes  of  cutting  or  tearing  away  of  skin  from  the  body;  processes  that  we  
would  ordinarily  associate  with  pain,  revulsion  or  horror.    
  If  the  provocation  of  a  desire  to  touch  is  a  particularly  apt  way  in  which  these  
hybrid  entities  may  be  considered  to  act,  another  is  through  the  uncanny  ability  in  
which  entities  such  as  human  remains  may  be  said  to  ‘speak’.  This  is  encountered  again  
and  again  in  the  literature  covering  a  wide  range  of  objects  in  a  number  of  disciplinary  
fields,  including  material  culture  studies,  STS  and  anthropology,  but  it  seems  
particularly  resonant  when  it  comes  to  human  remains.  Moreover,  I  would  suggest  that  
there  is  a  relationship  between  these  'things  that  talk',73,  the  desire  to  touch,  and  
emotional  affect.  Lorraine  Daston  addresses  the  notion  of  'things  that  talk'  in  her  
homonymous  book,  exploring  the  ways  in  which  meaning  accretes  around  certain  
things.  The  substantive  materiality  of  these  'talkative'  things  and  how  they  are  made  
shapes  what  they  can  mean.  She  writes  that:  
 
                                                                                                               
72  I  must  thank  Dr.  Wendy  Birch  at  the  UCL  Anatomy  Laboratory  for  her  insight  and  observations  here.  
73  Lorraine  Daston,  Things  That  Talk:  Objects  Lessons  From  Art  and  Science,  (London  and  New  York:  Zone,  

2004).  
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Some   things   speak   irresistibly,   and   not   only   by   interpretation,   projection   and  
puppetry.  It  is  neither  entirely  arbitrary  nor  entirely  entailed  which  objects  will  
become  eloquent  when,  and  in  what  cause.  The  language  of  things  derives  from  
certain   properties   of   the   things   themselves,   which   suit   the   cultural   purposes   for  
which  they  are  enlisted.74  
 
The  notions  of  cause  and  enlistment  are  of  particular  significance  when  considering  
what  kinds  of  entities  the  preserved  tattoos  may  come  to  be  in  different  historical  
periods  and  geographical  locations.  In  the  present  context,  their  status  as  human  
remains  enlists  them  in  a  political  cause  that  has  problematised  both  the  cultural  
authority  of  the  museum  and  post-­‐mortem  medical  practice.  This  politicised  field  has  
undoubtedly  invested  the  tattoos  with  a  renewed  'eloquence';  this  status  is  not  fixed  
however,  but  is  highly  contingent.75  Equally,  these  entities  may  pass  into  
'speechlessness'  during  interim  periods  when  their  properties  cease  to  be  of  cultural  
significance.  As  we  will  see,  the  enactment  of  these  specimens  in  other  historical  
moments  may  enlist  entirely  different  properties  of  the  thing  itself  -­‐  such  as  the  tattoo  -­‐  
for  entirely  different  discursive  and  political  causes.  Daston  refers  to  things  that  talk  as  
'objects  of  fascination,  association,  and  endless  consideration'76;  moreover,  they  are  
things  that  compel  us  to  interact  with  them,  to  respond  in  some  way;  and  to  generate  
more  talk.  If  things  'speak  to  us',  they  are  said  to  move  us  in  some  way.  In  this  
formulation,  talkativeness  is  intimately  bound  up  with  emotive  affect.  My  interaction  
with  the  tattooed  skins  may  thus  be  understood  as  an  inter-­‐sensorial  exchange  which  
moves  from  visual  apprehension  to  visceral  disquiet,  to  a  perception  of  the  'speaking'  
agency  of  the  thing,  to  the  urge  to  touch  and  its  attendant  emotive  affects.  A  particularly  
incisive  example  of  the  intertwining  of  speech  and  affective  presence  in  articles  of  
human  remains  is  offered  by  Krmpotich,  Fontein  and  Harries,  in  their  discussion  of  the  
emotive  power  of  bones:    
 
Bones  do  speak  to  us,  though  not  eloquently  enough,  and  their  emotive  and  
affective  force  derives  from  the  tensions  between  their  stability  and  instability,  
their  determinacy  and  indeterminacy.77  
 
Similarly,  Daston  identifies  the  source  of  the  loquaciousness  of  things  in  their  
'chimerical'  composition;  things  that  talk  are  'things  that  straddle  boundaries  between  
kinds.  Art  and  nature,  persons  and  things,  objective  and  subjective  are  somehow  
                                                                                                               
74  Ibid.,  pp.  14-­‐15.  
75  During  a  conversation  with  Simon  Chaplin,  the  current  Head  of  the  Wellcome  Library,  and  former  

Associate  Curator  at  the  Science  Museum,  he  recalled  how  the  Wellcome  tattoos  were  'not  considered  
problematic  fifteen  years  ago,'  when  he  had  first  seen  them.    
76  Daston,  Things  That  Talk,  p.  11.  
77  Krmpotich,  Fontein,  and  Harries,  'The  Substance  of  Bones',  p.  380.  

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brought  together  in  these  things.'78  In  the  above  passage  the  authors  mobilise  another  
commonly  encountered  trope,  that  of  the  object  which  ‘does  not  speak  clearly  enough’.  
A  tension  is  encountered  between  the  apparent  eloquence  of  objects,  and  their  semantic  
muteness.  They  speak  to  us  in  forceful,  persuasive  ways,  but  we  are  often  unable  to  
decipher  exactly  what  it  is  that  they  say.  The  loquaciousness  of  such  entities  derives  
from  their  ontologically  multiple  status,  their  seeming  ability  to  simultaneously  occupy  
opposing  divides  of  a  fault  line.  This  is  an  observation  which  may  certainly  be  applied  to  
the  Wellcome  tattoos,  and  perhaps  even  to  the  tattoo  in  general:  Nineteenth-­‐century  
criminologist  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  whose  important  work  on  the  European  tattoo  will  
be  explored  in  greater  depth  in  chapters  four  and  five,  famously  referred  to  tattoos  as  
'speaking  scars'  (les  cicatrices  qui  parlent).79  
  Hallam  and  her  co-­‐authors  point  out  that  human  bones  are  ‘situationally  
constituted’,  that  the  'different  material  and  visual  aspects  of  bone  and  bones  are  
yielded  within  different  knowledge-­‐making  practices.'80  Describing  (and  inevitably  
contributing  to)  this  process  is  at  the  very  core  of  my  research  when  working  with  the  
Wellcome  tattooed  skins,  and  for  further  elaboration  of  this  approach,  I  draw  on  the  
work  of  Dutch  philosopher  and  ethnographer  Annemarie  Mol.  Throughout  my  research,  
I  have  been  brought  back  time  and  again  to  the  question  of  ontology.  Not  an  ontology  of  
things-­‐in-­‐themselves,  but  a  relational  ontology  of  processes  which  emphasises  the  
interconnectedness  and  contingency  of  phenomena;  one  in  which  things  are  brought  
into  being,  moulded,  re-­‐shaped  or  dissolved  through  a  variety  of  ‘socio-­‐material  
practices’.  Annemarie  Mol  works  with  such  a  conception  of  ontology  in  her  2002  book  
The  Body  Multiple.  She  writes:    
 
Ontology  is  not  given  in  the  order  of  things  […]  ontologies  are  brought  into  
being,  sustained,  or  allowed  to  wither  away  in  common,  day-­‐to-­‐day,  
sociomaterial  practices.81    
 
This  is  an  ontology  that  attempts  to  break  with  the  traditional  subject-­‐centred  
humanism  of  the  social  sciences  and  seeks  to  recognise  the  agency  of  non-­‐human  actors  
(be  they  technological,  theoretical  or  organic)  in  social  life.  Following  Mol,  I  attempt  
what  she  describes  as  a  'praxiographic  inquiry  into  reality',82  according  to  which  
knowledge  is  to  be  located  in  practices  -­‐  activities,  events,  buildings,  instruments,  

                                                                                                               
78  Daston,  Things  That  Talk,  p.  21.  
79  Alexandre  Lacassange,  Les  Tatouages.  Étude  Anthropologique  et  Médico-­‐légale,  (Paris:  J.-­‐B.  Baillière,  

1881),  p.  99.  

80  Krmpotich,  Fontein,  and  Harries,  'The  Substance  of  Bones',  p.  380.  
81  Mol,  The  Body  Multiple,  p.  6.  
82  Ibid.,  p.  32.  

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procedures  -­‐  and  objects  are  formed,  constituted,  amalgamated,  translated,  dissolved,  
re-­‐assembled  and  enacted  through  these  practices.  Knowledge  then,  is  a  practical  
activity:  to  use  Mol’s  phrase,  it  is  something  which  is  done,  moreover  it  is  a  process  
which  involves  the  mobilisation  of  technologies,  instruments,  papers,  files,  bodies,  
speech,  artefacts.  In  The  Body  Multiple,  Mol  sets  out  to  explore  the  ways  in  which  
'medicine  attunes  to,  interacts  with,  and  shapes  its  objects  in  its  various  and  varied  
practices'83  -­‐  not,  she  stresses,  the  ways  in  which  medicine  knows  its  objects.  She  
mobilises  a  conception  of  ontology  that  no  longer  concerns  itself  with  the  definition  of  
objects  as  such;  nor  does  it  undertake  a  search  for  the  essences  of  things  out  there.  
Rather,  she  shows  how  ontologies  are  never  transcendent,  but  are  brought  about  
through  varied  and  multiple  practices  -­‐  'practices  in  which  some  entity  is  being  sliced,  
coloured,  probed,  talked  about,  measured,  counted,  cut  out.'84  In  the  context  of  her  case  
study  of  atherosclerosis,  Mol  is  talking  about  a  specific  (though  slightly  different  in  each  
enactment)  disease,  but  this  approach  can  equally  be  applied  to  the  preserved  tattooed  
skins  of  the  Wellcome  Collection.  Living  tissue  is  probed  and  coloured  by  tattoo  needles  
in  one  milieu;  in  another,  tattoo  marks  are  discussed,  counted,  redrawn  or  sliced  from  
cadavers;  in  yet  another  context  they  are  reframed,  sold,  accessioned  and  incorporated  
into  a  larger  collection  to  be  measured,  counted  and  discussed  again  at  a  later  date  -­‐  this  
is  a  process  which  continues  in  my  own  work.  More  and  more  inscriptions  are  gathered  
from  the  data,  more  paperwork  is  generated.85  This  process,  what  Latour  refers  to  as  
'punctualization'86,  is  fundamental  to  the  making  and  mastery  of  knowledge-­‐objects.    
  Furthermore,  'attending  to  enactment  rather  than  knowledge  has  an  important  
effect:  what  we  think  of  as  a  single  object  may  be  more  than  one.'87    In  the  context  of  my  
own  research,  I  would  put  it  like  this:  the  pain  experienced  by  the  sailor  whose  skin  was  
punctured  and  impregnated  with  ink  is  not  the  same  entity  as  the  cross-­‐section  of  
tattooed  skin  sliced  from  his  body  post-­‐mortem,  despite  the  fact  that  in  both  cases  we  
are  dealing  with  material  substances  that  may  be  described  under  one  name  -­‐  the  
tattoo.  The  visible,  tattooed  trace  that  is  debated,  drawn  and  written  about  by  
criminologists,  is  not  the  same  thing  as  the  fleshy  souvenir  acquired  in  an  army  
barracks  or  on  board  ship.  In  each  location,  the  object  tattoo  is  enacted  differently,  is  
imbued  with  or  evacuated  of  meaning.  It  is  made  to  stand  for  travel,  memory,  

                                                                                                               
83  Ibid.,  p.  vii.  
84  Ibid.  
85  Examples  of  this  'paperwork',  which  will  be  covered  in  more  detail  in  chapter  four,  include  accession  

slips,  catalogue  records,  conservation  condition  reports,  photographs  and  drawings  of  tattoos,  diagrams,  
tables  and  figures  in  texts,  etc.  
86  Bruno  Latour,  Visualisation  and  Cognition:  Drawing  Things  Together,  (1990),  p.  26.  
87  Mol,  The  Body  Multiple,  p.  vii.  

34  
 
  

experience,  deviance,  vengeance,  exoticism,  primitivism;  it  is  a  slightly  different  entity  
each  time  it  is  encountered.  The  object  tattoo  thus  takes  multiple  forms  during  its  life  -­‐  
its  potential  meanings  and  enactments  are  as  numerous  as  the  cultural  and  historical  
locations  in  which  tattooing  is  practiced.  This  multiplicity  is  perhaps  best  illustrated  
through  a  consideration  of  the  process  of  tattooing  itself:  The  skin  is  first  ruptured  and  
a  foreign  body  injected  into  the  surface  tissue,  a  process  which  usually  involves  the  
intervention  of  another  person,  the  experience  of  pain,  and  the  use  of  specialist  tools.  
But  the  tattoo  is  not  complete  until  the  skin  has  healed,  permanently  sealing  in  the  ink  -­‐  
at  this  stage  the  tattoo  is  still  a  liminal  entity,  incomplete,  attended  by  bodily  processes  
such  as  inflammation,  scabbing,  and  sensations  of  tightness  or  tenderness  in  the  skin.  
After  the  healing  process  has  completed  the  tattoo  physiologically,  the  object  tattoo  
becomes  fully  incorporated  into  the  surface  of  the  body  as  an  indelible  sign.  Thus  the  
tattoo  is  simultaneously  rupture  and  closure,  transitory  process  and  permanent  mark.  
The  semantic  potential  of  the  tattoo  however,  may  continue  to  shift  and  evolve  
throughout  the  course  of  the  bearer's  lifetime.  Exactly  what  kind  of  entity  the  tattoo  is  
depends  upon  when  and  where  it  is  encountered.  This  thesis  is  specifically  concerned  
with  the  post-­‐mortem  tattoo,  and  the  contexts  in  which  preserved  tattooed  skin  may  be  
encountered;  the  clinic,  the  pathology  lab,  a  physician’s  private  collection,  the  medical  
museum,  the  police  archive,  and  perhaps  even  the  contemporary  art  gallery.88  
  Methodologically,  a  praxiographic  approach  thus  has  the  advantage  of  being  
able  to  take  into  account  the  multiplicity  of  a  given  entity,  whilst  grounding  the  analysis  
in  day-­‐to-­‐day  practices  and  discourses.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  begin  with  my  own  
ethnographic  experience,  working  with  the  Wellcome  tattooed  skins  within  the  
museum  archives  -­‐  working  with  my  hands  and  eyes  to  learn  something  of  their  ‘post-­‐
mortem  lives’  and  simultaneously  producing  an  episode  in  their  very  afterlife.  
 
The  Material  Image,  Tactility  and  Affect  
 
As  previously  mentioned,  the  presence  of  the  tattoo  in  the  specimens  encourages  a  
tendency  to  view  the  preserved  skin  fragments  as  little  more  than  a  flat  ground  for  their  
inscription.  The  typical  museum  documentation  of  the  skins  in  the  Wellcome  Collection  
reinforces  this  effect,  as  can  be  seen  in  a  photograph  of  the  skin  tattooed  with  the  

                                                                                                               
88  Over  the  course  of  this  project  I  have  been  contacted  by  a  number  of  tattooed  individuals  who  have  

expressed  interest  in  having  their  tattoos  preserved  post-­‐mortem.  The  reason  most  commonly  cited  by  
these  individuals  is  to  preserve  the  artwork  after  death.  The  most  significant  informant  that  I  have  met  
with,  Geoff  Ostling,  has  gone  to  the  lengths  of  entering  into  a  verbal  contract  with  the  Australian  National  
Gallery,  which  has  agreed  to  accession  his  tattooed  bodysuit  post-­‐mortem.  The  contemporary  preservation,  
exhibition  and  display  context  will  be  discussed  in  greater  depth  in  the  concluding  chapter.  
35  
 
  

phrase  Enfant  du  Malheur  (Child  of  Misfortune),  (specimen  number  A581,  Figure  6).  
This  is  an  effect  that  I  seek  to  avoid  and  disrupt  in  my  own  photography,  in  an  attempt  
to  reassert  and  foreground  the  three-­‐dimensional  corporeal  properties  of  the  skin.  My  
day-­‐to-­‐day  research  practice  involves  a  haptic  involvement  with  the  skins  -­‐  I  handle  
them,  hold  them  up  to  scrutinise  them  visually,  manipulate  them  and  test  their  tactile  
properties  with  my  hands,  I  register  their  distinct  smell.  Capturing  this  multisensory  
experience  and  restoring  a  sense  of  tactility  to  the  imaging  of  these  entities  has  been  a  
central  concern  in  my  work.  Documenting  the  skins  using  a  camera  inevitably  produces  
two-­‐dimensional  images,  but  the  skins  themselves  do  not  necessarily  have  to  be  
rendered  as  flat  images.  In  my  photographs,  taken  during  the  course  of  documenting  
the  collection,  I  have  resisted  representing  the  tattooed  skins  as  two-­‐dimensional  
‘images’  wherever  possible,  endeavouring  instead  to  reveal  something  of  the  fleshy  
multidimensionality  of  the  collection,  thereby  restoring  something  of  their  material  
complexity  (see,  for  example  Figures  3,  16,  22,  35,  and  37).    
  Of  course,  the  tattoos  themselves  are  not  merely  images,  but  are  an  integral  
aspect  of  the  modified  skins'  materiality.  The  tattooed  mark  tells  a  partial  story  of  its  
own  origins,  of  the  techniques  and  tools  used  in  its  production,  as  well  as  suggesting  a  
fragmentary  biography  of  the  tattooed  individual,  evoking  hopes,  desires  and  
allegiances,  often  in  enigmatically  coded  forms.  The  skin  is  a  tactile  medium  unique  
amongst  the  senses;  it  both  connects  us  with  others  and  the  wider  material  world  
through  intimate  touch,  and  provides  unique  possibilities  for  communication.  Thus  it  is  
no  coincidence  that  the  language  of  emotion  is  also  the  language  of  touch:  we  may  feel  
sorrow,  or  feel  the  warmth  of  a  loved  one's  embrace.  In  its  double  significance,  referring  
to  the  sense  of  touch  as  well  as  an  emotional  experience,  the  word  'feel'  itself  hints  to  
the  deep  connections  between  interior  emotional  experience  and  skin  sensations.  
Through  tattooing,  we  are  also  able  to  mark  our  skins  indelibly  with  declarations  of  
love,  desire  for  revenge,  or  symbols  denoting  grief  and  emotional  pain.  Tattooed  images  
and  phrases  may  have  emotive  potential  in  themselves,  and  some  are  even  designed  to  
symbolically  correlate  with  embodied  emotional  experience.  These  emotional  
experiences  are  in  a  sense  'performed'  on  the  surface  of  the  body,  and  may  be  
powerfully  enacted  anew  when  encountered  post-­‐mortem  as  preserved  skin  fragments.  
This  is  particularly  so  in  the  case  of  tattoos  which  express  emotional  pain:  the  nexus  of  
tattooed  symbol,  physical  wound,  body  location  and  emotional  experience  are  
articulated  par  excellence  by  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  tattoo.  This  particular  tattoo  
motif  is  both  common  and  readily  legible,  appealing  to  a  symbolic  cultural  lexicon  that  
is  widely  shared  and  understood.    

36  
 
  

  A  drawing  from  a  book  of  tattoo  designs  by  a  nineteenth-­‐century  Lyonnaise  

tattooer  shows  a  common  nineteenth-­‐century  version  of  the  iconic  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐
heart  tattoo  (Figure  7).  The  book  is  now  part  of  the  collection  of  his  contemporary,  the  
French  criminologist  Alexandre  Laccassagne,  who  carried  out  extensive  research  into  
tattooing  and  criminality  during  the  last  decades  of  the  century.  His  work  involved  the  
collection  of  drawings  of  tattoos,  most  of  which  were  traced  directly  from  the  skin  of  the  
tattooed;  the  tattooer's  design  book  is  unique  within  this  collection.  This  particular  
drawing  indicates  the  appropriate  placement  of  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  tattoo  on  
the  body:  over  the  left  side  of  the  chest,  above  the  heart.  As  can  be  seen  in  this  example,  
the  motif  often  employs  the  visual  illusion  (more  or  less  effectively  rendered)  of  
appearing  to  be  pierced  through  the  nipple,  with  falling  drops  of  blood.  This  element  is  
common  to  nineteenth-­‐century  versions  of  the  motif,  which  rely  on  the  specific  
positioning  of  the  tattoo  to  invoke  the  symbolically  wounded  heart,  rather  than  
including  a  representation  of  the  heart  itself  (compare,  for  example,  the  contemporary  
version  of  this  tattoo  design  reproduced  in  Figure  8).  The  specificity  of  body  location  
essential  to  the  symbolic  legibility  of  this  tattoo  has  historically  restricted  this  version  
of  the  motif  to  men,  on  whose  anatomy  the  design  functions  more  ergonomically.89  The  
design  may  or  may  not  also  include  the  hand  that  grips  the  dagger  (an  aspect  to  which  I  
will  return  later  in  this  chapter)  -­‐  but  in  all  cases  this  tattoo  is  intended  to  symbolise  
betrayal  in  love,  a  broken  heart,  or  emotional  sacrifice  or  suffering.  The  origin  of  this  
motif  and  its  variants  may  be  found  in  Catholic  representations  of  the  Immaculate  Heart  
of  Mary,  which  typically  depict  the  heart  of  the  Virgin  Mary  pierced  with  one  or  more  
swords,  and  wreathed  in  a  garland  of  roses.  This  symbolism  is  thought  to  derive  from  
the  words  of  Simeon  in  the  Gospel  of  Luke,  who  prophesied  the  Crucifixion  when  Mary  
brought  the  infant  Jesus  to  the  temple  to  be  blessed,  adding:  'A  sword  shall  pierce  
through  thy  soul  also.'90  Numerous  examples  of  the  Immaculate  Heart  may  be  found  in  
Christian  art  and  architecture;  the  tabernacle  door  in  the  Notre  Dame  du  Rosaire  de  
Lourdes  in  France,  for  instance,  features  a  gold  relief  of  the  Immaculate  Heart  pierced  
with  seven  swords  (see  Figure  10).  The  relation  of  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  tattoo  
with  romantic  or  devotional  love  of  a  woman  may  derive  from  this  association  with  the  
heart  of  the  Virgin  Mary  in  particular,  and  goes  some  way  to  explain  its  early  popularity  

                                                                                                               
89  Examples  of  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  may  be  found  on  the  female  body  during  the  twentieth  

century  and  contemporary  era,  though  not  usually  placed  over  the  heart.  In  women,  this  motif  tends  to  be  
worn  on  the  upper  arm  or  thigh  (see,  for  example,  Figure  9).  Hearts  pierced  by  arrows  and  related  imagery  
incorporating  cupids  may  have  a  different,  parallel  iconographic  source  of  origin,  which  is  perhaps  more  
closely  associated  with  concepts  of  romantic  love.  It  may  be  that  these  motifs  traditionally  hold  a  greater  
appeal  for  tattooed  European  women.  
90  The  Gospel  of  Luke  2:34-­‐35.  

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as  a  distinctly  male  choice  of  tattoo  motif.  Moreover,  this  interpretation  would  seem  to  
correspond  with  early  modern  European  traditions  of  tattooing,  which  combined  
devotional  religious  body  marking  with  the  travel  souvenir  in  the  form  of  Christian  
pilgrimage  tattoos.91  According  to  the  eye-­‐witness  account  of  seventeenth  century  
English  traveller  George  Sandys,  in  Jerusalem  'they  use  to  mark  the  Arms  of  Pilgrims,  
with  the  names  of  Jesus,  Maria,  Ierusalem,  Bethlehem,  the  Ierusalem  Crosse,  and  sundry  
other  characters.92  In  fact,  this  practice  went  back  at  least  as  far  the  fifteenth  century,93  
establishing  a  long  tradition  of  devotional/souvenir  tattooing  in  Europe.  The  dagger-­‐
through-­‐the-­‐heart  tattoo  may  be  viewed  in  the  context  of  these  traditions  as  an  
adaptation  of  broader  Christian  iconographic  and  devotional  themes.  
  Contemporary  tattoo  designs  have  continued  this  process  of  adaption  of  the  
motif:  Some,  such  as  the  tattoo  'flash'  design  seen  in  Figure  8,  feature  a  scroll  in  which  a  
lover's  name  may  be  inscribed.  The  phrase  'Love  is  Pain'  is  also  popular  (the  word  'pain'  
in  this  image  may  of  course  also  be  tattooed,  but  in  this  case  was  most  likely  drawn  by  
the  tattooist  to  reinforce  the  meaning  of  the  motif).  Others  incorporate  a  combination  of  
popular  symbolism;  for  example,  the  anatomical  heart  encircled  by  a  snake,  also  a  
symbol  of  deception  or  betrayal,  refers  quite  explicitly  to  the  physiological  component  
of  a  particular  kind  of  emotional  pain  -­‐  a  constricting,  crushing  pain  in  the  chest  that  
could  best  be  described  as  heartache  (see  Figure  11).  For  the  purposes  of  this  
discussion,  the  male  version  of  the  motif  worn  on  the  chest  is  particularly  interesting  as  
a  distinctly  masculine  expression  of  emotional  pain.  That  this  psychological  suffering  is  
also  rendered  as  a  physical  wound  is  significant;  the  tattooed  image  and  the  process  of  
tattooing  combining  to  conjure  the  visual  expression  of  an  ideal  of  masculine  stoicism  in  
the  face  of  suffering.94  The  fact  that  the  tattoo  is  in  itself  an  actual  wound,  albeit  a  healed  
one,  reinforces  this  effect.  The  Wellcome  Collection  contains  a  number  of  examples  of  
this  particular  motif,  ranging  from  the  faintly  fetishistic  (see  specimen  number  A670,  
Figure  12);  to  the  very  crude  (see  specimen  number  A684,  Figure  13);  to  the  
artistically  accomplished  (see  specimen  number  A524,  Figure  14).    
  This  connection  between  the  choice  of  a  particular  tattoo  motif  and  ideals  of  
masculinity  more  generally  pertains  to  the  enactment  of  social  meanings  involved  in  the  
acquisition  of  the  tattoo.  Whilst  there  is  no  singular  motivating  reason  why  someone  
                                                                                                               
91  Jennipher  Allen  Rosencrans  notes  that  'the  only  definitive  account  of  early  modern  symbolic  tattooing  

comes  from  the  travel  journals  of  the  pilgrims  who  trekked  to  Jerusalem,  marked  their  stay  with  tattoos,  
and  returned  to  the  British  Isles.'  p.  60,  'Wearing  the  Universe:  Symbolic  Markings  in  Early  Modern  
England',  in  Jane  Caplan  (ed.),  Written  on  the  Body,  (London:  Reaktion  Books,  2000).  See  also  Juliet  Fleming,  
'The  Renaissance  Tattoo',  pp.  61-­‐82,  in  the  same  volume.  
92  George  G.  Sandys,  A  Relation  of  a  Journey  begun  An.Dom.1610,  (London:  W.  Barrett,  1615),  p.  56.  
93  Juliet  Fleming,  'The  Renaissance  Tattoo',  p.  79.  
94  This  also  recalls  the  suffering  of  Christ  and  Christian  practices  of  mortification  of  the  flesh.  

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may  become  tattooed,  there  is  nevertheless  a  common  experience  that  inflects  the  
practice,  no  matter  where  and  when  it  is  performed:  physical  pain.  The  first  and  most  
common  question  asked  by  the  non-­‐tattooed  when  the  tattooed  skin  of  another  is  
encountered  is  usually:  ‘did  it  hurt?’  The  experience  of  pain  can  never  be  erased  from  
the  mark  itself,  even  after  it  has  healed;  thus  perceptions  of  the  tattoo  are  necessarily  
bound  up  with  the  association  of  pain.  It  could  be  argued  that  he  most  dominant  factor  
in  becoming  tattooed  in  contemporary  European  and  North-­‐American  societies  is  the  
acquisition  of  the  permanent  mark;  special  emphasis  is  placed  on  the  aesthetics  of  the  
tattooed  image  within  these  cultures,  in  which  practitioners  are  increasingly  viewed  as  
artists.95  Whilst  this  is  quite  a  convincing  argument  in  relation  to  contemporary  tattoo  
culture,  it  does  not  seem  to  hold  in  the  case  of  nineteenth-­‐century  European  tattooing.  
Aside  from  the  lack  of  technical  skill  of  some  of  the  tattooers,  which  is  evident  upon  
close  material  analysis  of  the  Wellcome  tattoos,  they  also  suggest  that  the  symbolism  of  
the  designs  has  greater  importance  than  their  aesthetic  qualities.  Anthropologist  Alfred  
Gell  points  out  that  as  a  'technique  of  the  body',  tattooing  has  'an  invariant  processual  
contour'  which  is  'always  and  everywhere  submitted  to  in  its  entirety.'96  In  what  Gell  
terms  the  'technical  schema  of  tattooing',  there  are  three  necessary  stages  to  tattoo  
acquisition,  irrespective  of  the  culture  in  which  it  is  performed:  (1)  wounding,  followed  
by  bleeding  and  the  insertion  of  pigment;  (2)  scab-­‐formation,  scarring,  healing;  and  (3)  
the  subsequent  acquisition  of  a  permanent  indelible  mark,  frequently  ornamental.97  The  
emphasis  paid  to  each  of  these  stages  varies  from  culture  to  culture,  and  to  some  extent  
determines  how  tattoos  are  understood  within  these  contexts.  For  instance,  traditional  
Society  Island  tattooing  in  Polynesia  places  the  greatest  value  on  the  first  stage,  in  
which  tattooing  is  predominantly  regarded  as  a  rite  of  passage.98  In  this  context,  the  
permanent  mark  thus  functions  as  proof  that  the  individual  has  endured  the  painful  
process  of  tattooing.  In  Samoan  society,  the  tattooing  ritual  places  more  importance  on  
the  healing  stage,  during  which  the  tattoo  is  'completed'  by  the  body,  described  by  Gell  
as  a  phase  of  'transitory  crisis'.99  In  societies  which  attribute  relatively  little  importance  

                                                                                                               
95  This  is  perhaps  reflected  by  the  shift  in  terminology  from  'tattooist'  to  'tattoo  artist'  that  has  occurred  in  

the  past  thirty  years;  this  theme  will  be  taken  up  in  relation  to  contemporary  attitudes  towards  tattoo  
preservation  in  my  concluding  chapter.  
96  Alfred  Gell,  Wrapping  in  Images.  Tattooing  in  Polynesia,  (Oxford:  Oxford  University  Press,  1993),  p.  304.  
97  Ibid.  
98  Ibid.,  p.  307.  
99  Ibid.,  p.  304.  

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to  stages  (1)  and  (2)  but  attach  the  greatest  social  significance  to  the  permanent  mark,  
as  is  the  tendency  in  the  West,  tattooing  has  a  somewhat  different  meaning.100    
  Whilst  most  tattooed  European  individuals  may  have  historically  placed  value  
on  the  tattoo  mark  itself,  the  tradition  of  souvenir  tattoos  (see,  for  example,  specimen  
number  A784,  Figure  15)  acquired  to  mark  a  journey  or  pilgrimage  would  certainly  
suggest  that  in  some  cases,  the  tattoo  stands  for  little  more  than  the  experience  itself.  
This  emphasis  is  also  apparent  in  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  tattoo,  which  far  from  
seeking  to  erase  the  painful  experience  of  tattooing  and  demonstrating  aesthetic  value,  
presents  to  the  world  a  highly  visceral  image  which  draws  special  attention  to  corporeal  
suffering.    
  A  consideration  of  the  specific  iconographic  function  of  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐
heart  tattoo  requires  some  discussion  of  the  complex  connections  between  physical  
(haptic)  and  emotional  pain.  As  mentioned  above,  the  tattoo  commonly  provokes  the  
question  ‘does  it  hurt?’,  although  the  nature  of  this  pain  is  given  little  thought,  as  one  
can  easily  imagine  how  it  may  feel  for  the  skin  to  be  cut,  scraped  or  grazed.  The  location  
of  this  pain  is  not  commonly  given  to  doubt  by  those  who  ask  whether  or  not  being  
tattooed  hurt.  However,  this  question  is  worth  considering  in  relation  to  the  dagger-­‐
through-­‐the-­‐heart  tattoo,  since  the  placement  of  this  tattoo  on  the  body  has  a  specific  
signification.  Where  does  it  hurt?  is  perhaps  a  more  pertinent  question  to  consider  in  
relation  to  this  particular  motif.  This  question  is  of  course  frequently  asked  as  a  matter  
of  routine  clinical  enquiry  by  doctors  and  medical  personnel.  The  answer,  however,  may  
not  be  so  simple,  since,  as  medical  philosopher  Francisco  González  Crussí  points  out:  
 
Pain,  like  all  sense  experience,  is  a  private  affair.  It  is  fundamentally  enigmatic  
and  unknowable.101    
 
When  pain  is  experienced  at  the  surface  of  the  body,  as  in  tattooing,  we  have  at  our  
disposal  a  wide  vocabulary  with  which  to  describe  the  sensations  -­‐  burning,  stinging,  
cut,  abraded,  stretched,  struck,  pinched.  For  instance,  I  would  describe  the  sensation  of  
being  tattooed  as  a  kind  of  'burning  sting',  both  sharp  and  hot,  superficial,  and  easy  for  
the  body  to  acclimatise  to.  The  skin  is  'acutely  articulate'  in  registering  a  broad  range  of  
differentiated  sensation.  But  what  of  interior  sensation  -­‐  the  visceral,  and  by  extension,  
the  emotional?  How  might  the  preserved  tattooed  skin  fragment  specifically  evoke  
emotional  response  in  others?  
                                                                                                               
100  For  example,  tattooing  in  these  contexts  may  be  a  primarily  acquisitive  pursuit,  in  which  a  personal  

'collection'  of  images  connected  to  life  experiences  and  memories  are  built  up  over  time.  Alternately,  
tattoos  may  be  trophies.  These  themes  will  be  taken  up  further  in  chapters  three  and  four.  
101  Francisco  González  Crussí,  The  Five  Senses,  (London:  Picador,  1990),  p.  6.    

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  The  body's  sensory  capacities  are  currently  most  often  defined  in  medical  
discourse  by  three  categories  of  physiological  schema:  The  first  of  these,  exteroception,  
incorporates  all  of  our  five  familiar  'external'  senses,  including  our  sense  of  touch.  
Proprioception  refers  to  our  sense  of  the  body  in  space,  as  well  as  our  balance,  position  
and  muscular  tension.  Finally,  interoception  includes  all  sensations  of  the  viscera,  or  
internal  sensations  of  the  body.  Both  proprioception  and  interoception  may  be  
regarded  as  broadly  part  of  our  haptic  sense,  and  thus  as  extensions  of  our  sense  of  
touch.  Interoception  is  particularly  interesting  for  the  purposes  of  this  discussion,  as  for  
the  majority  of  people  it  is  for  most  of  the  time,  a  largely  unknown  realm  of  sensation,  
which  is  connected  to  transient,  emotionally  intuitive  experience.  According  to  
philosopher  Drew  Leder,  this  is  prefigured  by  the  fundamental  spatial  boundary  
between  interoceptive  sense  and  the  external  world.  As  he  puts  it:  'the  incorporation  of  
an  object  into  visceral  space  involves  its  withdrawal  from  exteroceptive  experience.'102  
By  way  of  example,  he  considers  the  experience  of  eating  an  apple,  an  act  which  utilises  
all  five  sense  modalities:  Before  it  is  swallowed  we  can  see,  touch,  smell  and  taste  the  
apple,  as  well  as  hearing  the  distinctive  crunching  sound  as  we  bite  into  it.  Once  
swallowed,  however,  these  multi-­‐sensory  possibilities  are  lost  in  the  limited  perceptual  
field  of  the  interior.  All  sensation  is  thus  reduced  to  one  modality:  'inner  sensation'.  The  
crudeness  of  vocabulary  and  limits  of  this  sensation  are  frequently  a  problem  for  
diagnosing  physicians  who  ask  the  question  ‘where  does  it  hurt?’  and  ‘how  does  it  
hurt?’.  Significantly,  this  'limited  interoceptive  vocabulary  largely  centres  around  
sensations  that  are  affectively  charged  [...]  visceral  sensations  grip  me  from  within,  often  
exerting  emotional  insistence.103    
  It  is  perhaps  not  surprising  then,  that  the  language  of  interoceptive  perception  
is  most  articulated  in  relation  to  pain;  most  often  we  are  only  aware  of  interior  organs  
when  they  ache  and  prompt  what  may  be  described  as  diffuse  discomfort,  cramping,  
dull  aches  and  sickening  queasiness.  But  this  vocabulary  is  nevertheless  limited  in  
comparison  with  the  various  surface  pain  sensations  of  the  skin.  The  generic  and  non-­‐
specific  nature  of  these  sensations  is  also  attested  to  by  their  variety  of  causes  -­‐  for  
example,  stress,  food  poisoning  and  infection  alike  can  all  result  in  the  same  cramping  
sensation.  Spatial  positioning  in  interoceptive  sensation  is  additionally  very  imprecise  -­‐  
it  does  not  share  the  fine  precision  of  hearing,  sight  or  touch  in  locating  stimuli.  The  
borders  of  interior  sensation  are  indistinct.  The  viscera,  from  which  we  derive  much  of  
our  intuitive  references  to  powerful  'gut  sensations'  are  in  fact  actually  quite  
                                                                                                               
102  Drew  Leder,  'Visceral  Perception',  in  Constance  Classen  (ed.),  The  Book  of  Touch,  (Oxford  and  New  York:  

Berg,  2005),  p.  335.  

103  Ibid.,  p.  336.  

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insensitive,  to  the  extent  that  the  intestines  can  be  cut  in  two  by  a  surgeon  without  a  
conscious  patient  feeling  significant  pain.104  Whilst  the  pain  register  of  tattooing  is  
exteroceptive,  the  tattoo  itself  occupies  equivalently  ambiguous  spatial  boundaries  to  
that  of  interoceptive  sensation,  both  physiologically  and  conceptually:  In  the  first  
instance,  the  tattoo  appears  at  the  surface  of  the  body,  but  is  suspended  within  the  skin;  
similarly,  it  can  also  be  understood  conceptually  as  a  conscious  expression  of  internal  
life  projected  outwards,  into  the  external  social  world.  
  Referred  pain  attests  to  the  spatial  ambiguity  of  interoceptive  sensation  
particularly  well,  and  provides  a  useful  framework  within  which  to  consider  the  dagger-­‐
through-­‐the-­‐heart  tattoo.  Referred  pain  may  be  described  as  something  taking  place  in  
one  organ,  which  can  'experientially  radiate  to  adjacent  body  areas  or  express  itself  in  a  
distant  location,'105  and  is  commonly  experienced  by  heart  attack  suffers.  It  is  possible  
to  conceptualise  the  tattooed  symbolic  instrument  of  emotional  suffering,  the  dagger,  as  
an  expression  of  consciously  inscribed  referred  pain,  translating  the  difficult-­‐to-­‐define  
inner  emotional  experience  into  a  publicly  visible,  heightened  surface  pain  sensation.  
Leder  speaks  of  referred  pain  as  'an  almost  magical  transfer  of  experience  [...]  effected  
along  both  spatial  and  temporal  dimensions.'106  In  my  formulation,  the  surface  of  the  
body  becomes  the  new  spatial  dimension  upon  which  pain  is  registered  in  a  form  which  
is  also  acutely  temporal  -­‐  the  permanence  of  the  tattoo  means  that  it  functions  as  a  
lasting  memory  of  corporeal,  emotional  experience.  The  cartography  of  pain  is  thus  sui  
generis  -­‐  it  is  not  located  by  coordinates  or  distances;  pain  perception  knows  nothing  of  
objectivity.  As  González  Crussí  writes:  'pain's  distances  are  not  metric  and  objective,  but  
'tactile  and  kinesthetic'.'107    
  It  is  precisely  the  indeterminate  nature  of  visceral  responses  to  human  remains  
that  intrigues  me  here.  The  tattooed  dagger,  placed  deliberately  over  the  heart  on  the  
surface  of  the  body,  may  be  regarded  as  an  attempt  to  locate  and  fix  an  experience  and  
memory  of  pain,  to  make  it  intelligible  and  definable  to  the  outside  world.  The  peculiar  
location  of  the  tattoo,  appearing  at  the  surface  of  the  body  but  suspended  indelibly  
within  the  skin,  further  complicates  the  relationship  of  interior/exterior  experience.  
The  skin  as  both  the  site  of  social  and  intimate  contact  and  a  highly  sensitive  sensory  
medium,  provokes  a  visceral  response  in  others  when  it  is  breached,  damaged,  or  
broken.  Through  the  inevitable  wounding  of  the  body  surface,  the  tattoo  transgresses  

                                                                                                               
104  Ibid.,  p.  337.  
105  Ibid.  
106  Ibid.  
107  González  Crussí,  The  Five  Senses,  p.  7.  

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this  boundary  and  invokes  pain  in  the  mind  of  the  viewer,  even  when  this  is  merely  
imagined,  as  in  the  case  of  the  healed  mark.  
  In  the  case  of  the  preserved  tattoo,  the  texture  of  the  flayed  skin  adds  a  further  
dimension  to  the  perception  of  painful  corporeal  experience:  the  death  of  the  subject.  
The  presence  of  death  may  be  texturally  apparent  in  the  surface  of  the  skin,  as  in  the  
case  of  the  tattooed  skin  covered  in  a  dense  layer  of  tiny  bumps  which  have  the  textural  
quality  of  stiffened,  coarse  sandpaper  (specimen  number  A576,  Figure  16).  What  
appears  here  to  be  'goose-­‐flesh'  -­‐  a  skin  sensation  commonly  associated  with  both  
physical  feelings  of  cold  and  emotions  such  as  fear  or  horror  -­‐  is  frozen  in  the  moment  
of  death  through  the  rapid  preservation  of  the  excised  specimen.  The  visual  and  tactile  
presence  of  emotive  sensation  registered  by  the  dead  skin  fragment  is  the  same  
reaction  we  associate  with  a  specific  living  sensation,  except  in  this  case  it  is  caused  by  
rigor  mortis  of  the  arrector  pili  muscles  in  the  skin.  The  texture  of  this  particular  skin  
provokes  a  visceral  sense  of  disquiet  in  myself  as  I  handle  it,  conjuring  the  ghost  of  a  
sensation,  which  prickles  uneasily  over  my  own  skin.  
  The  material  specificity  of  the  substance  which  the  tattoo  takes  for  its  ground  -­‐  
the  skin  and  the  living,  sensitive  body  -­‐  is  thus  necessarily  bound  up  with  the  potential  
meanings  and  significance  of  the  tattooed  image  itself.  As  an  embodied  art  form,  much  
of  the  iconography  relies  upon  the  specific  body  location  of  the  tattoo,  or  reference  to  
vernacular  speech  or  sentiment.  A  particularly  striking  instance  of  the  nexus  of  tattooed  
sentiment,  body  location  and  emotional  experience  (and  to  some  extent,  physiological  
pain)  is  recounted  in  the  journals  of  Makar  Ratmanov,  one  of  the  crew  on  the  Nadezhda,  
the  first  Russian  vessel  to  circumnavigate  the  globe  between  the  years  1803  and  1806.  
Encountering  the  tattooed  inhabitants  of  Nuku  Hiva  in  1804,  many  of  the  crew  
underwent  tattooing  by  the  natives.  Ratmanov  wrote:  
 
Many   of   our   officers   and   men   had   small   figures   tattooed   on   their   hands   and  
arms.  The  captain  had  an  inscription  done  on  his  arm:  Jllie  [Julie]  -­‐  the  name  of  
his   wife   whom   he   adores.   I   had   the   inscription   done   in   a   semicircle   over   the   left  
breast  above  the  heart:  'Je  suis  à  vous'  -­‐  'I  am  yours'.  All  the  officers  felt  pain.  But  
I,  having  given  my  heart  to  you,  my  angel,  was  so  excited  making  this  sacrifice  to  
you  in  this  remote  and  savage  part  of  the  world,  my  darling,  that  I  did  not  feel  
pain   and   felt   that   underneath   the   trembling   heart   says,   'Yes,   I   really   belong   to  
her'.108  
 

                                                                                                               
108  Makar  Ratmanov,  Dnevnik,  vedennyi  vo  vremia  krugosvetnogo  plavaniia  I.  F.  Kruzenshterna  na  korable  

"Nadezhda"  [Journal  Kept  during  the  Round  the  World  Voyage  of  I.  F.  Kruzenshterna  on  the  Ship  Nadezhda],  in  
Russian  National  Library;  cited  in  Elena  Govor,  ''Speckled  Bodies':  Russian  Voyagers  and  Nuku  Hivans,  
1804',  in  Nicholas  Thomas,  Anna  Cole  and  Bronwen  Douglas  (eds.),  Tattoo:  Bodies,  Art  and  Exchange  in  the  
Pacific  and  the  West,  (Durham:  Duke  University  Press,  2005),  p.  70.  
43  
 
  

  What  is  remarkable  about  this  account  is  the  explicit  connection  made  between  
the  location  on  the  surface  of  the  body  of  the  tattoo  -­‐  'over  the  left  breast  above  the  
heart'  -­‐  the  tattooed  sentiment,  itself  a  dedication  with  the  force  of  a  vow,  and  the  
evocation  of  the  'speaking'  heart  which  internally  avers  the  external  inscription  -­‐  'I  am  
yours'.  In  this  passage,  the  potency  of  his  internal  emotions  whilst  he  is  being  tattooed  
is  enough  to  render  the  process  painless,  describing  instead  a  state  of  'excitement'  that  
may  be  read  as  an  almost  mystical  ecstasy.  Moreover,  the  devotional  tone  of  Ratmanov's  
entry,  addressed  to  his  wife  or  mistress  at  home  in  Russia,  and  his  quite  deliberate  
recounting  of  the  process  of  becoming  tattooed  as  an  act  of  sacrifice,  encodes  Christian  
notions  of  martyrdom  and  'bearing  witness'  through  physical  ordeal.      
  Whilst  this  nineteenth-­‐century  Russian  sailor's  account  is  undoubtedly  highly  
romanticised,  the  religious  inflection  in  acts  of  devotional  body  marking  such  as  this  
perhaps  have  their  basis  in  Christian  practices  of  mortification  of  the  flesh.  German  
Dominican  priest,  mystic  and  writer  Henry  Suso  (Heinrich  Seuse,  1295-­‐1363),  who  was  
famed  for  his  strict  asceticism  and  inventive  mortifications,  is  depicted  in  a  number  of  
iconographic  works  inscribing  a  Christogram  onto  his  chest.  In  a  fifteenth-­‐century  
German  woodcut,  the  saint  is  pictured  kneeling  in  contemplation  of  the  sacred  heart,  
whilst  appearing  to  inscribe  the  IHS  Christogram  onto  his  chest  (Figure  17).  Though  it  
is  important  to  point  out  that  this  inscription  does  not  necessarily  represent  a  tattoo  in  
the  literal  sense,  this  has  nevertheless  been  a  common  interpretation  of  this  particular  
depiction  of  Seuse.  A  seventeenth-­‐century  painting  of  Suso  by  Spanish  painter  Francisco  
Zurbarán  (1598-­‐1664)  also  portrays  the  saint  revealing  marks  inscribed  on  his  chest,  
though  in  this  case  they  appear  more  like  cicatrices,  or  a  brand  (Figure  18).  In  the  
catalogue  entry  for  a  copy  of  this  painting,  held  in  the  Wellcome  Library  Collections,  the  
mark  is  explicitly  referred  to  as  a  tattoo;  the  figure  of  Suso  is  described  as,  'standing  in  a  
landscape,  dressed  in  the  Dominican  habit,  exposing  a  tattoo  of  the  monogram  of  Christ  
on  his  abdomen  and  pointing  to  it  with  a  stylus.'109  Whether  or  not  Suso  was  actually  
tattooed,  these  two  images  are  intriguing  in  their  portrayal  of  the  saint  engaged  in  acts  
of  self-­‐touching.  His  hands,  whether  read  as  gesturing  to  reveal  the  marks  of  his  piety,  or  
physically  inscribing  the  marks  themselves,  are  a  central  motif  in  the  depiction  of  his  
devotion;  furthermore,  it  is  his  chest  on  which  the  marks  are  exposed.  Thus  hand  and  
chest  (or  perhaps  more  accurately,  hand  and  heart)  are  enlisted  in  a  complex  symbolic  
confluence  of  gesture,  unveiling  and  faithful  testimony.110    

                                                                                                               
109  The  Blessed  Henry  Suso,  after  Francisco  Zurbarán,  (c.1636-­‐38).  Wellcome  Library,  London  (no.  44830i).  
110  The  common  expression  ‘hand  on  heart’,  to  mean  that  one  is  sincerely  truthful,  similarly  recalls  active  

gestures  of  self-­‐touching,  and  provides  another  example  of  the  close  association  between  the  language  of  
emotion  and  the  language  of  touch.    
44  
 
  

  These  observations  return  us  to  the  hand  in  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  
tattoo.  Whilst  contemporary  versions  of  the  motif  rarely  include  this  element,  it  is  by  
contrast  very  common  in  similar  tattoos  from  the  nineteenth  century  (see  for  example  
Figures  7,  13  and  14).  The  presence  of  the  hand  gripping  the  dagger  in  these  early  
motifs  is  intriguing;  both  suggesting  a  close  connection  with  Christian  symbolism  and  
inscribing  a  complex  exchange  between  wounds  inflicted  by  others  and  intentional  acts  
of  self-­‐wounding.  These  exchanges  may  be  further  examined  by  asking  the  question,  
whose  hand  is  this?  The  common  interpretation  of  this  motif  is  that  the  dagger  
symbolises  an  emotional  wound  inflicted  by  another  -­‐  usually  a  woman  -­‐  who  has  
committed  an  act  of  betrayal.  Thus  the  hand  may,  in  the  simplest  sense,  be  a  quite  literal  
representation  of  the  hand  of  the  person  who  inflicted  the  emotional  wound.  However,  
the  hand  of  both  the  tattooer  and  the  tattooed  is  also  implied  in  the  tattoo.  The  tattooed  
person  who  submits  themselves  to  the  painful  procedure  of  tattooing  is  engaged  in  an  
intentional  and  symbol  act  of  self-­‐wounding;  the  image  of  the  hand-­‐and-­‐dagger  retains  
a  trace  of  this  self-­‐inflicted  pain,  which  may  be  both  self-­‐determining  and  sacrificial.111  
The  hand  of  the  tattooer  is  also  evoked  in  the  tattooed  image,  as  the  hand  that  wields  
the  instrument  of  torture  in  order  to  inscribe  the  permanent  mark.  Thus  the  hand  in  
this  version  of  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  motif  enacts  a  series  of  relational  and  
negotiated  acts  of  multiple  self-­‐becoming  which  may  be  summarised  in  the  formulation:  
this  person  wounded  me/I  wound  myself;  this  person  tattoos  me/I  tattoo  myself.  
  If  certain  tattooed  images  powerfully  express  experiences  of  emotional  pain,  
others  may  be  read  as  devotional.  As  we  have  seen,  declarations  such  as  the  nineteenth-­‐
century  Russian  sailor's  'I  am  yours',  and  Christian  religious  symbolism  may  both  be  
considered  to  fall  into  this  category.  However,  tattooed  portraits  are  also  frequently  
understood  as  devotional,  and  are  frequently  worn  as  memorials  to  lost  loved  ones.112  
This  interpretation  is  often  reinforced  by  the  placing  of  the  tattoo  over  the  breast,  
traditionally  the  male  European’s  location  of  choice  for  emotive  designs.  One  such  
example  preserved  in  the  Wellcome  Collection  can  be  seen  in  the  right  half  of  the  pair  of  
skin  fragments  taken  from  the  anterior  torso  of  one  individual  (see  specimen  number  
                                                                                                               
111  Some  scholars  have  interpreted  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  tattoo  as  a  symbol  which  functions  as  an  

oath,  prefiguring  the  emotional  intent  of  the  tattooed  individual,  who  seeks  to  avenge  an  emotional  injury.  
Writing  in  1960,  the  criminologist  Jean  Graven  for  example  described  this  motif  as  an  iconographic  
expression  of  the  saying  'vengeance  is  a  dish  best  served  cold.'  p.  90  in  'Le  Tatouage  et  son  Importance  en  
Criminologie,  IIeme  Partie',  in  Revue  Internationale  de  Criminologie  et  du  Police  Technique,  Vol.  14  (1960).  
More  recent  publications  reiterate  this  interpretation,  describing  the  version  of  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐
heart  motif  exemplified  by  Figures  7  and  14  as  an  encoded  pictorial  declaration  meaning,  'Death  to  
unfaithful  women'.  See  Jérôme  Pierrat  and  Éric  Guillon,  Mauvais  garçons:  Portraits  de  tatoués  (1890-­‐1930),  
(Paris:  Manufacture  de  livre  éditions,  2013),  p.  82.  
112  See,  for  example  Jane  Caplan,  'Indelible  Memories:  The  Tattooed  Body  as  Theatre  of  Memory',  in  Karin  

Tilmans,  Frank  Van  Vree  and  Jay  Winter  (eds.),  Performing  the  Past:  Memory,  History  and  Identity  in  Modern  
Europe,  (Amsterdam:  Amsterdam  University  Press,  2010),  p.  133,  Figure  6.6.  
45  
 
  

A555,  Figure  19;  see  also  Figure  2.)  On  the  left  side  of  the  chest  we  see  the  hand  
gripping  the  dagger,  which  penetrates  the  breast  just  above  the  nipple.  The  dagger  
plunges  into  the  chest,  drawing  blood,  which  is  detailed  in  red  ink,  the  colour  reflected  
in  a  beautifully  executed  bloom  of  red  roses  beneath  (see  Figure  14).  On  the  right  side  
of  the  chest  there  is  a  large  portrait  of  a  young  girl,  which  takes  up  an  equivalent  
amount  of  space  and  complements  the  design  on  the  left  side  of  the  chest  (Figure  19).  
The  proximity  and  prominence  of  these  two  tattoos  suggests  perhaps  a  correspondence  
between  the  two  images,  reinforced  by  the  specific  body  location  of  the  breast,  and  
engendering  associations  with  love,  endearment,  emotional  intimacy  and  affection.  The  
abdomen  tattoo,  on  the  other  hand,  may  invite  entirely  different  interpretations  based  
on  the  proximity  of  the  sexual  organs  (see  Figure  2).  In  fact,  the  relationship  between  
these  tattooed  images  on  the  body  of  one  individual  is  far  more  difficult  to  assess.  
  Remarkably,  during  the  course  of  archive  research  in  Paris,  I  came  across  a  
reproduction  of  a  photograph  of  this  particular  individual,  in  a  publication  on  
nineteenth-­‐century  criminal  tattooing,113  to  which  I  will  return  in  more  detail.  This  
photograph  pictures  the  man  from  just  beneath  the  chin  to  mid-­‐way  down  his  thighs  -­‐  
revealing  a  far  greater  extent  of  his  tattooing  than  could  possibly  be  inferred  from  the  
two  preserved  skin  fragments  alone  (Figure  20).  The  authors  provide  no  contextual  
information  citing  the  source  or  date  of  this  photograph  in  the  book.  However,  there  is  a  
one-­‐line  caption  beneath  the  image,  which  reads:  
 
While   the   first   of   his   lovers   rests   on   his   breast,   truly   and   forever,   the   second  
took  a  more  passionate,  intimate  place.114  
 
  The  author  who  compiled  this  compendium  of  largely  anonymous  photographs,  
police  superintendant  of  the  Sûreté  Nationale  in  Paris,  Jacques  Delarue,  makes  the  quite  
extraordinary  assumption  that  both  of  the  female  figures  tattooed  over  this  man's  body  
were  his  lovers.  Furthermore,  it  is  clear  from  the  caption  that  the  specificity  of  location  
of  the  tattoo  designs  on  the  body  strongly  influenced  the  author's  interpretation  of  their  
significance.  The  figure  on  the  chest  -­‐  placed  literally  and  figuratively  'close  to  the  heart  
'-­‐  is  read  as  his  true  love,  whilst  the  woman  depicted  in  a  domestic  or  cafe  scene  on  his  
abdomen,  is  construed  as  his  mistress,  based  entirely  upon  the  proximity  of  this  tattoo  
to  his  genitals.  However,  on  closer  inspection  of  the  proportions  of  the  body  and  face  of  
                                                                                                               
113  Jacques  Delarue  and  Robert  Giraud,  Le  Tatouages  du  ‘Milieu’,  (Paris:  L'Oiseau  de  Minerve,  1999),  p.  101,  

plate  17.  
114  Ibid.  Translated  from  the  French:  

Tandis  que  la  première  de  ses  amantes  s'appuie  vraiment  sur  son  sein,  et  pour  toujours,  la  second  a  pris  sa  
place  dans  la  plus  chaude  intimité.    
 
46  
 
  

the  female  figure  tattooed  over  the  right  side  of  his  chest,  this  tattoo  appears  to  be  a  
portrait  of  child,  and  not  a  grown  woman.  Perhaps  then,  this  was  a  portrait  of  his  child,  
or  a  young  family  member  whom  he  held  dear?  Or  perhaps  not:  The  source  of  
inspiration  for  this  portrait,  which  occupies  such  pride  of  place  over  the  right  side  of  the  
tattooed  man's  chest,  is  drawn  from  an  advertisement  for  Ridge's  Patent  Cooked  Food  
infant  formula  milk,  published  in  the  British  illustrated  newspaper  weekly  The  Sketch  in  
1893  (Figure  21).  The  likeness  between  the  preserved  tattoo  and  the  printed  
advertisement  is  not  approximate,  but  exact:  Whilst  the  drying  and  shrinkage  of  the  
skin  has  distorted  the  child's  face  somewhat  in  the  preserved  specimen,  her  features,  
proportions,  clothing,  pose  and  the  large  urn  against  which  she  rests,  are  all  faithfully  
reproduced  by  a  skilled  tattooist  -­‐  very  likely  an  early  professional  -­‐  working  with  hand-­‐
needles.  The  knowledge  that  the  tattooed  man  photographed  in  Jacques  Delarue's  book  
in  fact  had  no  personal  connection  to  the  child  whose  likeness  he  had  tattooed  on  his  
chest,  complicates  any  reading  of  his  tattoos  based  entirely  upon  the  geography  of  the  
body.  Whilst  his  tattoos  certainly  possess  a  degree  of  sentimentality,  it  is  possible  that  
the  child's  portrait  was  nothing  more  than  an  appealing  image  drawn  from  popular  
culture,  and  may  not  even  have  been  the  choice  of  the  tattooed  man  himself.  It  is  
entirely  conceivable  that  a  skilled  tattooist  eager  to  display  their  talents  selected  this  
image,  which  would  be  all  the  more  impressive  executed  in  ink  on  skin.  
  The  interpretation  of  this  man's  tattoos  offered  by  Delarue  is  based  on  an  
uncritical  reading  of  the  spatial  topography  of  the  body,  which  conflates  surface  
representation  with  emotional  and  visceral  interiority,  represented  by  the  heart  and  the  
sexual  organs  respectively.  Although  the  meaning  of  certain  tattoo  motifs  is  
undoubtedly  constituted  in  part  by  their  placement  on  the  body  -­‐  as  in  the  examples  of  
the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  tattoo  discussed  above  -­‐  this  observation  certainly  does  
not  apply  to  all  European  tattoos  in  general.  Rather,  the  significance  of  body  location  in  
relation  to  tattoo  design  may  be  considered  as  a  tendency  that  emerges  from  the  
embodied  materiality  of  the  tattoo  and  its  intersection  with  particular  cultural  and  
historical  formations  of  self.  It  is  also  worth  mentioning  another  tendency,  that  of  the  
specific  pattern  of  'reading'  the  body,  which  encourages  the  thematic  connection  of  
distinct  elements  and  facilitates  their  incorporation  into  a  coherent  narrative  whole.  
This  pattern  links  images  in  the  same  manner  as  one  follows  text  on  a  page,  proceeding  
from  left  to  right  and  top  to  bottom,  reflecting  a  typically  Western-­‐Latin  reading  
configuration.115  According  to  this  formulation,  the  flattened  image  of  the  tattooed  body  

                                                                                                               
115  I  must  thank  Dr.  Florian  Freitag  for  this  observation  and  stimulating  discussion  during  the  2013  Probing  

the  Skin  conference  at  the  Friedrich-­‐Schiller-­‐University  of  Jena.  

47  
 
  

presented  in  the  photograph  is  regarded  as  a  text  to  be  decoded,  via  a  series  of  symbolic  
associations  between  images:  For  instance,  the  female  figure  who  seems  to  rest  her  
head  on  his  chest,  already  construed  as  someone  close  to  his  heart,  might  also  be  the  
imagined  cause  of  emotional  pain  inscribed  by  the  dagger  over  the  right  side  of  his  
chest.  These  kinds  of  associative  'readings',  implicit  in  the  work  of  nineteenth-­‐  and  early  
twentieth-­‐century  criminologists,  underlines  a  tendency  within  their  work  to  view  the  
surface  of  the  body  as  a  page  and  the  tattoo  as  inscribed  text,  constructing  narrative  
connections  between  individual  motifs  where  in  fact  there  may  be  none.    
  The  example  of  the  Ridge's  Food  advertisement  underscores  some  of  the  
difficulties  inherent  in  interpreting  the  tattoos  of  others.  When  dealing  with  human  
remains,  and  especially  fragmentary  human  remains  such  the  tattoos  in  the  Wellcome  
Collection,  this  becomes  increasingly  problematic.  Removed  from  the  contextual  anchor  
of  the  life  that  gave  them  meaning,  it  is  often  impossible  to  determine  what  these  
inscribed  memories  meant  to  their  bearers.  Any  interpretation  solely  based  on  the  
iconography  of  tattoos  must  inevitably  remain  rudimentary.    
  In  the  case  of  the  preserved  skin  of  the  tattooed  man,  the  tattooed  image  of  the  
child  -­‐  or  indeed  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart  -­‐  may  be  read  as  his  focus  of  devotion,  
which  has  been  subsequently  fetishised  by  the  post-­‐mortem  collector:  an  image    
transcribed  into  living  flesh,  transformed  back  into  an  immutable  image.  In  some  
respects,  handling  tattooed  skins  becomes  akin  to  handling  old  photographs  of  people  
long  dead:  
 
Like   relics,   photographs   are   validated   through   their   social   biography:   ordinary  
remains   (family   snapshots)   become   treasured,   linking   objects   to   traces   of   the  
past,  the  dead,  the  fetishized  focus  of  devotion.116  
 
  Imagined  biographies  of  the  tattooed  subjects  are  similarly  evoked  with  these  
fragmentary  remains  as  they  are  handled:  Like  the  family  snapshot  in  a  photograph  
album,  which  is  enacted  through  active  processes  of  remembering  and  associative  
linkage  with  other  images,  the  preserved  tattoo  is  charged  with  multiple  narrative  
possibilities  through  both  the  connections  that  may  be  made  between  individual  tattoo  
motifs,  and  related  documents,  of  which  the  photograph  is  one  example.  In  the  case  of  
the  tattooed  man  outlined  above,  an  interesting  relationship  between  disassociated  
archive  documents  emerges;  how  might  one  relate  to  the  materiality  of  the  photograph  
and  the  tattooed  skin  in  the  image,  as  compared  with  the  actual  skin,  preserved  in  an  

                                                                                                               
116  Elizabeth  Edwards,  'Grasping  the  Image:  How  Photographs  are  Handled',  in  Constance  Classen  (ed.),  The  

Book  of  Touch,  (Oxford  and  New  York:  Berg,  2005),  p.  421.  
48  
 
  

entirely  different  museum  context?  Anthropologist  and  historian  of  photography  

Elizabeth  Edwards  describes  the  'almost  insuperable  desire  to  touch,  even  stroke,  the  
image'  when  she  has  observed  people  talking  about  their  photographs.  She  writes  that:  
 
From   its   earliest   days   the   relationship   with   photographs   has   demanded   a  
physical   engagement   -­‐   photo   objects   exist   in   relationship   to   the   human   body,  
making   photographs   as   objects   intrinsically   active   in   that   they   are   handled,  
touched,  caressed.117    
 
The  photo-­‐object,  like  the  museum  object,  also  engages  with  the  body.  Through  the  
active  construction  of  personal  or  historical  narrative,  the  photograph  is  're-­‐
temporalized  and  re-­‐spatialized'  as  it  is  handled.  As  Edwards  put  it,  'there-­‐then  and  
here-­‐now'  become  linked:  Thus  we  are  reminded  of  the  early  museum  experience  of  
Sophie  de  la  Roche;  in  handling  museum  artefacts  and  photographs  alike,  vision,  
touching  and  the  attendant  construction  of  historical  narratives  combine  to  bridge  
'insurmountable  time  and  space',  and  facilitate  affective  experience.  This  conflation  of  
time  also  played  out  in  my  own  research:  in  concluding  this  chapter,  I  would  like  to  
consider  an  episode  from  my  own  ethnographic  experience  of  handling  archival  
materials,  which  has  particular  resonance  for  this  discussion.    
 
Pictures  in  Skin,  and  the  Man  in  the  Picture  
 
The  identities  of  the  individuals  from  whom  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattoos  were  taken  
remain  unknown,  with  one  notable  exception:  The  tattooed  man  whose  torso  tattoos  
have  formed  a  significant  part  of  my  discussion  of  tattoo  iconography  thus  far,  and  
whose  photograph  I  serendipitously  stumbled  across  in  a  book  during  a  research  trip  to  
Paris.  I  was  subsequently  able  to  trace  this  photograph  back  to  its  original  archive  
source  at  the  Préfecture  de  police  in  Paris.  The  original  image,  a  glass  lantern  slide,  
includes  the  surname  of  the  subject  in  the  photograph  and  the  date  that  the  photograph  
was  taken,  written  directly  onto  the  glass  plate:  Fromain,  27/07/1901  (see  lower  left  
edge,  Figure  20).  This  information  was  cropped  out  of  the  image  reproduced  in  
Delarue's  book.118  A  second  photograph  of  a  large  tattoo  on  Fromain's  back  also  
survives;  this  is  the  only  other  piece  of  archival  material  pertaining  to  this  individual  
held  in  the  Paris  archive.  Finding  a  surname  and  a  date  to  link  these  documents  to  was  
in  some  sense  reassuring,  though  this  information  in  itself  does  not  tell  us  anything  
                                                                                                               
117  Ibid.,  p.  422.  
118  See  chapter  five  for  discussion  of  the  significance  of  the  cropping  of  this  image  in  relation  to  the  

enactment  of  archive  documents  within  criminological  discourses  on  the  tattoo  and  criminality.  
49  
 
  

about  the  life  of  the  person  in  the  photograph.  Rather,  it  was  my  initial  interaction  with  
the  photograph  in  the  book,  and  the  complex  relationship  between  disassociated  
archival  documents  -­‐  the  preserved  skin,  the  photographic  reproduction,  and  the  print  
advertisement  -­‐  that  provoked  deeper  reflection.  
  When  I  first  encountered  the  photograph  of  Fromain,  I  was  in  the  laborious  
process  of  looking  for  potential  matches  between  tattoos  documented  in  nineteenth-­‐  
and  early  twentieth-­‐century  photographs  of  tattooed  criminals119  and  the  preserved  
tattoos.  The  majority  of  the  tattoo  motifs  in  the  Wellcome  Collection  are  quite  generic,  
consisting  of  regimental  insignia,  anchors  and  tattooed  phrases  that  would  be  almost  
impossible  to  match  directly  with  any  individual  soldier  or  prisoner  I  might  come  
across  in  the  photographs.  The  only  exceptions  to  this  observation  are  the  detailed  
tattoos  preserved  in  specimens  A555  and  A524  (Figure  2).  Looking  through  Delarue's  
book,  I  turned  the  pages  in  the  hope  that  I  might  see  a  design  similar  to  those  in  the  
Wellcome  Collection.  But  what  I  found  was  far  more  unexpected  -­‐  and  far  more  exciting.  
To  say  that  it  was  a  shock  to  see  almost  the  entire  body  of  a  man  whose  preserved  skin  
fragments  I  knew  intimately,  is  an  understatement:  I  was  immediately  struck  by  a  
peculiar  sense  of  both  familiarity  and  estrangement.  The  man  himself  seemed  to  
emerge  from  the  pages  of  the  book  almost  whole,  yet  I  was  only  familiar  with  parts  of  
him.  His  face  was  cropped  out  of  the  frame,  which  registered  as  a  frustration,  but  also  
told  me  that  it  was  most  definitely  his  tattoos  that  were  the  source  of  interest  to  the  
photographer;  something  we  had  in  common.  But  what  was  perhaps  most  intriguing  -­‐  
other  than  the  possibility  that  I  might  locate  the  original  photograph  in  a  public  archive  
and  find  out  more  about  him  -­‐  was  my  sense  of  the  'aliveness'  of  this  particular  
document.  As  a  technology  of  memory,  photography  carries  within  it  both  the  promise  
of  death  and  the  possibility  of  immortality.120  It  preserves,  but  as  Elizabeth  Edwards  
notes,  it  also  fractures:    
 
In  its  stillness,  deathlike  as  some  commentators  have  argued,  it  contains  within  
its   frame,   fracturing   time,   space   and   thus   event,   causing   a   separation   from   the  
flow   of   life,   from   narrative,   from   social   production.   In   making   detail,   it  

                                                                                                               
119  There  are  a  significant  number  of  such  photographs  from  this  period,  and  a  many  can  be  seen  in  popular  

compendiums  of  tattoo  photography;  see  for  example,  Delarue,  Le  Tatouages  du  'Milieu';  Gérard  Lévy  and  
Serge  Bramly,  Fleurs  de  Peau.  Skin  Flowers,  (Munich  and  London:  Kehayoff,  1999);  Jérôme  Pierrat  and  Éric  
Guillon,  Le  tatouage  à  Biribi.  Les  vrais,  les  durs,  les  tatoués,  (2004);  and  Mauvais  garçons  :  Portraits  de  
tatoués  (1890-­‐1930),  (Paris:  Manufacture  de  livre  éditions,  2013),  by  the  same  authors.  However,  most  of  
the  photographs  in  these  books  are  sourced  from  private  collections,  which  are  in  many  cases  difficult  to  
locate  or  access.  Comparative  collections  of  photographs  will  be  discussed  in  greater  depth  in  chapter  four.  
120  As  has  been  famously  argued  by  Roland  Barthes  in  his  Camera  lucida:  reflections  on  photography,  trans.  

Richard  Howard  (London:  Cape,  1982).  

50  
 
  

subordinates   the   whole   to   the   part.   It   is   indiscriminate,   fortuitous   in   its  

inscription,  random  in  its  inclusiveness.121  
 
Many  elements  of  this  characterisation  of  the  photograph  struck  me  as  I  handled  the  
photograph  of  Fromain:  Here  I  had  before  me  a  trace  of  his  living  body,  removed  from  
the  context  and  narrative  of  his  life  and  inserted  into  a  new  one  in  Delarue's  book.  Who  
had  taken  this  picture  and  why?  On  this,  the  photograph  was  mute.  I  wanted  to  know  
who  this  man  was,  but  he  was  both  faceless  and  anonymous,  the  image  reducing  him  to  
an  inscription  of  the  tattooed  marks  in  his  skin.  And  this  particular  photographic  record  
was  certainly  fortuitous  for  me  -­‐  a  chance  inclusion  amongst  the  parade  of  photographs  
of  anonymous  criminals  and  miscreants  presented  in  the  book.  Like  the  preserved  
specimen,  the  photograph  has  survived  long  after  the  death  of  the  subject,  and  thus  the  
image  is  imbued  with  a  spectral  presence.    
  As  I  handled  the  photograph,  with  the  knowledge  that  this  man  was  alive  when  
it  was  taken  clear  in  my  mind,  it  became  a  kind  of  'living'  manifestation  of  the  preserved  
specimen's  subject  presence.  The  isolated  fragments  of  skin  ceased  to  be  specimens  and  
became  instead  pieces  of  an  individual,  with  fullness  of  form  and  corporeal  specificity.  I  
thus  enter  into  a  new  relationship  with  this  individual,  whose  tattoos  are  familiar  to  me,  
and  whose  skin  I  have  touched.  A  facsimile  of  life  inhabits  the  photograph,  the  ghost  of  a  
living  subjectivity;  the  preserved  specimen  on  the  other  hand  is  frozen  death,  yet  it  
speaks  of  the  deceased  subject  through  the  tattoo.  Thus  there  is  a  twofold  complexity  to  
the  notion  of  the  'authentic'  or  'original'  thing,  and  each  manifestation  contains  differing  
complex  ontological  admixes  of  subject/object.  The  photograph  may  be  regarded  as  a  
trace  of  the  (almost)  whole  body,  whilst  the  preservation  is  an  original  fragment  of  that  
body.  These  two  entities,  in  relationship  with  one  another,  enter  into  a  dialogue,  
generating  multiple  possible  narratives.    
  The  photograph  prompted  an  effusion  of  new  questions:  What  was  the  broader  
visual  narrative  to  which  this  man  belonged?  Which  narrative?  One  told  by  the  body,  
through  the  tattoos  inscribed  on  his  skin?  Or  the  narrative  of  the  photographer,  or  
photograph  collector?  And  there  are  yet  more  possibilities,  other  contexts  and  actors,  
such  as  the  doctor  who  excised  and  preserved  the  skin  after  Fromain’s  death,  collating  it  
into  a  new  collection,  or  the  criminologists  who  wrote  about  his  tattoos  in  their  texts.  
And  then  there  was  me;  the  historian  seeking  to  unpick  and  weave  together  anew  these  
disparate  narrative  threads.    

                                                                                                               
121  Elizabeth  Edwards,  'Photography  and  the  Performance  of  History',  in  Kronos,  No.  27:  Visual  History,  

(November  2001),  pp.  16-­‐17.  

51  
 
  

  What  we  have  then,  are  three  interrelated  artefacts,  or  documents,  which  are  
the  dispersed  fragments  of  intersecting  histories.  From  the  example  of  Fromain,  we  can  
begin  to  see  the  multiple  potential  ways  in  which  the  tattoo  may  be  'enacted':  As  the  
inscription  of  an  emotional  experience  of  pain  and  stoicism;  through  their  reading  and  
relational  interpretation  according  to  body  location  and  the  proximity  of  other  tattoo  
designs  in  a  book;  through  a  photograph  that  records  a  trace  of  the  tattooed  body,  
incorporated  into  a  criminal  identification  system;  and  finally  as  a  post-­‐mortem  
preservation,  which  fragments  unitary  elements,  isolating  the  tattoos  from  the  body  and  
facilitating  their  further  re-­‐mobilisation  and  interpretation.  Through  these  
disconnected  points  in  time  and  space  -­‐  the  skin  preservation,  the  photograph,  and  the  
advertising  image  -­‐  we  are  'offered  glimpses  of  possible  pasts'122,  pasts  which  are  both  
encountered  visually,  and  felt  viscerally.    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
                                                                                                               
122  Edwards,  'Grasping  the  Image',  p.  423.  

52  
 
  

CHAPTER  TWO  
Material  Analysis  and  Research  Context  
 
I  initially  set  up  my  workspace  at  the  Science  Museum  archives  in  a  rarely  used  object  
packing  room,  across  the  corridor  from  the  conservation  labs.  The  room  could  
accommodate  the  bulky  and  very  noisy  portable  fume  hood  (referred  to  as  "the  
elephant"  by  museum  staff),  as  well  as  having  long  benches  on  which  I  could  lay  out  the  
skins  when  analysing  and  photographing  them.  I  was  seldom  disturbed  there,  yet  I  was  
in  close  proximity  to  the  conservation  labs  with  specialist  conservation  staff  generally  
available  should  I  have  any  questions  about  the  collection  or  the  working  environment.  
From  this  work  place,  I  began  to  meticulously  photograph,  document  and  measure  each  
of  the  tattooed  skins.  What  at  first  seemed  like  an  arduous  task,  soon  became  a  
fascinating  process  of  discovery  –  the  longer  I  looked  at  them  and  handled  them,  the  
whirring  suction  of  the  elephant  ever  present,  the  more  their  material  properties  
suggested  to  me  their  histories  and  prompted  further  research  into  historical  
techniques  of  tattooing,  tissue  preservation  and  the  iconography  of  the  tattoos.  I  began  
to  consider  the  theoretical  value  of  adopting  a  kind  of  auto-­‐ethnographic  approach,  in  
which  my  sensory  impressions  of  the  collection  are  described  and  explored,  and  
thought  about  how  this  might  be  combined  with  historiography.  I  soon  found  that  some  
very  interesting  historical  connections  emerged  from  this  initial  approach.      
  In  the  previous  chapter,  I  have  touched  upon  the  ways  in  which  straightforward  
observation  of  tattoo  iconography  can  begin  to  reconstruct  a  sense  of  the  person,  
reanimating  the  body  as  a  whole,  and  reinstating  the  fragment  back  into  the  (albeit  
ultimately  unknowable)  context  of  a  life  once  lived.  In  the  case  of  Fromain,  connections  
made  between  disassociated  archival  materials  provide  a  more  comprehensive  picture  
of  his  tattoos  than  the  preserved  skin  fragments  can  offer  alone.  The  police  
identification  photograph  affords  a  greater  appreciation  of  the  extent  and  entirety  of  his  
tattoos  and  their  placement  on  the  body.  Thus  visual  apprehension  alone  may  restore  
three-­‐dimensionality  to  the  fragmented  and  flattened-­‐out  body.  However,  perception  is  
never  experienced  as  a  singular  sensory  modality,  but  is  rather  an  inter-­‐sensorial  affair.  
Other  senses  offer  different  revelations.    
  In  the  context  of  a  material  analysis  that  will  be  the  primary  focus  of  this  
chapter,  one  of  the  first  things  to  register  is  the  distinctive  smell  of  the  skins.  It  varies  
from  specimen  to  specimen,  but  some  are  highly  noisome,  with  a  complex  scent  that  
may  be  described  as  a  pungent  marine  odour;  similar  to  brine-­‐soaked  wood  and  dried  
seaweed,  tangy  and  acidic,  with  an  underlying  mustiness.  Throughout  my  interaction  

53  
 
  

with  the  skins,  I  have  pondered  what  these  smells  may  reveal  about  their  organic  
substance  and  chemical  composition.  With  this  in  mind,  and  eager  to  get  to  the  bottom  
of  the  'toxicity'  issue,  I  raised  the  question  of  material  testing  of  the  skin  with  
conservation  staff  early  on  in  the  project.  Unfortunately,  after  some  exploration  of  the  
possibilities,  material  testing  was  deemed  not  to  be  a  viable  option.  Many  of  the  physical  
testing  techniques  that  could  yield  useful  data,  such  as  the  composition  of  any  chemical  
substrates  in  the  skin  surface,  would  involve  destructive  testing  of  the  specimens.  
Whilst  destructive  testing  could  produce  information  invaluable  to  the  future  
safeguarding  of  the  collection,  it  nevertheless  conflicts  with  one  of  the  primary  concerns  
of  the  museum:  conservation.  As  Matija  Strlič  et  al  write:  
 
Heritage   objects   present   particular   problems   for   analysis   either   due   to   their  
uniqueness   or   due   to   diverging   histories.   Another   problem   is   that   it   is   often  
impossible  to  sample.  This  necessitates  nondestructive/noninvasive  methods.123  
 
One  such  method  proposed  by  Strlič  that  may  be  appropriate  in  this  case  is  
'instrumental  sniffing',  which  involves  sampling  the  air  surrounding  an  object  in  a  
contained  space,  and  chemically  analysing  it  for  volatile  organic  compounds  (VOC's).  
Strlič's  observation  that,  'the  complexity  of  heritage  objects  is  to  an  extent  comparable  
to  the  complexity  of  living  organisms'124  seems  strikingly  apt  when  thinking  about  
museum  collections  of  human  remains.  VOC  analysis  can  tell  a  chemical  story  about  
heritage  objects,  and  provide  'a  rapid  diagnostic  tool  for  the  degradation  and  condition  
of  [...]  collections  as  well  as  evaluation  of  conservation  treatments  and  material  
analysis'.125  Each  time  I  open  a  sealed  container  and  the  piquant  scent  of  preserved  
human  skin  assaults  my  senses,  I  can  only  guess  at  the  molecular  character  of  their  
odours;  using  a  mechanical  tool  to  identify  their  constituent  properties  would  seem  to  
offer  a  good  solution  to  avoid  the  problems  of  destructive  testing.  However,  material  
analysis  of  the  collection  has  not  been  part  of  the  remit  of  this  project  –  without  access  
to  the  appropriate  training  and  equipment,  the  possibilities  that  'instrumental  sniffing'  
may  offer  to  an  analysis  of  the  tattooed  skins  remains  entirely  speculative.  This  is  
perhaps  an  avenue  for  future  research.  Smell,  then  -­‐  though  highly  provocative  -­‐  
remains  merely  suggestive.    

                                                                                                               
123  Matija  Strlič  et  al,  'Material  Degradomics:  On  the  Smell  of  Old  Books',  in  Analytical  Chemistry,  Vol.  81,  No.  

20  (October  15,  2009),  p.  8617.  

124  Ibid.  Strlič's  methodology,  which  he  refers  to  broadly  as  '-­‐omics',  developed  out  of  the  field  of  

metabolomics;  the  systematic  scientific  study  of  the  unique  chemical  fingerprints  left  behind  by  specific  
cellular  processes  involving  metabolites.  
125  Ibid.  

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  Texture,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  trace  of  an  altogether  more  specific  kind.  
Encountered  both  visually  and  through  touch,  skin  texture  provokes  an  entirely  
different  response  to  that  of  the  tattooed  image,  which  is  primarily  perceived  visually.  
The  skin  itself  may  be  tough  and  bark-­‐like,  unyielding  and  stiff;  or  soft  and  leathery,  
with  an  internal  surface  marked  by  surgical  tools,  or  the  intricately  pitted  trace  of  
deeper  body  tissues,  as  can  be  seen  in  specimen  number  A666  (Figure  22).  The  
impression  of  adipose  cells,  which  remain  in  the  connective  tissue,  or  fascia,  also  
reminds  us  that  this  specimen  was  once  a  part  of  a  body  with  architecture,  depth  and  
interiority.  Each  skin  reveals  differences  in  excision  technique,  preservation  methods  
and  presentational  aesthetics.  They  are  simultaneously  natural  substance  and  created  
artifice;  a  peculiar  coagulation  of  organic  matter  and  chemical  agents  capable  of  
freezing  the  impression  of  a  living,  feeling  moment  of  somatic  experience  in  time  
forever  -­‐  the  painful  inscription  of  a  tattoo,  or  even  a  shiver  of  cold  (Figure  16).    
  Having  previously  explored  the  political,  theoretical,  ontological  and  emotive  
qualities  of  the  collection,  I  now  turn  to  the  material  composition  of  these  hybrid  
entities:  skin  and  ink.  In  what  follows,  I  will  describe  and  explore  the  specific  qualities  
of  their  material  substance,  closely  analysing  their  properties  in  order  to  begin  
reconstructing  their  histories  and  post-­‐mortem  afterlives.  
 
First  Impressions  
 
In  summary,  the  collection  is  composed  of  dry-­‐prepared  human  skins,  varying  in  size  
from  a  few  centimetres  square,  to  entire  sheets  of  skin  removed  from  the  chests  of  a  
number  of  men,  with  nipples  and  hair  still  intact  (see  specimen  number  A600,  Figure  
23).  Common  features  in  the  collection  include  frilled  and  punctured  edges,  formed  
during  the  drying  process  when  the  newly  excised  skins  were  laid  out  and  pinned  onto  
a  flat  surface.  Many  tiny  pinholes  result  from  this  first  stage  of  the  drying  method;  as  the  
skin  begins  to  desiccate  over  days  or  weeks,  it  retracts  around  the  pins,  leaving  a  
scalloped  pattern  along  the  edges  of  the  specimen.  Some  specimens  have  then  been  
trimmed  carefully  to  remove  these  frilled  edges,  apparently  to  better  present  the  skin  as  
a  neat,  parchment-­‐like  surface.  Such  manipulations  suggest  both  a  careful  attention  to  
visual  display  and  a  striking  correspondence  between  skin  surface  and  writing  surface,  
(an  aspect  to  which  I  will  return  in  chapter  three).  There  are  interesting  incongruities  
too;  whilst  a  large  proportion  have  clearly  been  cut  into  shapes  that  frame  the  tattoos  in  
the  most  economic  manner  possible,  as  in  the  case  of  the  tattooed  inscription  Campagne  
de  Tunisie  (Figure  24),  others  have  been  crudely  hewn  through  the  tattoo-­‐marks  

55  
 
  

themselves,  and  so  do  not  present  intact  images,  as  exemplified  in  the  collection  of  
numerous  tattooed  female  portraits  over  a  portion  of  the  chest  (Figure  25).  One  might  
speculate  a  number  of  reasons  for  this;  the  body  surface  and  tattoos  may  have  been  
damaged  due  to  injury  prior  to  death,  a  distinct  possibility  given  that  a  large  number  of  
specimens  appear  to  have  come  from  soldiers,126  judging  by  their  iconography;  or  the  
tattoos  may  have  been  harvested  in  haste,  possibly  by  non-­‐medical  professionals  
seeking  to  earn  some  money  from  their  black-­‐market  sale  to  collectors.  The  varying  
degree  of  skill  with  which  the  skins  have  been  removed  from  the  body  and  prepared  
may  lend  some  support  to  the  latter  theory  -­‐  as  we  will  see,  it  seems  more  than  likely  
that  Lavalette  did  not  prepare  all  of  the  skins  himself,  as  he  claimed  according  to  
Johnston-­‐Saint’s  record.    
  The  skin  surface  itself  is  highly  complex,  with  visible  adnexa  such  as  hairs  and  
nipples,  as  well  as  discernable  structures  deeper  beneath  the  surface,  such  as  
capillaries.  The  skins  also  bear  the  traces  of  surgical  tools;  unidentified  residues  which  
may  be  chemical,  organic,  or  both;  and  surface  eruptions  -­‐  all  of  which  may  reveal  more  
about  their  excision  and  preparation  through  visio-­‐material  analysis.  
  Reflecting  upon  the  particular  articulations  and  ‘visual  and  tactile  attunements’  
of  working  with  human  bones  Krmpotich,  Fontein  and  Harries  make  the  observation  
that:  
 
There   are   both   congruities   and   incongruities   between   bones   and   flesh…   the  
former   conjure   adjectives   such   as   hard,   dry,   contained,   stable,   past,   whereas   the  
latter  summon  adjectives  such  as  soft,  wet,  pungent,  leaking,  recent.127    
 
In  many  ways,  the  skin  may  be  considered  the  very  opposite  of  bone  in  terms  of  both  its  
substance  and  connotations:  the  skin  is  peripheral,  whilst  bone  forms  the  structural  
core  of  the  body;  the  skin  is  soft,  malleable,  fragile  and  transient,  whereas  bone  is  hard,  
unyielding,  tough  and  enduring.  The  skin  registers  life  experience  on  its  surface,  
becoming  ever  more  individuated  and  associated  with  living  memory  as  we  age;  bone,  
on  the  other  hand,  more  frequently  symbolises  anonymous  death,  the  loss  of  specificity  
and  self:    
 
We   equate   the   vanishing   of   flesh   which   results   in   the   skeleton   with   the  
vanishing   of   our   memory   in   the   minds   of   the   living   [...]   Once   the   skin,   muscles  
                                                                                                               
126  Following  comments  in  Johnston-­‐Saints’  journals,  it  is  reasonable  to  assume  that  the  skins  would  have  

come  from  populations  under  institutional  purview,  (in  barracks,  military  hospitals,  prisons  etc.);  especially  
since  it  was  these  very  populations  who  were  the  subject  of  late  nineteenth-­‐century  criminological  
investigations  into  tattooing.  
127  Krmpotich,  Fontein  and  Harries,  'The  Substance  of  Bones',  p.  377.  

56  
 
  

and   organs   have   fled   their   frame,   the   bones   attest   only   to   the   fact   that   a   life   was  
lived.  Except  to  the  scientist,  they  do  not  offer  the  who,  what,  where,  and  when.  
The  skeleton  is  the  halfway  point  to  not  having  existed  at  all.128  
 
  Whilst  the  incongruities  between  bone  and  skin  are  foregrounded  in  this  
analysis,  it  is  the  congruities  that  interest  me  here.  Similar  adjectives  to  those  suggested  
by  Krmpotich  et  al  can  also  be  used  to  describe  the  Wellcome  collection  tattooed  skins:  
desiccated,  callous,  parched,  dry,  friable,  stiff…  Words  that  would  not  ordinarily  be  
associated  with  living,  sensitive  skin.  The  transformation  that  has  taken  place  upon  
death  has  reformed  the  skin  into  a  substance  with  entirely  different  properties.    But  
how  was  this  transformation  accomplished?  To  what  processes  have  these  fragments  of  
human  tissue  been  subjected,  in  order  to  render  them  stable  and  contained  for  the  
museum  cabinet?  An  exploration  of  these  questions  requires  both  material  analysis  of  
the  tattooed  skins  themselves,  and  consultation  of  historical  sources  on  anatomy  
preservation  techniques.  
 
Preservation  Techniques,  Texture  and  Topography      
 
Explicit  references  and  descriptive  accounts  of  preservation  methods  of  tattooed  
human  skin  are  extraordinarily  rare  in  late  nineteenth-­‐  and  early  twentieth-­‐century  
medical  and  forensic  literature.  This  may  at  first  seem  surprising,  given  that  a  
significant  number  of  such  specimens  exist  today  in  collections  across  Europe  and  
America.129  However,  the  scarcity  of  comments  on  the  practice  of  post-­‐mortem  tattoo  
collecting  may  indicate  that  such  activities  were  considered  banal,  routine  and  
unproblematic  –  as  mere  medical  curiosities  preserved  along  with  a  range  of  other  body  
parts  considered  useful  for  medical  instruction.  On  the  other  hand,  a  lack  of  archival  
evidence  of  the  practice  may  reflect  an  awareness  amongst  the  physicians  involved  in  
assembling  such  collections,  that  their  activities  may  well  have  been  perceived  
unfavourably  outside  of  the  dissection  room,  pathology  lab,  or  medical  circles  at  large.  
  Indeed,  Professor  of  anatomy  Paul  Poirier  at  the  Faculté  de  Médecin  in  Paris  
found  himself  embroiled  in  some  controversy  when  sections  of  skin  were  removed  from  
the  corpse  of  the  executed  murderer  Henri  Pranzini  and  made  into  a  number  of  card  
                                                                                                               
128  Christine  Quigley,  The  Corpse:  A  History,  (1996),  p.  9.  
129  Comparative  extant  collections  have  been  documented  during  the  course  of  this  research  at  the  

anthropology  department  of  the  Muséum  national  d’Histoire  naturelle  (MNHN)  in  Paris;  in  the  Department  
of  Forensic  Medicine  at  Jagiellonian  University  in  Krakow,  Poland;  in  the  Berliner  Medizinhistorisches  
Museum  der  Charité  in  Berlin;  in  the  University  of  Leiden  anatomical  collections  in  The  Netherlands;  as  
well  as  a  small  number  of  specimens  held  in  the  pathology  and  anatomy  collections  of  several  London  
Universities.  A  number  of  these  collections  will  be  discussed  in  the  context  of  collecting  practices  in  chapter  
four.  
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cases  for  the  Assistant  Superintendent  of  the  Sûreté  in  1887.  According  to  Henri  de  
Rothschild,  Professor  Poirier  had  in  fact  been  collecting  tattoos  from  cadavers  at  the  
medical  school  for  some  time  prior  to  the  Pranzini  affair.  Writing  under  the  pseudonym  
Andre  Pascal,  Rothschild  relates  this  intriguing  account  of  the  episode:  
 
Professor  Poirier  had  for  some  time  been  organising  an  anatomical  museum  for  
the   Practical   School,   notably   a   very   curious   collection   of   tattooings   taken   from  
the   corpses   used   for   the   students'   instruction.   He   had   had   some   intention   of  
stripping  thirty  or  forty  square  centimetres  of  skin  from  Pranzini's  back  to  make  
himself  a  note-­‐case  out  of  this  human  morocco,  but  being  obliged  to  leave  Paris  
for   some   days,   he   gave   up   the   idea.   One   of   his   students   took   it   up,   however,  
removed  the  piece  of  skin  without  permission  and  handed  it  over  to  Tramond,  of  
the  rue  de  l'Ecole  de  Medecine,  the  specialist  in  anatomical  preparations,  to  have  
it  tanned  and  mounted.130  
 
This  incident  apparently  caused  uproar  in  the  Faculty  of  Medicine  and  the  préfecture  de  
police,  largely  due  to  the  unfavourable  public  attention  drawn  in  the  wake  of  what  was  
one  of  the  most  sensational  criminal  cases  of  the  period.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  
Rothschild,  himself  a  physician  trained  by  Poirier  at  the  Faculty,  comments  in  his  book  
that,  'the  whole  affair  was  certainly  less  serious  than  some  people  wished  it  to  appear.  
Human  skin,  taken  from  the  dissecting  rooms  of  the  Practical  School  had  more  than  
once  been  used  to  bind  books.'131  Dr.  Gaston  Felix  Joseph  Variot132  had  been  responsible  
for  carrying  out  Pranzini's  autopsy  in  his  capacity  as  doctor  at  the  Central  Prison  
Infirmary  of  La  Santé  prison.  Speaking  to  the  Société  d'Anthropologie  de  Paris  in  May  
1929,  Variot  described  his  recollections  of  the  affair,  and  commented  upon  the  source  of  
public  consternation  regarding  the  theft  of  Pranzini's  skin:  
 
After  the  autopsy,  the  remains  of  the  corpse  were  taken  down  to  the  dissecting  
rooms   at   the   Faculty’s   Practical   School.   Three   weeks   later,   a   full-­‐scale   scandal  
erupted  over  fragments  of  Pranzini’s  skin,  which  had  been  stolen  to  make  card  
cases.   The   matter   was   blown   up   by   the   daily   newspapers   and   such   was   the  
desire  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  a  public  eager  for  gruesome  details,  that  there  
was   even   talk   of   defilement   of   the   remains   of   the   executed   man   and   calls   for  
harsh   penalties   for   the   perpetrator   of   the   theft.   There   was   no   objection   to   the  
use  of  the  body  for  scientific  experiments  and  research,  but  the  fact  that  the  skin  
was   used   to   make   souvenir   trinkets   aroused   indignation.   Initially,   Poirier,   a  
holder   of   the   agrégation   qualification   and   head   of   anatomical   studies,   was  
                                                                                                               
130  Pascal,  Pranzini,  p.  273.  
131  Ibid.,  p.  275.  Rothschild  is  undoubtedly  referring  to  the  collecting  habits  of  Professor  Andre  Victor  

Cornil,  Professor  of  Pathology  at  the  faculty.  He  is  reported  to  have  favoured  tattooed  skin  for  use  in  his  
commissioning  of  many  anthropodermic  bindings,  which  will  be  the  subject  of  further  discussion  in  chapter  
three.  
132  Although  Variot  is  best  known  as  a  pioneering  paediatrician,  writing  extensively  on  infant  nutrition,  it  is  

interesting  to  note  that  he  also  had  a  professional  interest  in  tattoos  and  their  removal,  which  will  be  
explored  at  greater  length  in  chapter  five.  
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accused  as  he  was  considered  quite  capable  of  taking  a  sample  of  skin  from  the  
corpse   of   an   executed   man   to   which   he   had   free   access.   He   habitually   made  
boasts  in  this  vein.133  
 
  Although  it  may  have  been  deemed  acceptable  for  doctors  to  carry  out  
dissections  and  remove  body  parts  in  the  normal  course  of  their  scientific  work,134  the  
suggestion  that  they  may  be  collecting  souvenirs  from  infamous  corpses  aroused  
abhorrence  within  the  wider  public.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  whilst  Poirier's  
esteemed  friend  de  Rothschild  freely  admits  that  the  idea  of  fabricating  a  'souvenir  
trinket'  from  Pranzini's  skin  was  Poirier's  caprice,  Poirier  himself  avoided  all  blame  for  
the  incident,  and  the  brunt  of  the  scandal  was  effectively  deflected  onto  the  police.  The  
Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Medicine,  Dr.  Brouardel,  set  up  an  inquiry  in  the  wake  of  the  
scandal  to  try  and  find  out  who  the  culprit  was.  Poirier  was  able  to  prove  his  innocence  
and  the  blame  fell  instead  on  a  morgue  assistant  named  Godinat,  who  had  apparently  
allowed  police  sergeant  Rossignol  to  remove  large  strips  of  Pranzini's  skin,  in  return  for  
a  glass  of  absinthe  and  a  one  hundred  sous  coin.135  Rossignol  had  allegedly  struck  on  the  
plan  to  have  two  card  cases  made  from  the  executed  man's  skin  himself,  which  he  had  
then  intended  to  present  as  gifts  to  the  two  Chief's  of  Police,  Mr.  Taylor  and  his  Deputy  
Mr.  Goron.  Whoever  was  responsible,  both  Poirier  and  the  upper  echelons  of  police  
command  managed  to  avoid  any  repercussions  over  the  incident  entirely.  
  Interestingly,  Variot's  discussion  of  the  Pranzini  affair  also  briefly  mentions  the  
tanning  of  a  fragment  of  skin  taken  from  another  executed  criminal  named  Campi,  
which  was  prepared  in  1884  by  Flandinette,  a  former  technician  at  the  Anthropology  
laboratory.  Unfortunately,  Flandinette's  preservation  methods  are  not  described.  
However,  Variot's  comments  do  indicate  an  awareness  of  tanning  methods,  which  he  
assesses  as  'not  difficult':  
 

                                                                                                               
133  Gaston  Variot,  'Remarques  sur  l'Autopsie  et  la  Conformation  Organique  du  Supplice  Pranzini  et  sur  le  

Tannage  de  la  Peau  Humaine'  in:  Bulletins  et  Memoires  de  la  Societe  d'anthropologie  de  Paris,  7eme  serie,  
1920-­‐1929,  Tome  10  (1929),  p.  44.  Translated  from  the  French:    
Apres  l'autopsie,  les  restes  du  cadavre  furent  descendus  dans  les  pavillons  de  dissection  de  l'Ecole  pratique  de  
la  Faculté.  Trois  semaines  plus  tard  un  véritable  scandale  éclala  à  propros  de  fragments  de  la  peau  de  Pranzini  
qu'on  avait  dérobés  pour  fabriquer  des  portes-­‐cartes.  L'affaire  fut  ampliffée  par  la  presse  quotidienne;  pour  
défrayer  la  curiositée    publique  avide  de  ces  détails  macabres,  on  alla  jusqu'a  à  parler  de  profanation  des  
restes  du  supplicié  et  l'on  réclama  des  peines  sévères  contre  le  coupable  du  larcin.  On  admettait  bien  que  le  
cadavre  devait  servir  aux  expériences  et  aux  recherchers  scientifiques,  mais  on  s'indignait  qu'on  eut  pu  utiliser  
la  peau  pour  confectionner  des  bibelots-­‐souvenirs.  On  accusa  d'abord  l'agrégé  Poirier  qui  était  chef  des  
travaux  anatomiques  et  que  l'on  considérait  comme  bien  capable  d'avoir  fait  un  prélèvement  de  peau  sur  un  
cadavre  de  supplicié  dont  il  avait  la  libre  disposition.  Il  était  d'ailleurs  coutumier  de  fanfaronnades  de  ce  
genre.  
134  This  may  not  be  a  straightforward  assumption,  since  Variot  himself  came  under  criticism  for  carrying  

out  experiments  on  tattoos  excised  from  cadavers  at  La  Santé.  
135  Variot,  'Remarques  sur  l'Autopsie...'  p.  44.  See  also  Pascal,  Pranzini,  p.  274.  

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It  is  common  knowledge  that  it  is  no  more  difficult  to  tan  human  skin  than  that  
of  domestic  animals  such  as  calves,  sheep,  goats,  etc.  which  are  so  heavily  used  
for  industrial  purposes.  When  tannin  from  oak  bark  is  ground  and  applied  for  a  
long   period   of   time   to   skin,   it   combines   with   organic   substances   in   the   dermis  
which  harden  and  thus  become  rotproof.136  
 
  Of  all  the  historical  literature  that  I  have  surveyed,  there  is  only  one  article  of  no  
more  than  a  couple  of  pages,  which  explicitly  discusses  the  preservation  of  tattooed  
human  skin.  Given  the  scarcity  of  such  material,  I  believe  that  it  is  worth  discussing  this  
article  at  length  here,  particularly  since  some  of  the  techniques  described  bear  striking  
resemblances  to  the  collection  at  hand.  Published  in  the  Wiener  Medizinische  
Wochenschrift  in  1911,  this  short  article  is  based  on  a  talk  given  by  Dr.  Ludwig  Stieda,  
who  worked  at  the  Anatomical  Institute  at  Königsberg  around  the  turn  of  the  twentieth  
century.  Stieda  writes  that  the  collection  of  the  Anatomical  Institute  contained  200  
tattooed  skins;  this  collection,  if  still  in  existence,  would  be  comparable  with  the  
Wellcome  collection  in  terms  of  its  scale.  Beginning  his  first  experiments  in  tattooed  
skin  preservation  at  Dorpat,  Stieda  refined  his  methods  whilst  at  Königsberg:  
 
For  the  last  25  years,  I  have  been  making  a  point  of  selecting  any  cadaver  with  
visible   tattoo   marks   and   cutting   out   and   preserving   the   skin   pieces   concerned.  
That   is   how   this   singular   collection,   perhaps   unique   of   its   kind,   has   come   to  
exist.137  
 
 
It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Stieda  claims  not  to  know  of  any  other  similar  collections,  
and  in  fact  considers  his  own  to  be  unique;  though  he  concedes  that  other  such  tattooed  
skin  pieces  in  natura  may  well  exist  in  other  anatomical  collections.  Commenting  upon  
his  own  practical  experiences  of  experimentation  in  this  area,  Stieda  distinguishes  four  
different  methods  for  the  preservation  of  tattooed  human  skin,  before  going  on  to  
assess  the  relative  merits  and  pitfalls  of  each  one:  
  Method  1:  The  skins  are  first  cleaned,  then  stretched  flat  on  a  piece  of  glass  and  
stored  in  alcohol  in  glass  cylinders  or  shallow  glass  jars.  This  method  of  preservation  
was  commonly  used  for  anatomical  specimens  of  all  kinds  during  the  second  half  of  the  

                                                                                                               
136  Ibid.,  p.  45  Translated  from  the  French:  

On  sait  bien  qu'il  n'est  pas  plus  difficile  de  tanner  la  peau  de  l'homme  que  celle  des  animaux  domestiques;  veau,  
mouton,  chèvre,  etc.  dont  l'utilisation  industrielle  est  si  important.  Le  tannin  contenu  dans  l'écorce  de  chène  
broyé  et  mise  en  contact  prolongé  avec  la  peau,  se  combine  avec  les  substances  organiques  du  derme  qui  sont  
ainsi  durcies  et  rendus  imputrescibles.  
137  Ludwig  Stieda,  'Etwas  über  Tätowierung',  in  Wiener  Medizinische  Wochenschrift,  Vol.  61,  No.  14,  (April  1,  

1911),  col.  893.  Translated  from  the  German:  

Ich  habe  es  mir  angelegen  sein  lassen,  seit  25  Jahren  von  allen  Leichen,  an  denen  Tätowierungen  sichtbar  
waren,  die  betreffenden  Hautstücke  herauszuschneiden  und  aufzubewahren.  So  ist  diese  merkwürdige  
Sammlumg,  vielleicht  die  einzige  in  ihrer  Art,  entstanden.  
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nineteenth  century.  Comparative  examples  of  tattooed  skin  originally  preserved  in  this  
manner  can  be  found  at  the  Gordon  Museum  of  Pathology  in  London  (see  Figure  26),  
although  a  number  of  these  have  since  been  restored  in  Kaiserling  solution.138  Stieda  
notes  that  whilst  this  is  a  highly  practicable  method  for  smaller  specimens,  it  is  much  
more  problematic  for  very  large  pieces  such  as  the  skin  of  the  entire  chest  or  abdomen:  
'one  has  to  roll  the  skin  pieces  up  and  unroll  them  to  demonstrate  -­‐  all  very  
inconvenient.'139  This  not  only  suggests  that  he  was  collecting  very  large  portions  of  
skin,  comparable  with  some  of  the  larger  pieces  in  the  Wellcome  collection  (see  for  
example,  specimen  number  A524,  a  large  section  of  tattooed  skin  from  a  torso,  
measuring  408mm  x  305mm,  Figure  27),  but  that  the  primary  purpose  of  this  
collection  was  teaching  and  practical  demonstration  to  medical  students.    
  Method  2:  Perhaps  most  relevant  to  the  Wellcome  collection,  is  Stieda's  
description  of  his  method  for  dry-­‐preparing  tattooed  skin:  First  the  excised  fragments  
are  rinsed  in  water  and  the  fat  layer  on  the  reverse  of  the  skin  is  scraped  off;  then  the  
specimens  are  soaked  in  alcohol  for  up  to  several  weeks  to  remove  excess  water  from  
the  tissues.  Next  they  are  laid  flat  on  wooden  boards  and  stretched  taut  by  thread,  until  
they  are  completely  dry  -­‐  no  mention  is  made  of  pinning  the  skins  to  the  boards,  but  it  is  
reasonable  to  assume  that  the  thread  must  be  attached  to  the  skin  firmly,  such  that  they  
will  not  separate  or  loosen  under  tension.  A  number  of  Wellcome  tattooed  skins  still  
retain  traces  of  materials  involved  in  this  part  of  the  process;  some  have  stitches  still  
attached,  threaded  through  the  small  puncture  holes;  another  retains  the  embedded  
fragment  of  a  metal  pin  used  to  pierce  and  secure  the  edges  of  the  skin  during  drying.  
Once  dry,  the  skins  are  coated  in  a  mastic  varnish  until  they  appear  almost  transparent.  
Thus  prepared,  Stieda  then  stored  the  dried  and  varnished  skins  between  sheets  of  
white  paper  in  an  album.  
  Whilst  the  first  four  steps  of  this  preservation  method  suggest  strong  
similarities  with  the  Wellcome  tattooed  skin  collection,  the  final  varnishing  stage  is  
conspicuously  absent.  There  is  only  one  tattoo  in  the  collection  that  appears  to  have  
been  varnished  in  the  manner  described  by  Stieda  (see  object  number  A643,  Figure  
                                                                                                               
138  Johann  Carl  Kaiserling  (1869-­‐1942)  was  a  German  pathologist  and  pioneer  of  histologic  and  pathologic  

preservation  methods.  Kaiserling's  method,  first  published  in  1896,  combined  and  added  to  the  various  
formula  then  in  use,  and  his  process  involved  the  use  of  three  different  solutions:  I,  a  fixative,  containing  a  
mixture  of  formalin,  potassium  acetate,  potassium  nitrate  and  distilled  water;  II,  a  'colour  reviver'  which  
consisted  of  80-­‐95%  alcohol;  and  III,  a  preservative,  in  which  the  specimens  would  be  stored,  consisting  of  
glycerin,  potassium  acetate  and  distilled  water.  The  relative  quantities  of  the  different  ingredients  went  
through  a  number  of  refinements,  but  'it  is  Kaiserling's  method  which  has  persisted  as,  basically,  the  most  
satisfactory  method  of  preservation  with  formalin  until  the  present  day.'  J.  J.  and  M.  J.  Edwards,  Medical  
Museum  Technology,  (1959),  p.  70.  
139  Stieda,  ‘Etwas  über  Tätowierung’,  col.  893.  Translated  from  the  German:  

Man  muβ  die  Hautstücke  aufrollen,  beiie  der  Demonstration  auseinanderrollen  -­‐  das  ist  alles  sehr  unbequem.  
 
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28).  However,  a  similar  collection  of  dried  tattooed  skins  held  in  the  anthropology  
department  of  the  Muséum  national  d'Histoire  naturelle  (MNHN)  in  Paris,  does  contain  
a  number  of  varnished  tattoo  specimens  (see  Figure  29  for  an  example).  The  clarity  of  
the  tattoos  is  considerably  improved  through  varnishing,  the  designs  appearing  bolder  
and  more  distinct.  Varnished  skins  are  also  suppler,  and  generally  appear  to  be  in  better  
condition  as  compared  with  unvarnished  specimens.  Stieda  notes  a  curious  
disadvantage  to  his  drying  method  however,  which  he  identifies  as  a  problem  not  
related  to  the  method  itself,  but  which,  according  to  him,  is  to  be  located  in  the  
constitution  of  the  skin:    
 
As  is  well  known,  alcohol,  carbolic  acid,  glycerine  and  now  formalin  are  used  in  
the   conservation   of   cadavers   for   the   anatomy   preparation   room;   but   as  
decomposition   of   the   cadavers   cannot   be   completely   halted,   curious   crystals  
form  in  the  inner  organs  and  the  skin,  and  cannot  be  removed  when  the  skin  is  
dried  [...]  In  completely  dry  skin  that  has  been  rendered  transparent,  the  crystals  
appears   as   large   and   small   whitish   spots,   whose   presence   partly   obscures   the  
tattooed  image,  and  so  mars  the  overall  impression.140  
 
This  account  is  rather  intriguing,  as  there  are  a  number  of  examples  that  would  seem  to  
match  Stieda's  description  of  'imperfect'  specimens  within  the  Wellcome  collection.  
Several  of  the  tattooed  skins  show  textured  surface  residues  of  small,  hard  white  spots  
that  cannot  be  removed,  similar  to  those  described  by  Stieda,  although  these  skins  are  
not  transparent  (see  for  example  specimen  number  A567,  Figure  30).  Often,  these  
spots  will  affect  the  entire  surface  of  a  specimen;  occasionally  they  appear  localised  to  
particular  areas.    
  In  many  cases,  the  skin  surface  is  coated  with  grainy  or  dusty  residues  of  
different  kinds:  Indeed,  the  white,  chalky  appearance  of  some  specimens  has  lead  
conservation  staff  at  the  Science  Museum  to  recommend  caution  in  their  handling,  as  
the  white  substance  has  long  been  suspected  to  be  arsenic  trioxide,  commonly  used  in  
preparing  animal  skins  during  the  twentieth  century.  Unfortunately,  no  material  testing  
has  ever  been  carried  out  to  conclusively  establish  whether  or  not  this  is  the  case.  In  
some  cases,  large  areas  of  diffuse  white  discolouration  affect  the  specimen  unevenly,  
with  no  palpable  coarse  or  dusty  surface  residues.  In  these  examples,  the  tattoo  is  
almost  completely  obscured  by  the  white  patches,  such  that  the  discoloured  areas  
                                                                                                               
140  Ibid.,  columns  893-­‐894.  Translated  from  the  German:    

Zur  Konservierung  der  Leichen  des  Präpariersaales  wird  bekanntlich  Spiritus,  Karbolsäure,  Glyzerin,  jetzt  
neuerdings  auch  Formol  verwandt;  da  nun  trotzdem  die  Fäulnis  der  Leichen  nicht  vollständig  aufzuhalten  ist,  
so  bilden  sich  in  den  inneren  Organen  wie  in  der  Haut  eigentümliche  Kristalle,  die  nicht  fortzuschaffen  sind,  
wenn  man  die  Haut  trocknen  läβt  [...]  An  völlig  trocken  und  durchsichtig  gemachten  Hautstücken  erscheinen  
die  Kristalle  als  groβe  und  kleine  weiβliche  Flecken,  deren  Anwesenheit  das  tätowierte  Bild  zum  Teil  verdeckt,  
also  immerhin  den  Gesamteindruck  stört.  
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appear  to  be  beneath  the  epidermis.  This  is  especially  visible  in  specimens  that  retain  
surface  patches  of  epidermis,  since  the  colouration  of  these  upper  layers  is  usually  
much  darker.  This  can  be  seen,  for  example,  in  specimen  number  A534,  which  shows  a  
skin  tattooed  with  a  regal  female  figure  in  profile,  dressed  in  long  skirts  and  holding  a  
flag  staff,  from  which  a  flag  billows  out  behind  her  (specimen  number  A534,  Figure  31).  
The  tattoo  itself  consists  of  a  simple  line  drawing,  however  details  of  the  design  are  lost  
in  the  areas  most  affected  by  the  white  patches.  In  particular,  the  area  around  the  head  
and  shoulders  are  so  obscured  that  it  is  difficult  to  discern  the  outline  of  the  headdress  
she  wears.  There  is  a  marked  contrast  in  the  legibility  of  the  tattoo  in  the  areas  affected  
by  this  discolouration,  as  compared  with  adjacent  patches  of  darker,  yellowish  
epidermis.  Another  aspect  of  this  particular  specimen  that  may  suggest  it  was  
preserved  according  to  Stieda's  second  method,  is  the  surface  texture  of  the  upper  
layers  of  epidermis.  A  pattern  of  reticulation  is  visible  in  these  surface  layers,  
particularly  around  the  edges  of  the  specimen.  Other  similarly  pale  skins  with  occluded  
tattoos  share  this  feature,  which  is  also  visible  in  specimen  number  A793,  (Figure  32).  
This  'wrinkling'  is  caused  by  rapid  dehydration  of  the  surface  layers  of  skin  when  
immersed  in  alcohol,  and  is  more  commonly  seen  in  older  wet-­‐prepared  tattoo  
specimens,  suggesting  that  this  skin  was  pre-­‐dried  by  soaking  in  alcohol  (see  Figure  33,  
for  an  example  from  the  Gordon  Pathology  Collections,  London,  where  the  textured  
effect  is  clearly  visible  in  the  upper  right  hand  corner  of  the  specimen).  
  Method  3:  Stieda  considers  treating  with  glycerine  to  be  the  most  effective  
method  for  preserving  tattooed  skins.  As  in  method  two,  the  skins  are  first  cleaned  and  
the  fat  layer  scraped  off,  as  well  as  the  upper  layers  of  the  epidermis,  which  must  be  
'removed  by  scrubbing'.  The  skins  are  then  immersed  in  glycerine  for  between  two  to  
four  weeks,  depending  upon  their  size  and  thickness;  when  removed  from  the  glycerine  
they  are  initially  quite  hard,  but  when  hung  in  a  cool  room  for  the  surplus  liquid  to  
drain  off,  the  specimens  soften.  Finally,  they  are  dried  with  absorbent  paper,  spread  flat  
and  smoothed  between  two  glass  plates.    
  Stieda  describes  storing  his  own  specimens  preserved  in  this  manner  between  
glass  plates  in  a  wooden  chest,  which  facilitates  easy  handling  'when  demonstrating',  
clearly  suggesting  that  these  specimens  had  a  practical  use  in  the  anatomical  school.    He  
also  notes  that  tattooed  skins  treated  by  the  glycerine  method  'retain  the  colours  and  
outlines  of  the  figure  drawings  very  well'.  Despite  his  high  recommendations  for  this  
preservation  technique  over  and  above  methods  one  and  two,  Stieda  is  'well  aware  that  
this  glycerine  method  will  probably  find  [...]  few  imitators',  stating  that  whilst  he  has  
used  this  technique  for  over  forty  years,  many  other  anatomy  departments  have  hardly  

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heard  of  it.  It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  any  of  the  Wellcome  collection  tattoos  may  have  
been  preserved  using  Stieda's  glycerine  method,  or  something  like  it;  the  only  useful  
physical  description  he  provides  of  these  specimens  suggests  that  they  are  soft  once  
dried.  Whilst  there  are  a  number  of  soft,  leather-­‐like  specimens  in  the  Wellcome  
collection,  these  generally  have  a  powdery  surface  residue,  which  is  perhaps  more  
suggestive  of  the  traces  of  chemical  treatment.  There  are  also  a  number  of  tattooed  
skins  with  marks  on  their  surface  indicative  of  scrubbing  or  scraping  away  the  top  
layers  of  epidermis  (see  for  example,  specimen  number  A781,  Figure  34),  141  although  
these  specimens  are  actually  stiff  and  parchment-­‐like  rather  than  soft.  Stieda  also  
makes  no  mention  of  whether  the  scrubbing  away  of  the  top  layers  of  skin  during  the  
wet  stage  of  preparation  leaves  any  trace  on  the  final  specimen.  Whilst  it  is  possible  that  
some  of  the  Wellcome  collection  tattoos  may  have  been  preserved  in  this  manner,  it  is  
impossible  to  know  for  certain  without  further  descriptive  accounts  or  images  with  
which  to  compare  the  specimens.    
  Method  4:  The  final  preservation  technique  mentioned  in  Stieda's  article  is  
tanning.  However,  as  he  himself  admits,  this  method  falls  outside  the  usual  range  of  a  
physician’s  skills  and  experience.142  Though  he  offers  no  formula  for  the  tanning  of  
human  skin,  Stieda  speculates  that  this  would  likely  be  the  best  way  to  preserve  
tattooed  specimens.  This  is  a  reasonable  assumption,  and  in  fact  a  number  of  the  
Wellcome  collection  skins  are  relatively  soft  and  pliable,  not  unlike  leather.  The  
production  of  leather  of  course  has  a  long  and  complex  history,  and  generally  involves  
the  fabrication  of  utilitarian  objects,  such  as  books,  shoes  and  bags;  within  this  context  
the  manufacture  of  human  leather  has  a  very  different  array  of  significations,  which  
moves  beyond  teaching  collections  such  as  Stieda's.    Historical  practices  and  methods  of  
producing  human  leather  will  thus  be  further  explored  in  chapter  three.    
  Besides  the  description  of  his  preservation  methods,  what  is  most  interesting  
about  Stieda's  article  is  his  attitude  towards  the  practice  of  tattooing  itself.  Whilst  he  
was  clearly  well  aware  of  criminological  debates  surrounding  the  European  tattoo  and  
theories  of  criminality,  he  was  not  convinced  by  their  arguments:  
 

                                                                                                               
141  Other  skin  specimens  in  the  collection  that  show  signs  of  surface  scrubbing  or  scratching  to  remove  the  

upper  layers  of  epidermis  include:  A732,  A746,  A756,  A770,  and  A801.  With  the  exception  of  A756,  all  of  
these  skins  have  a  very  dark  brown  epidermal  layer,  perhaps  suggesting  a  common  chemical  cause  for  the  
discolouration.  It  is  assumed  that  in  these  cases,  the  dark  colour  of  the  upper  layers  of  the  skin  would  have  
significantly  obscured  the  tattoos,  necessitating  its  removal  through  manual  action.    
142  Given  that  a  tanner's  techniques  and  trade  are  unlikely  to  be  familiar  to  a  physician,  this  makes  Variot's  

comments  on  the  straightforward  simplicity  of  tanning  human  skin  somewhat  curious.  As  we  will  see  in  
chapter  five,  Variot  was  perhaps  unusual  in  that  he  had  a  working  familiarity  with  tannin,  which  he  used  in  
tattoo  removal  on  living  patients.  
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I  do  not  concur  with  those  authors  who  set  out  to  draw  inferences  about  the  
inner  life  of  the  persons  concerned  from  the  tattooed  figures  and  signs.  Efforts  
were  made  for  a  time  to  understand  the  tattooed  figures  as  a  further  sign  of  
degeneracy.  In  my  view  all  that  is  completely  mistaken.143  
 
  For  doctors  like  Stieda,  then,  it  seems  that  the  tattoo  held  an  entirely  different  
source  of  interest  to  that  of  the  nineteenth-­‐century  criminologist.  From  his  brief  
comments  we  can  infer  that  his  collection  was  prepared  for  teaching  purposes,  though  
he  does  not  elaborate  on  this  educational  programme,  or  what  exactly  preserved  
tattoos  may  demonstrate  in  terms  of  medical  interest  in  themselves.  Stieda  may  have  
been  unaware  of  the  collecting  practices  of  other  anatomists  and  pathologists;  but  
tattoo  collecting  was  also  being  practiced  in  other  medical  schools  across  Europe,  
including  the  Académie  de  Médecine  in  Paris,  which  we  have  already  touched  upon,  and  
to  which  to  which  I  will  return  in  greater  depth  in  chapters  three  and  four.  
  Whilst  the  texture  and  visual  appearance  of  the  preserved  skins  can  reveal  a  
great  deal  about  their  material  origins  and  afterlives,  this  information  ultimately  
remains  -­‐  like  the  specimens  themselves  -­‐  fragmentary  and  disconnected  from  their  
original  context.  Nevertheless,  certain  inferences  may  be  drawn  with  a  reasonable  
degree  of  surety.  Such  observations  may  be  made,  for  instance,  in  respect  of  the  excision  
techniques  used  to  remove  the  skins  from  the  cadaver.  The  thickness  of  the  specimens,  
as  well  as  the  marks  of  surgical  tools  on  their  surface,  reveals  a  straightforward  removal  
method,  carried  out  with  more  or  less  skill,  across  the  collection.  A  pattern  of  grooves  
and  ridges,  which  are  present  on  the  reverse,  or  'flesh'  side  of  a  large  number  of  the  
skins,  indicates  that  the  skin  was  first  cut  around  the  tattoos,  sometimes  in  an  
economical  manner  to  'frame'  the  design,144  and  then  gradually  stripped  away  from  the  
underlying  fat  tissue,  using  a  series  of  short  scalpel  strokes  combined  with  a  manual  
pulling  action,  to  tear  the  skin  from  the  fascia  (see  for  example,  specimen  number  A669,  
Figure  5).  145  Depending  upon  how  deep  one  makes  the  first  incisions  with  the  scalpel,  
more  or  less  fascia  may  come  away  with  the  dermis  and  epidermis;  occasionally  the  
                                                                                                               
143  Stieda,  'Etwas  über  Tätowierung',  col.  896.  Translated  from  the  German:  

Aus  dieser  meiner  Darlegung  geht  mit    Sicherheit  hervor,  daβ  ich  nicht  mit  dejenigen  Autoren  übereinstimme,  
welche  aus  den  tätowierten  Figuren  und  Zeichen  Schlüsse  auf  das  Seelenleben  der  betreftenden  Personen  
machen  wollen.  Es  ist  eine  Weile  versucht  worden,  auch  die  tätowierten  Figuren  als  Degenerationszeichen  zu  
betrachten.  Ich  halte  das  alles  für  vollkommen  verfehlt.  
144  In  specimens  that  have  very  little  skin  framing  the  edges  of  the  tattoo,  it  is  possible  that  the  individual(s)  

who  cut  them  from  the  body  had  little  experience  in  skin  preservation,  and  did  not  anticipate  the  extent  to  
which  the  skin  would  shrink  during  the  drying  process.  
145  Fascia  is  found  throughout  the  body,  including  between  the  skin  and  fat  layers  over  the  entire  surface  of  

the  body.  An  appropriate  analogy  for  its  appearance  between  the  skin  and  fat  layers  may  be  made  in  the  
white  fibrous  'pith'  that  lines  the  inside  of  the  skin  of  an  orange.  I  am  indebted  to  Dr.  Wendy  Birch,  head  
anatomist  at  UCL's  Anatomy  Laboratory,  for  her  invaluable  insights  into  the  structure  and  decomposition  of  
human  skin.  Her  practical  demonstration  of  the  correct  surgical  method  for  removing  the  scalp  prior  to  
brain  dissection  was  particularly  helpful  in  my  analysis  of  excision  marks  on  the  preserved  skins.  
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cuts  have  been  made  so  deeply  that  a  quantity  of  adipose  (fat)  tissue  and  adnexa  such  as  
small  surface  veins  also  remain  intact  (see  for  example,  specimen  number  A676,  Figure  
35).  It  seems  reasonable  to  speculate  that  a  less  skilled  surgeon  would  perhaps  remove  
more  of  this  underlying  tissue  as  a  precaution,  to  avoid  damaging  the  surface  layers  of  
the  skin  that  they  wished  to  preserve.  Ordinarily,  and  according  to  Stieda's  instructions,  
this  tissue  would  then  be  scraped  away  whilst  the  specimen  was  still  wet,  before  being  
laid  out  to  dry.  This  stage  has  been  conspicuously  overlooked  in  a  number  of  cases;  
some  of  the  Wellcome  skins  measure  up  to  as  much  as  5mm  in  depth  at  their  thickest  
points,  and  retain  a  substantial  amount  of  fleshy  tissue  (see  for  example  specimen  
number  A584,  Figure  36).  Inadequate  or  incomplete  removal  of  the  'flesh'  adhering  to  
the  inside  of  the  skin  will  generally  result  in  a  poor  quality  preservation.146  A  thicker  
wet  specimen  will  be  more  difficult  to  stretch  on  drying  boards;  moreover,  the  drying  
process  will  take  longer,  introducing  a  greater  chance  of  putrefaction.  Drying  may  also  
be  unpredictable,  occurring  unevenly  and  necessitating  re-­‐pinning  to  the  support  
throughout  the  process.  The  outcome  of  these  procedures  is  a  hardened,  warped  and  
undulating  skin  surface.  An  example  of  this  is  visible  in  the  large  fragment  of  skin  
mentioned  above  (A584,  Figure  37);  the  photograph  shows  a  series  of  deep,  curving  
grooves  in  the  upper  portion  of  the  specimen.  The  skin  is  completely  rigid,  with  a  tough  
yet  soft  texture,  somewhat  like  compacted  card.  The  curving  shape  of  the  cut  and  
grooves  suggests  the  camber  of  a  shoulder,  a  difficult  body  part  to  stretch  in  ideal  
circumstances;  a  difficulty  exacerbated  by  the  excessive  thickness  of  this  specimen.  
  The  question  of  the  depth  of  the  skin,  and  the  marks  inscribed  by  cutting  
instruments,  have  further  intriguing  implications.  The  thickness  and  shape  of  a  
specimen  may  suggest  its  original  location  on  the  surface  of  the  body;  a  cut  in  that  
surface  may  be  the  result  of  traumatic  accident  or  injury,  rather  than  the  work  of  a  
surgeon  or  pathologist.  As  I  work  through  the  tattoo  collection  in  the  archives,  I  
habitually  crosscheck  my  own  observations  with  the  museum’s  catalogue  database.  
Most  of  the  entries  are  brief  and  descriptive,  and  there  is  little,  if  any,  useful  historical  
information.  Occasionally,  however,  I  come  across  an  interesting  interpretative  note  
that  inspires  further  reflection.  For  instance,  whilst  working  on  specimen  number  A544  
(see  Figure  38),  I  read  this  comment  in  the  catalogue:  
 
Wounded  human  skin  with  various  crude  tattoos,  probably  French,  1850-­‐1920.    
 
                                                                                                               
146  In  traditional  leather  production,  the  hide  of  an  animal  must  be  'split'  -­‐  the  surface  layers  are  tanned  to  

produce  durable  leathers,  and  the  softer  'flesh'  side  of  the  hide  is  made  into  suede.  This  is  not  possible  with  
human  skin,  as  it  is  not  thick  enough,  nor  is  its  thickness  even  over  the  body  surface.  
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The  'wound'  in  question  is  visible  in  my  close-­‐up  photograph  of  the  skin  (Figure  39):  it  
is  a  straight,  vertical  tear,  measuring  58mm  in  length,  cutting  through  the  centre  left  
side  of  the  specimen.  The  edges  of  the  fissure  are  dotted  with  twenty-­‐five  small  
pinholes,  suggesting  stitching;  but  this  wound  never  healed,  and  these  puncture  marks  
were  not  made  with  therapeutic  intentions.  The  skin  has  been  pinned  in  this  manner  to  
prevent  the  edges  of  the  fissure  from  wrinkling  and  warping  excessively.  Since  some  
shrinkage  has  inevitably  occurred  around  the  pins,  the  typical  ‘frilling’  along  the  edges  
of  the  cut  are  present.  On  closer  examination,  the  tear  appears  very  straight  and  
smooth-­‐edged,  suggesting  that  the  cut  was  made  with  a  sharp  implement,  such  as  a  
blade.  The  pinholes  and  the  absence  of  any  signs  of  healing  indicate  that  this  ‘wound’  
was  either  sustained  not  long  before  death,  or  that  the  skin  was  damaged  post-­‐mortem.  
Tears  and  damage  to  the  skin  are  not  uncommon  in  the  collection;  there  are  numerous  
examples  in  which  the  tattoos  are  not  preserved  in  their  entirety.  Particularly  in  the  
case  of  soldiers,  who  may  have  suffered  extensive  –  and  fatal  –  injuries  prior  to  their  
tattoos  being  excised,  it  is  possible  to  speculate  that  the  collection  of  intact  tattoos  
would  often  have  been  impossible.  
  Another  interesting  quality  of  this  particular  tattooed  skin  is  its  readily  
identifiable  body-­‐location.  As  I  handle  the  skin,  my  observations  lead  me  to  conclude  
that  it  was  once  part  of  a  lower  arm;  it  roughly  matches  the  length  of  my  own  arm  up  to  
the  elbow,  and  the  lower,  rounded  portion  is  very  suggestive  of  a  hand  (see  Figure  38).  
On  laying  the  skin  over  my  own  hand,  I  notice  a  pattern  of  wrinkling  consistent  with  
knuckles  corresponding  with  the  spacing  of  my  fingers,  and  the  skin  has  shrunk  and  
wrinkled  in  the  fleshy  space  between  the  forefinger  and  thumb  known  as  the  
'anatomical  snuffbox'147.  Viewed  with  a  backlight  source,  I  see  that  the  wrinkled  areas  of  
skin  are  much  thinner,  as  would  be  expected  over  the  surface  of  the  knuckles  (see  
Figure  40).  As  well  as  these  textural  features,  there  is  also  typical  horizontal  lining  over  
the  back  of  the  wrist.  The  positioning  of  the  digits  suggests  that  this  was  a  left  arm.  The  
shape  and  texture  of  the  skin  alone  are  very  suggestive  of  body  location  in  this  case.  
However,  close  scrutiny  of  the  tattoos  strongly  confirms  the  impression  that  this  
segment  of  skin  belonged  to  a  left  forearm:  Above  a  series  of  banded  horizontal  dots,  a  
short  'bracelet'  tattoo  is  visible,  consisting  of  a  decorative  pattern  of  diamonds  with  a  
central  heart  motif.  The  crude  male  figure  on  the  back  of  the  hand  is  also  tattooed  
upright,  so  as  to  be  presented  the  right-­‐way-­‐up  to  others.  A  number  of  words  and  
phrases  are  tattooed  vertically  down  the  arm,  orientated  towards  the  body  in  such  a  

                                                                                                               
147  The  anatomical  snuffbox  is  a  triangular  deepening  on  the  radial,  dorsal  surface  of  the  hand.  The  name  

originates  from  the  use  of  this  part  of  the  hand  for  sniffing  powdered  tobacco,  or  'snuff.'  
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way  that  they  would  have  been  legible  to  the  bearer  -­‐  the  most  legible  of  these  reads  
'Mort  Aux  Vaches,'  (see  Figure  41).  Thus  a  twofold  exploration  of  skin  texture,  
topography,  and  tattoo  iconography  can  begin  to  reconstruct  a  sense  of  the  living,  three-­‐
dimensional  body,  reinstating  the  fragment  back  into  its  historical  and  corporeal  
context.    
  In  summary,  it  seems  apparent  that  no  single  preservation  method  was  used  to  
prepare  all  of  the  tattoos  in  the  Wellcome  collection.  The  variation  in  their  colouration,  
texture,  pliability,  surface  markings  and  residues,  excision  and  odour  all  attest  to  range  
of  preservation  techniques,  as  well  as  suggesting  multiple  collecting  practices  and  
purposes.  Whilst  some  may  have  been  produced  according  to  methods  similar  to  those  
outlined  in  Stieda's  article,  close  visio-­‐material  analysis  of  the  collection  suggests  that  a  
variety  of  methods  were  likely  used,  over  a  long  period  of  time,  and  by  a  number  of  
individuals.  
 
Technique  Tells  a  Story:  The  Late  Nineteenth-­‐Century  Tattoo  Trade  
 
As  material  artefacts  and  human  remains,  the  skins  tell  fragmentary  stories  of  their  
material  origins  and  fabrication.  However,  it  is  the  tattoos  that  tend  to  provoke  
immediate  fascination  amongst  those  who  view  them.  They  are  the  undeniable  ‘skin  
features’  for  which  this  collection  was  assembled  in  the  first  place.  Any  analysis  of  the  
materiality  of  these  hybrid  entities  thus  requires  detailed  discussion  of  the  iconography  
and  formal  aspects  of  the  tattoos,  as  well  as  of  the  techniques  involved  in  their  
production.  The  vast  majority  of  the  tattoos  indicate  amateur  application,  most  likely  by  
ordinary  soldiers,  seamen  and  semi-­‐professional  tattooers.148  These  men  either  
operated  an  itinerant  and  opportunistic  trade  as  they  moved  from  place  to  place,  or  
based  themselves  at  seaports  and  in  barracks.  This  conclusion  is  borne  out  by  a  
combination  of  close  visual  analysis  of  both  iconography  and  the  tattooing  technique  
evident  in  the  tattoo  marks  themselves.  In  what  follows,  I  will  briefly  outline  some  of  
the  methods,  tools  and  materials  used  in  tattooing,  paying  particular  attention  to  the  

                                                                                                               
148  Tattooer  was  the  most  commonly  used  English  term  during  the  nineteenth  century,  and  reflects  the  

informal  and  'sideline'  nature  of  the  trade  during  this  period.  It  was  only  with  the  emergence  of  the  first  
artistically  trained  practitioners  in  the  latter  decades  of  the  century,  that  the  term  'tattooist'  came  into  
popular  usage.  Pioneering  British  artist  Sutherland  Macdonald  is  credited  with  coining  the  term,  in  a  self-­‐
conscious  attempt  to  elevate  the  status  of  the  profession.  Macdonald  rejected  the  word  'tattooer',  which  he  
associated  with  manual  trades  such  as  'plumber',  preferring  instead  to  be  referred  to  as  a  'tattooist',  which  
sounded  more  like  'artist'.  I  reflect  these  nineteenth  century  terminological  distinctions  throughout  my  
discussion  of  tattoo  practitioners,  using  the  term  'tattooer'  to  refer  to  non-­‐professional  Europeans  
operating  on  a  casual  basis;  and  'tattooist'  for  early  practitioners  who  set  themselves  up  as  professionals  in  
shops,  or  for  whom  tattooing  provided  their  sole  income.  There  is  no  French  correlate  to  these  two  terms;  
tatoueur  translates  interchangeably  with  tattooer/tattooist.  
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nineteenth-­‐century  European  context,  its  clients  and  practitioners;  before  moving  on  to  
discuss  selected  examples  of  tattoo  iconography,  and  what  these  designs  may  reveal  
about  the  tattooed  men  whose  skin  fragments  now  lie  in  storage  at  the  Science  Museum.  
The  ways  in  which  the  nineteenth-­‐century  tattoo  was  read  and  interpreted  by  
contemporary  scholars  in  the  fields  of  criminology  and  anthropology  will  also  be  briefly  
touched  upon.149  
  The  specifics  of  tattooing  processes  and  practices  varies  widely  from  culture  to  
culture,  but  the  basic  principle  remains  the  same  the  world  over:  the  skin  is  first  
punctured  by  a  sharp,  pointed  implement  which  is  loaded  with  a  pigmented  substance;  
alternatively,  pigments  may  be  rubbed  over  the  fresh  wound  after  the  punctures  have  
been  made.  The  most  commonly  used  method  involves  applying  a  series  of  rapid  
needle-­‐pricks  to  the  skin  ('poking').  Other  methods,  such  as  those  practised  by  the  
Māori  of  New  Zealand,  are  more  akin  to  'carving';  relatively  deep  grooves  are  cut  into  
the  skin,  before  the  pigment  is  rubbed  in.  More  rarely,  a  'skin  sewing'  method  may  be  
used,  whereby  a  needle  and  thread  or  a  stick  dipped  in  pigment  is  drawn  through  the  
upper  layers  of  the  skin.  According  to  anthropologist  Lars  Krutak,  'skin  sewing  was  a  
widespread  method  for  tattooing,  especially  among  more  northerly  Arctic  peoples  who  
practiced  it  for  over  three  millennia.'150  Written  accounts  of  some  these  stitching  
techniques  were  recorded  by  nineteenth-­‐century  observers:  American  soldier,  explorer  
and  writer  William  Gilder  (1838-­‐1900)  described  the  tattooing  methods  among  the  
Central  Eskimo  living  in  Daly  Bay,  Canada,  which  were  generally  performed  by  an  elder  
woman  in  the  community:  
 
The  method  of  tattooing  is  to  pass  a  needle  under  the  skin,  and  as  soon  as  it  is  
withdrawn  its  course  is  followed  by  a  thin  piece  of  pine  stick  dipped  in  oil  and  
rubbed  in  the  soot  from  the  bottom  of  a  kettle.151  
 
In  1926,  archaeologist  Otto  Geist  gave  this  description  of  tattooing  in  the  Bering  Strait  
region  of  Alaska:  
 
Soot  is  mixed  with  urine,  often  that  of  an  old  woman,  and  is  applied  with  steel  
needles.   One   method   is   to   draw   a   string   of   sinew   or   other   thread   through   the  
eye  of  a  needle.  The  thread  is  then  soaked  thoroughly  in  the  liquid  pigment  and  
drawn   through   the   skin   as   the   needle   is   inserted   and   pushed   just   under   the   skin  

                                                                                                               
149  An  in-­‐depth  analysis  of  the  late  nineteenth  and  early  twentieth  century  criminological  and  medical  field  

will  be  the  subject  of  chapter  five.  

150  Lars  Krutak,  The  Tattooing  Arts  of  Tribal  Women,  (London:  Bennett  &  Bloom,  2007),  p.  146.  
151  William  Gilder,  Schwatka's  Search:  Sledging  in  the  Arctic  in  Quest  of  the  Franklin  Records,  (New  York:  

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1881),  p.  250.  

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for  a  distance  of  about  a  thirty-­‐second  of  an  inch  when  the  point  is  again  pierced  
through  the  skin.152  
 
  Many  nineteenth-­‐century  criminologists  who  were  interested  in  the  European  
tattoo  read  about  'ethnic'  tattooing  in  anthropological  reports  and  the  accounts  of  
explorers,  reproducing  general  accounts  of  these  tattooing  procedures  in  their  own  
criminological  studies.153  Prior  to  the  invention  of  the  electric  tattoo  machine  in  1890,  
the  techniques  and  tools  used  by  the  European  tattooer  were  simple  and  often  highly  
unhygienic,  a  fact  that  did  not  escape  the  attention  of  medical  officers  of  the  Navy  and  
other  armed  services.154  All  necessary  equipment  would  be  home  made  or  improvised  
from  whatever  materials  were  available  to  hand.  The  tattoo  design  would  first  be  
outlined  freehand  onto  the  skin  with  a  pen  (early  professional  George  Burchett  
describes  using  an  iodine  pencil155).  Alternately,  a  pre-­‐drawn  design  on  a  sheet  of  paper  
or  cloth  would  be  laid  over  the  skin  and  lightly  'pricked'  out  through  the  template.  Since  
the  skin  cannot  be  easily  stretched  beneath  the  paper  or  cloth  sheet,  this  method  of  
design  transfer  would  have  frequently  resulted  in  asymmetric  and  ill-­‐proportioned  
tattoos.  Needles  would  normally  consist  of  three  to  five  fine  points  bound  together  on  a  
long  shaft  made  of  wood  or  some  other  durable  material;  in  Japan  ivory  was  used.  
British  tattooist  George  Burchett  (1872-­‐1953)  describes  the  similarities  in  the  hand-­‐
poking  methods  used  by  Japanese  and  European  tattooists  alike  in  his  Memoires:  
 
The   Japanese   method   is   prodding.   The   ivory   needle   is   held   at   an   angle   of  
between   30   and   45   degrees   to   the   skin   and   is   gently   pushed   under   the  
epidermis.   This,   in   fact,   is   the   method   by   which   Western   tattooists   worked  
before   the   advent   of   the   electrical   tattooing   instrument   which,   itself,   employs  
the  same  principle.156  
 
Early  examples  of  intricately  carved  ivory  hand  needles  dating  from  nineteenth  century  
England  survive  in  the  collections  of  the  Horniman  Museum  in  London  (see  Figure  42),  
and  are  extremely  rare;  objects  of  this  degree  of  refinement  would  not  have  been  used  
by  the  average  European  tattooer.    

                                                                                                               
152  Cited  in  Krutak,  The  Tattooing  Arts  of  Tribal  Women,  p.  150;  from  Otto  Geist's  unpublished  field  notes  

(1927-­‐1934),  held  at  the  Alaska  and  Polar  Regions  Archives,  University  of  Alaska,  Fairbank.  
153  See,  for  example,  Alexandre  Lacassagne  and  Emile  Magitot,  Du  Tatouage.  Recherches  anthropologiques  et  

médico-­‐légales.  Extrait  du  dictionnaire  encyclopédique  des  sciences  médicales,  (Paris:  G.  Masson,  1881),  pp.  
9-­‐20.  Lacassange  sets  out  six  different  categories  of  tattooing  technique;  the  fifth  of  these,  which  he  terms  
'tatouage  sous-­‐épidermique'  describes  skin  sewing  methods.  
154  French  naval  surgeon  Ernst  Berchon  condemned  tattooing  as  a  major  health  risk.  Berchon  claimed  that  

tattooing  amongst  seamen  could  result  in  serious  infection,  which  in  extreme  cases  could  lead  to  
amputation.  He  managed  to  convince  the  French  naval  ministry  to  ban  the  practice  in  1861;  however,  the  
order  was  not  enforced  in  practice.  
155  George  Burchett,  Memoires  of  a  Tattooist,  (New  York:  Crown,  1958),  p.  66.  
156  Ibid.,  p.  65.  

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  Once  the  design  has  been  outlined  on  the  skin,  the  tattoo  needles  are  dipped  
into  ink  and  applied  to  the  skin  at  an  approximate  depth  of  0.5  to  1  millimetre.  Blood  
and  ink  continually  flow  during  this  process,  obscuring  the  design;  thus  the  area  must  
be  continually  wiped  with  a  cloth  or  rag  as  the  tattooer  works.  The  needles  must  also  be  
constantly  dipped  into  the  ink,  which  is  drawn  up  between  the  closely  spaced  needles  
by  capillary  action.  A  small  tattoo  such  as  a  name  or  a  date  may  take  less  than  half  an  
hour  to  complete;  larger,  more  complex  work  requiring  detailed  shading  (such  as  the  
two  elaborate  chest  pieces  belonging  to  Fromain  discussed  in  the  previous  chapter)  
would  take  considerably  longer,  necessitating  multiple  sessions  over  weeks  or  months.  
In  these  cases,  the  outline  of  the  design  would  usually  be  completed  during  the  first  
session,  and  the  shading  carried  out  in  subsequent  sessions.    
  When  analysing  preserved  tattoo  specimens,  the  tattooing  technique  may  be  
identified  through  close  visual  observation  of  the  marks  themselves.  Different  
techniques  bear  key  defining  features.  In  this  case  we  are  primarily  concerned  with  
European  puncture  tattooing  using  needle  bundles  of  varying  sizes  from  around  three  
to  seven  needles.  In  what  follows,  I  will  elaborate  my  own  scheme  for  identifying  
specific  techniques  and  describing  common  errors  that  strongly  indicate  amateur  or  
unskilled  workmanship,  as  well  as  outlining  the  features  that  constitute  a  well-­‐executed  
tattoo:  
    (i)  Beading  -­‐  this  occurs  when  needles  penetrate  too  deeply  into  the  skin  and  
ink  is  allowed  to  leak  into  the  surrounding  tissue  and  fat  layer  beneath  the  dermis.  This  
looks  something  like  a  dot-­‐to-­‐dot  drawing,  in  which  a  line  that  should  otherwise  appear  
smooth  is  interrupted  by  a  series  of  ‘beads’  (see  for  example,  specimen  number  A733,  
Figure  43).  Beading  results  from  an  error  in  judging  the  correct  needle  penetration  
depth  (known  as  the  ‘throw’  of  the  needle  when  using  an  electric  tattooing  machine),  
and  thus  indicates  amateur  or  unskilled  work.  As  in  my  discussion  of  excision  technique  
outlined  above,  similar  awareness  of  the  correct  depth  at  which  to  apply  one's  
instrument  -­‐  be  it  scalpel  or  tattoo  needles  -­‐  will  determine  whether  or  not  preservation  
and  tattoo  alike  are  well-­‐made,  aesthetically  pleasing,  and  will  to  some  extent  affect  
their  durability  (see  point  v.  fading,  below).  Often,  a  bad  tattoo  and  a  bad  preservation  
will  have  much  in  common  in  so  far  as  much  depends  upon  accuracy  of  depth.  This  
correspondence  between  the  work  of  the  tattooist  and  anatomist  arises  from  the  
natural  material  properties  of  human  skin,  such  as  thickness,  texture,  elasticity  and  
grain.  
    (ii)  Feathering  -­‐  this  occurs  naturally  as  cells  age  and  pigment  particles  migrate  
into  neighbouring  tissues,  but  it  can  also  develop  much  earlier  when  needles  are  

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applied  to  the  skin  at  an  angle  of  less  than  around  30  degrees,  or  if  too  much  ink  is  
introduced  to  the  skin  too  heavily  (see  specimen  number  A783,  Figure  44).  This  is  
much  more  common  when  hand  tools  are  used  in  tattooing.157  Commenting  on  the  
handiwork  of  some  of  the  early  professional  American  tattooists,  Samuel  Steward  
describes  the  way  in  which  poorly  applied  tattoos  degrade  over  time  due  to  excessive  
feathering:  
 
Some   of   the   old   artists,   now   dead,   did   not   do   work   that   would   be   satisfactory   by  
modern   standards.   They   used   outline   machines   that   were   too   thick   and   heavy,  
making   delicate   fine-­‐line   work   impossible.   Their   small   stuff   "closed   up"   -­‐   that   is,  
the  slight  spreading  of  the  outline  that  occurs  in  every  tattoo  was  very  marked  
in   their   work.   A   name,   for   example,   in   which   the   letters   were   adequately   spaced  
when   first   put   on,   might   in   three   years'   time   become   unreadable.   The   letters   "n"  
and  "m"  would  close  together;  the  loops  in  the  "a"  and  "e"  would  come  to  look  
like  "o".  Many  of  the  old  boys  never  really  learned  to  tattoo  well  during  the  early  
years   of   their   experience,   and   went   on   to   the   ends   of   their   lives   doing   second-­‐
rate  work,  botched,  imperfectly  shaded  and  excessively  heavy.158  
 
    (iii)  Application  of  line  -­‐  within  the  Wellcome  Collection,  the  use  of  hand  tools  
is  evident  in  almost  all  of  the  specimens.  In  this  method,  hand  manipulated  needle  
bundles  of  varying  size159  are  used  to  build  up  a  solid  design  through  a  series  of  
individual  dots.  Unskilled  or  amateur  execution  is  easier  to  determine  when  a  hand-­‐
poking  technique  is  used,  as  it  is  typically  far  harder  to  master  than  machine  operated  
tattooing.  So  long  as  one  has  steady  hands,  and  one's  needles  and  voltage  has  been  
correctly  set  to  begin  with,  a  good  tattoo  machine  will  to  a  large  extent  ensure  
consistency  of  depth  and  line.  An  unskilled  tattooer  is  more  likely  to  produce  lines  of  
uneven  thickness  or  lines  with  a  clearly  visible  string  of  dots  (the  aforementioned  
beading),  rather  than  a  smooth,  consistent  line  (see  specimen  number  A584,  Figure  46  

                                                                                                               
157  I  draw  on  both  personal  experience  of  tattooing  clients  and  working  in  tattoo  studios  here,  but  similar  

observations  can  be  found  in  a  range  of  practical  tattooing  guides  and  tattooists’  memoires.  See,  for  
example  D.  W.  Purdy,  Tattooing.  How  to  Tattoo,  What  to  Use  and  How  to  Use  Them,  (1896);  Louis  Morgan,  
The  Modern  Tattooist,  (1912);  Burchett,  Memoires,  (1958);  and  Samuel  Steward,  Bad  Boys  and  Tough  
Tattoos:  A  Social  History  of  the  Tattoo  with  Gangs,  Sailors,  and  Street-­‐Corner  Punks,  1950-­‐1965,  (New  York  
and  London:  Harrington  Park  Press,  1990).  
158  Samuel  Steward,  Bad  Boys  and  Tough  Tattoos,  pp.  157-­‐158.  The  same  observation  may  be  made  of  the  

work  of  some  of  the  early  UK  professionals  whose  reputations  may  have  been  greater  than  their  tattooing  
abilities.  In  the  course  of  many  conversations  with  Jon,  one  of  the  security  staff  at  Blythe  House,  it  
transpired  that  he  was  descended  from  a  famous  family  of  British  tattooists  -­‐  the  Knights.  His  aunt  was  the  
UK's  first  professional  female  tattooist,  Jessie  Knight,  and  he  spent  much  of  his  youth  at  tattoo  studios  in  the  
company  of  tattooists.  He  told  me  that  he  had  been  tattooed  on  both  of  his  forearms  when  he  was  eleven  
years  old  by  the  'King  of  Tattooists'  George  Burchett,  who  by  that  time  was  an  old  man.  He  allowed  me  to  
photograph  these  tattoos,  which  are  heavily  feathered  today  (see  Figure  45).  
159  It  may  be  possible  to  measure  the  diameter  of  individual  ‘spots’  to  determine  an  estimate  of  needle  

grouping  size;  typically  a  grouping  of  three  or  five  needles  would  be  used  for  line  work,  or  seven  for  very  
large,  bold  designs  that  would  be  later  filled  in  with  solid  shading,  such  as  'neo-­‐tribal'  work.  
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for  an  example  of  smooth,  fine  line  work;  compare  with  object  number  A633,  Figure  
47).    
  (iv)  Prior  preparation/  stretching  of  the  skin  -­‐  inattentiveness  to  either  of  
these  elements  of  the  process  is  usually  indicated  by  the  asymmetric  appearance  of  the  
completed  tattoo  design.  This  results  from  one  of  two  possible  causes:  lack  of  artistic  
skill  combined  with  inadequate  design  stencils  or  transfers,  or  a  failure  to  adequately  
stretch  the  skin  during  tattooing.  Many  of  the  tattooed  images  in  the  collection  are  
unevenly  executed,  suggesting  minimal  or  no  prior  preparation  of  the  design.  This  
would  again  imply  amateur  application  using  minimal  available  resources  -­‐  a  
professional  tattooist  would  use  an  outlining  pen,  or  later  hectographic  carbon  paper,  to  
transfer  an  outline  of  the  design  onto  the  skin  prior  to  beginning  the  tattoo.  Freehand  
tattooing  is  considered  to  be  an  extremely  skilled  technique,  which  is  only  practiced  
successfully  by  professionals  who  are  highly  advanced  in  their  field.  Good  
draughtsmanship  and  some  degree  of  art  training  are  essential  in  freehand  tattooing.  
Tattoos  applied  in  a  freehand  manner  by  an  amateur  practitioner  commonly  appear  
asymmetrical  once  the  tattoo  has  healed  (see,  for  example,  specimen  number  A631,  
Figure  48).  When  working  with  preserved  tattoos,  one  must  exercise  critical  judgement  
in  order  to  determine  whether  or  not  distortion  of  a  tattoo  design  has  been  caused  by  
shrinkage  of  the  skin  during  the  drying  process,  or  poor  tattooing.  In  both  instances,  
inadequate  stretching  of  the  skin,  living  or  post-­‐mortem,  will  cause  distortion  of  the  
tattoo.160  
  (v)  Fading  -­‐  this  of  course  occurs  naturally  to  some  degree  with  age,  but  should  
never  result  in  a  complete  absence  of  ink  in  whole  areas  of  a  design,  unless  the  ink  is  
introduced  to  the  skin  at  too  shallow  a  depth.  This  is  the  opposing  problem  to  that  of  
beading,  but  results  from  a  similar  error  of  judgement  in  correct  needle  depth,  and  is  
also  common  in  amateur  work  (see,  for  example,  specimen  number  A663,  Figure  
49).161  
  (vi)  Shading  technique  -­‐  in  respect  of  the  Wellcome  collection,  in  most  cases  
this  does  not  differ  from  the  technique  used  to  apply  outlines,  as  a  ‘prodding’  or  

                                                                                                               
160  This  observation  makes  the  skill  of  the  tattooist  responsible  for  the  child's  portrait  over  the  right  

portion  of  Fromain's  chest  (Figure  19),  and  the  condition  of  specimen  A555  all  the  more  remarkable.  
Tattooed  portraits  are  notoriously  difficult  to  execute  without  some  distortion  in  the  features;  the  skin  over  
the  chest  is  also  one  of  the  more  difficult  areas  to  stretch  properly.  Similarly,  some  degree  of  shrinking  in  
the  skin  would  be  expected  during  the  dry-­‐preservation  process;  this  would  be  more  apparent  in  a  tattooed  
portrait.  Despite  these  challenges  facing  the  tattooist  and  anatomist  alike,  there  is  very  little  difference  in  
the  appearance  of  the  child's  face  in  the  photograph  of  the  living  tattoo  (Figure  20)  and  the  post-­‐mortem  
skin  preservation.  
161  The  issue  of  fading  in  tattoos  is  interesting,  both  in  relation  to  historical  discourses  surrounding  the  

indelibility  of  the  tattoo,  and  contemporary  claims  made  for  'semi-­‐permanent'  tattoos,  which  involve  
puncturing  the  skin,  rather  than  decal  transfers.  
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‘pricking’  method  using  a  hand  tool  to  produce  individual  dots  grouped  closely  together  
to  form  coloured  or  shaded  areas  (a  circular  motion  is  used  when  shading  with  a  
machine).  Traditional  Japanese  tattooing  and  skilled  hand-­‐poke  artists  excepted,  this  
tends  to  produce  undifferentiated  block  colour  with  little  gradation  of  light  and  shade.  
There  are  some  interesting  and  varied  examples  of  dot  work  shading  in  the  Wellcome  
collection;  this  technique  has  been  used  in  some  tattoos  to  fill  in  lettering  with  solid  
colour,  as  can  be  seen  in  the  tattooed  phrase  Enfant  du  Malheur  (Child  of  Misfortune)  
shown  on  specimen  number  A554  (see  Figure  50).  Other  examples  use  evenly  spaced  
dots  to  give  the  impression  of  shaded  areas;  this  can  be  more  or  less  effective  according  
to  the  skill  of  the  tattooist  and  the  quality  of  their  instruments.  Compare,  for  instance,  
the  crude  application  of  dots  to  shade  the  petals  of  the  tattooed  flower  in  specimen  
A807  (Figure  51),  with  the  extraordinarily  fine  rows  of  dots  depicting  hair  texture  in  
the  female  portrait  in  specimen  A629  (Figure  52).  
  There  are  also  a  handful  of  tattoos  that  show  some  evidence  of  machine  
application.  For  example,  the  cross  section  of  a  tattoo  depicting  a  female  portrait  in  
profile  with  a  checked  headscarf  (see  Figure  46)  shows  very  fine  line  work  and  patchy  
colouration  using  a  circular  motion.  This  patchy  effect  occurs  when  not  enough  ink  is  
applied  to  the  area,  and  may  in  this  case  be  the  result  of  using  a  needle  grouping  which  
is  too  fine  -­‐  possibly  using  the  same  fine  needle  bundle  for  both  lining  and  shading.  This  
would  not  be  professional  practice,  but  may  indicate  a  relatively  skilled  amateur  with  
limited  resources,  or  an  apprentice  to  the  profession.  
  As  well  as  considering  the  traces  of  tattooing  technique,  some  interesting  
observations  may  be  made  regarding  to  the  pigments  used  in  the  collection.  Tattoo  ink  
was  limited  to  black  for  the  majority  of  tattoos  in  the  nineteenth  century;  Indian  ink  
produced  the  best  results  and  was  favoured  by  professionals  who  could  afford  to  invest  
in  quality  pigments.  However,  the  majority  of  tattooers  would  have  made  their  own  
pigments  using  carbon-­‐based  materials  such  as  soot  (lampblack)  and  charcoal,  which  
could  be  mixed  up  into  a  solution  with  water,  saliva,162  or  urine.  Other  colourants  could  
include  writing  ink,  bleachers  blue,  or  indigo,  which  produced  a  blue-­‐black  result.  Red  
tattoos  were  much  less  common,  as  the  ores  involved  in  the  manufacture  of  red  

                                                                                                               
162  Saliva  was  commonly  used  to  mix  pigments,  moisten  needles,  or  even  clean  the  skin  before,  during  and  

after  tattooing.  These  unsanitary  practices  were  reported  in  a  number  of  medical  journals,  and  were  
implicated  in  the  spread  of  infectious  diseases  such  as  syphilis  and  tuberculosis.  See  for  example,  F.  R.  
Barker,  'Notes  Of  Cases  On  An  Outbreak  Of  Syphilis  Following  On  Tattooing',  in  The  British  Medical  Journal,  
Vol.  1,  No.  1479  (May  4,  1889),  pp.  985-­‐989.  See  also  Gemma  Angel,  'Atavistic  Marks  and  Risky  Practices:  
The  Tattoo  in  Medico-­‐Legal  Debate,  1850-­‐1950',  in  Jonathan  Reinarz  and  Kevin  Siena  (eds.)  A  Medical  
History  of  Skin:  Scratching  the  Surface,  (London:  Pickering  Chatto,  2013),  pp.  165-­‐179.  
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pigments  are  highly  toxic.163  Red  mercuric  sulphide  occurs  naturally,  and  has  been  
manufactured  for  use  as  a  pigment  since  the  early  Middle  Ages.  The  pigment  was  
referred  to  interchangeably  as  vermilion  or  cinnabar,  although  vermilion  became  the  
more  commonly  used  term  by  the  seventeenth  century.164  Since  the  toxic  effects  of  
mercury  were  historically  well  known,  it  might  seem  strange  that  cinnabar  was  used  in  
tattooing  at  all.  In  European  tattooing,  red  pigments  were  not  commonly  used  pre-­‐
twentieth  century,  with  red  inks  tending  to  be  used  sparingly  for  small  areas  of  
embellishment.  The  Wellcome  Collection  possesses  only  a  handful  of  tattoos  containing  
red  dye;  out  of  three  hundred  tattoos  only  thirty  one  contain  red  pigments,165  which  are  
generally  used  to  highlight  or  shade  small  areas  of  a  design.  In  one  case  red  has  been  
used  to  outline  a  tattooed  date  -­‐  'c.1874'  (specimen  number  A569).  There  is  marked  
variability  among  these  pigments,  which  may  be  described  as  fitting  into  one  of  three  
categories:  (i)  intense,  almost  iridescent  red;  (ii)  dull  purple-­‐brown  reds;  and  (iii)  pale  
rose.  The  majority  of  red  tattoos  fall  into  the  third  group,  in  which  the  pigment  tends  to  
be  exceptionally  degraded.  The  red  ink  in  these  tattoos  is  considerably  more  faded  than  
the  black  ink  used  in  the  same  designs,  and  one  often  has  to  look  very  closely  to  see  any  
trace  of  pigment.  For  example,  in  the  small  tradesman's  tattoo  that  depicts  a  blacksmith  
accompanied  by  the  name  'DELACOUR'  and  the  date  (1862),  a  light  red  pigment  has  
been  used  sparingly  to  depict  a  glowing  hot  iron  being  worked  on  an  anvil  (specimen  
number  A618,  Figure  53).  There  are,  however,  a  number  of  specimens  containing  
exceptionally  bright  ink,  which  have  lost  none  of  their  vivid  red  colour  (see,  for  
example,  specimen  number  A687,  Figure  54).  Microscopial  analysis  of  small  areas  of  
skin  containing  these  reds  has  shown  a  pigment  crystal  structure  consistent  with  wet-­‐
process  vermilion,  which  has  a  high  cinnabar  content  (see  Figure  55).166  On  the  basis  of  
these  samples,  it  is  possible  to  determine  which  pigments  have  a  high  cinnabar  content  
by  eye.  Most  cinnabar  was  mined  in  China  during  the  nineteenth  century,  and  Chinese  
vermilion  was  considered  a  superior  hue  to  the  European  pigment.  Due  to  the  high  cost  
of  cinnabar  mined  in  China,  European  vermilion  often  included  adulterants  such  as  
brick,  orpiment,  iron  oxide,  Persian  red,  iodine  scarlet,  and  minium  (red  lead)  -­‐  an  

                                                                                                               
163  Cinnabar,  the  common  ore  of  mercury,  was  highly  valued  for  its  bold  red  pigment  despite  its  toxicity.  
164  Rosamund  Drusilla  Harley,  Artists'  Pigments  c.1600-­‐1835:  A  Study  in  English  Documentary  Sources,  

(London:  Butterworth  Scientific,  1982),  p.  125.  

165  See  Appendix  II  for  a  full  list  of  all  tattoos  in  the  collection  containing  red  pigments  (object  numbers  

marked  in  red).  

166  Rutherford  Gettens,  Robert  Feller  and  W.  T.  Chase,  'Vermilion  and  Cinnabar',  in  Studies  in  Conservation,  

Vol.  17,  No.  2  (May,  1972),  p.  50.  I  would  like  to  thank  Dr.  Ruth  Siddall  at  UCL  Earth  Sciences  for  her  
collaboration  and  expertise  in  identifying  these  pigments.  
75  
 
  

inexpensive  and  bright  but  fugitive  (impermanent)  lead-­‐oxide  pigment.167  This  may  
explain  why  there  is  marked  variability  amongst  preserved  tattoos  containing  red  inks,  
in  terms  of  both  permanence  and  vibrancy  of  colour:  The  more  commonly  available  and  
cheaper  European  variety  of  vermilion  used  by  some  nineteenth  century  tattooists  
likely  contained  additives  which  reduced  colour  saturation,  and  made  the  pigment  more  
susceptible  to  light-­‐degradation  over  time.  Thus  a  visual  comparison  of  red  pigments  
may  suggest  that  a  small  number  of  the  Wellcome  tattoos  were  made  in  parts  of  Asia  
where  purer  forms  of  cinnabar  based  pigment  were  more  widely  available.  
  When  considered  in  conjunction  with  the  historical  literature  on  the  nineteenth-­‐
century  European  tattooing  milieu,  the  technical  elements  of  tattooing  described  above  
can  provide  a  valuable  insight  into  the  provenance  of  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattoos.  
Whilst  a  number  of  professional  tattooists  were  practicing  during  this  period  
(predominantly  in  the  UK  and  the  USA),  only  a  handful  of  tattoos  in  this  collection  bear  
the  signs  of  professional  workmanship.  A  professionalised  trade  had  not  yet  emerged  in  
France  in  the  1890's,  and  most  tattooers  were  occupied  in  other  trades.  An  interesting  
glimpse  of  the  tattooer's  trade  comes  from  Daguillon's  1891  study  of  the  tattoos  of  the  
insane,  in  which  he  lists  the  primary  professions  of  the  tattooers,  as  well  as  those  of  the  
asylum  inmates.168  Out  of  sixty  five  tattooed  men  observed  at  Ville-­‐Evrard  asylum,  
Daguillon  reported  fourteen  cases  tattooed  by  soldiers;  eleven  by  sailors;  ten  by  
ordinary  workmen;  six  by  vagrants;  six  who  described  themselves  as  professional  
tattooers;  five  who  tattooed  themselves;  two  tattooed  by  children;  one  by  an  inmate  of  a  
military  prison;  and  one  by  a  prostitute,  the  only  mention  of  a  female  tattooer.  In  nine  
cases  he  lacked  any  data  on  the  tattooer's  profession.  Daguillon's  figures,  though  
limited,  reinforce  the  assumption  that  tattooing  was  predominantly  carried  out  socially  
amongst  comrades  in  specific  military  and  manual  working  occupations.  This  is  also  
reflected  in  his  data  on  the  'salaries'  of  the  tattooers:  in  forty-­‐three  cases  the  tattoo  was  
executed  for  free;  on  five  occassions  it  was  paid  for  'in  kind'  (for  example,  with  a  cup  of  
black  coffee,  a  glass  of  wine,  or  dinner).  Only  in  eight  instances  were  tattoos  paid  for  in  
cash,  with  prices  ranging  from  twenty  centimes  up  to  two  francs;  the  tattoos  executed  
by  professionals  being  included  within  this  category.169    
  Whilst  studies  such  as  Daguillon's  can  provide  interesting  data  on  the  
nineteenth-­‐century  tattoo  milieu,  such  material  is  necessarily  limited  by  its  sample  and  

                                                                                                               
167  Nicholas  Eastaugh,  Valentine  Walsh,  Tracey  Chaplin  and  Ruth  Siddall  (eds.),  Pigment  Compendium:  A  

Dictionary  of  Historical  Pigments,  (Oxford:  Elsevier  Butterworth-­‐Heinemann,  2004).  

168  Daguillon,  'Contribution  a  l'étude  du  tatouage  chez  les  aliénés',  in  Archives  d'anthropologie  criminelle,  

(1895),  pp.  175-­‐199.  

169  Ibid.,  p.  180.  

76  
 
  

scope.  Considering  the  ways  in  which  the  tattoos  of  the  working  and  under  classes  were  
characterised  by  the  middle-­‐class  medico-­‐legal  professionals  of  the  period,  whose  
writing  will  be  discussed  in  more  depth  in  chapter  five,  the  issue  of  the  class-­‐basis  of  the  
practice  is  raised.  Numerous  late  nineteenth-­‐century  nobility  and  royalty  were  
famously  tattooed  by  the  early  ‘tattoo  art  stars’,  such  as  Burchett  and  Macdonald  -­‐  
receiving  a  great  deal  of  high  profile  commentary  by  the  contemporary  press.  Thus  it  is  
evident  that  the  contemporary  fascination  with  the  practice  was  not  limited  to  the  
soldier,  seaman  or  ‘recidivist’,  as  many  nineteenth-­‐century  criminologists  writing  on  
tattooing  assumed.  Indeed,  a  far  more  complex  and  nuanced  class  picture  emerges  from  
the  historical  material,  in  which  British  royal  military  figureheads  in  particular,  appear  
to  have  played  a  part  in  reviving  long-­‐standing  traditions  of  pilgrimage  tattooing  on  
journeys  to  the  middle  east  and  Asia,  reinforcing  the  practice  of  'souvenir'  tattooing  
already  popular  amongst  the  lower  ranks.  The  frequency  of  souvenir  tattoos  within  the  
Wellcome  Collection  may  attest  to  this  popularity.  
  Moreover,  the  iconography  of  the  tattoos  can  further  tell  us  something  about  the  
people  to  whom  the  tattoos  belonged  during  life.  Tattoo  designs  could  either  be  drawn  
from  imagination,  or  design  'flash'  sheets  and  books.    Surviving  design  books  from  the  
nineteenth  century  are  rare,  but  one  such  example  exists  in  the  fonds  Alexandre  
Lacassagne  at  the  Bibliothèque  municipale  de  Lyon  (see  Figure  56).170  In  the  Wellcome  
Collection,  common  phrases  and  motifs  may  be  broadly  categorised  according  to  their  
iconography.  Describing  the  tattooed  images  and  text;  the  physical  condition  of  the  
skins;  taking  detailed  measurements  and  making  photographic  records;  these  are  the  
first  tasks  involved  in  my  cataloguing  of  the  collection  for  the  museum  database.  
Categorising  the  tattoos  according  to  their  iconography  was  a  natural  extension  of  this  
work,  in  order  to  make  sense  of  the  material  in  the  first  instance.  However,  I  am  wary  of  
reproducing  the  assumptions  found  in  much  historical  literature  on  the  tattoo  (and  
particularly  in  criminological  works),  which  tend  to  make  unproblematic  correlations  
between  iconography,  meaning  and  the  'social  type'  or  character  of  the  tattooee.    
  Before  describing  the  range  of  images  and  text  found  within  the  Wellcome  
collection,  it  is  however  worth  considering  the  taxonomies  of  tattoo  motifs  formulated  
by  late-­‐nineteenth-­‐century  scholars'  characterisations  that  would  persist  well  into  the  
twentieth  century.  Whilst  these  categorisations  are  inherently  limited  and  even  
potentially  misleading,  the  Wellcome  Collection  was  assembled  during  a  period  when  
the  development  of  such  taxonomies  held  strong  interpretative  currency;  thus  it  is  
                                                                                                               
170  This  book,  which  belonged  to  a  Lyonnais  tattooer  and  dates  from  1889,  contains  dozens  of  drawings  of  

tattoo  designs  and  their  locations  on  the  body.  A  number  of  these  images  bear  close  resemblance  to  specific  
tattooed  skins  within  the  Wellcome  collection,  and  will  be  discussed  at  greater  length  in  chapter  four.  
77  
 
  

conceivable  that  the  present  collection  may  in  fact  reflect  the  collecting  priorities  and  
interests  of  these  early  researchers.    
  One  of  the  earliest  attempts  at  classification  by  genre  of  tattoo  image  was  
produced  in  1855  by  French  medico-­‐legal  expert  Auguste  Ambroise  Tardieu  (1818-­‐
1879).171  Tardieu  studied  the  tattoos  of  fifty  one  inmates  at  civilian  prisons  and  
hospitals,  assigning  the  images  he  observed  to  seven  different  categories,  listed  in  order  
of  frequency:  (i)  miscellaneous  figures;  (ii)  military  emblems;  (iii)  love  tokens;  (iv)  
initials,  names  and  dates;  (v)  religious  emblems;  (vi)  professional  or  trade  emblems;  
and  (vii)  obscene  images.172  All  of  these  categories  are  represented  within  the  Wellcome  
Collection.  In  my  own  scheme  outlined  below,  I  have  noted  the  frequency  with  which  
particular  motifs  appear  -­‐  numbers  listed  on  the  right  refer  to  number  of  tattoos,  rather  
than  individual  specimens,  which  may  carry  several  tattoos.  Some  motifs  also  cross  
categories,  for  instance  a  regimental  insignia  may  also  fall  into  the  naval,  anchors  
category.  The  most  commonly  occurring  motifs  are  listed  below:  
 
Military:  
i.   Regimental  insignia           20  
ii.   Regimental  names           12  
iii.   Military  costume  and  weaponry       18  
iv.   Medals                  3  
v.   Other  (name,  date  and  number)          2  
 
Naval:  
vi.   Anchors              9  
vii.   Nautical  stars              9  
viii. Other  (ships,  fish,  mermaids)          3  
 
Souvenirs  (Geographic/Military):  
ix.   Sahara  (A523,  A528,  A784)          3  
x.   Africa  (A647)              1    
xi.   Tonkin  (A523)              1  
xii.   Tunisia  (A626)              1  
xiii. Algeria  (A528)                                          1    

                                                                                                               
171  Auguste  Ambroise  Tardieu,  Étude  médico-­‐légale  sur  le  tatouage  considéré  comme  signe  d’identité,  (1855).  

Tardieu's  taxonomy  was  reworked  and  refined  by  a  number  of  other  criminologists,  of  whom  Alexandre  
Lacassagne  was  the  most  significant.  
172  Ibid.  

78  
 
  

xiv.   China  (A739)              1  

xv.   Morocco  (A537)            1  
 
 
Patriotic:  
xvi.   Coats  of  arms  and  flags            5  
xvii. Slogans*              3  
*  "Honour  au  Armes";  "Republique  Française"  x2    
 
Religious:  
xviii. Islamic  (crescent  moon  and  star)        7  
xix.   Christian  (crucifixes*)            3  
*  In  the  case  of  specimen  number  A617,  the  tattooed  crucifix  represents  a  gravestone,  
and  thus  also  falls  into  the  category  of  memorial  tattoos.  
   
Circus/Performers:  
xx.   Clowns  (male)             3  
xxi.   Tight-­‐rope  walker  (female)         1  
xxii. Juggler  (male)             1  
xxiii. Strongman             1  
xxiv. Dancers/acrobats*  (female)         3  
*  Specimen  number  A627  is  ambiguous;  whilst  the  female  figure's  attire  resembles  a  
typical  nineteenth-­‐century  acrobat's  costume,  the  tattoo  could  equally  represent  a  
mistress  or  prostitute.  Another  of  the  tattoos  depicts  a  woman  pirouetting  on  a  balance  
ball  (object  number  A598).    
 
Other  image  categories  include:  slogans  and  declarations;  names,  dates,  initials  and  love  
tokens;  memorial  tattoos;  female  figures  and  busts;  male  figures  and  busts  (which  may  
be  divided  between  those  in  regimental  costume  listed  above,  and  historical  
characters);  animals;  plants  and  flowers,  the  most  common  of  which  is  the  pansy  (the  
French  flower  of  remembrance,  appears  thirty-­‐six  times)  -­‐  these  are  frequently  
represented  either  in  pots  (commemorative)  or  single  stems,  often  accompanied  by  a  
phrase  and/or  initials;  inanimate  objects  (such  as  bicycles);  and  trade  insignia.  There  is  
also  a  handful  of  miscellaneous  designs  so  idiosyncratic,  that  they  defy  categorisation  
entirely  -­‐  a  pig  riding  a  bicycle,  for  instance.    

79  
 
  

  Based  on  the  range  of  iconographic  images  and  phrases,  it  seems  reasonable  to  
conclude  that  the  majority  of  tattoos  in  the  collection  belonged  to  members  of  the  
foreign  legion173  and  other  soldiers,  as  well  as  marines  and  ordinary  working  men.  
Whether  or  not  many  of  these  individuals  also  served  time  in  military  or  civilian  prisons  
is  far  more  difficult  to  determine.  Johnston-­‐Saint’s  journal  record  claims  that  at  least  
some  of  the  skins  had  come  from  'murderers  and  criminals  of  all  nationalities.'174  But  
whether  this  is  borne  out  by  the  tattoos  themselves,  or  by  perceived  wisdom  about  
them,  is  hard  to  tell.    
  Considering  the  tattooed  skin  fragment  from  a  left  forearm  discussed  in  some  
detail  above  (specimen  number  A544,  Figure  38),  there  are  two  tattoos  which  match  
descriptions  of  typical  'criminal  tattoos'  in  the  criminological  literature.  Perhaps  the  
most  interesting  of  these  is  the  tattooed  phrase  ‘Mort  Aux  Vaches’,  which  literally  
translates  as  ‘Death  to  Cows’,  and  is  a  well-­‐known  slur  aimed  at  the  French  police.175  
This  particular  phrase  apparently  originated  during  the  Franco-­‐Prussian  War  (1870-­‐
1871),  when  French  soldiers  used  it  as  a  term  of  abuse  for  the  German  'Wache'  (guard,  
or  sentinels).  The  similarity  of  the  word  ‘waches’  to  the  French  ‘vaches’  may  explain  the  
evolution  of  the  expression  'Mort  Aux  Vaches',  which  was  extended  as  an  insult  
specifically  to  the  police  and  gendarmes,  and  ultimately  to  anyone  in  uniform.  In  fact,  
the  insult  was  considered  so  provocative  that  some  offenders  appeared  in  court  
charged  with  verbally  abusing  officers  of  the  law.  Writing  in  1901,  Anatole  France  gives  
some  insight  into  the  use  and  meaning  of  this  expression  in  his  satirical  L’Affaire  
Crainquebille  (The  Crainquebille  Affair).  The  hapless  Jerôme  Crainquebille  is  accused  of  
insulting  a  police  officer.  During  his  trial,  his  defence  clarifies  the  terms  of  the  insult  for  
the  court:  
 
My  client  is  accused  of  having  said:  'Death  to  cows!'  The  meaning  of  this  phrase  
is  in  no  doubt.  If  you  flip  through  the  dictionary  of  slang,  you  will  read:  'Vachard,  
lazy,  idle;  stretching  lazily  like  a  cow,  instead  of  working.'  –  Cow,  who  sells  out  to  
the  police;  snitch.  “Death  to  cows!”  is  said  in  certain  circles.176    
 

                                                                                                               
173  See,  for  example  specimen  number  A532,  Figure  57,  which  is  tattooed  with  a  'grenade'  insignia  and  

regiment  number,  a  popular  regimental  motif  of  the  Foreign  Legion.  The  addition  of  the  wreath  framing  the  
grenade  is  very  similar  to  the  2nd  infantry  regiment  insignia,  which  usually  depicts  the  grenade  within  a  
horseshoe.  
174  Johnston-­‐Saint,  1929a.  Johnston-­‐Saint  Reports  Jan-­‐Nov  1929,  (Saturday  June  15th),  p.  9.  
175  'Death  to  Pigs'  would  be  the  equivalent  insult  in  English.    
176  Anatole  France,  L’Affaire  Crainquebille,  (1901),  pp.  46-­‐47.  Translated  from  the  French:    

On  accuse  mon  client  d’avoir  dit  :  'Mort  aux  vaches!'.  Le  sens  de  cette  phrase  n’est  pas  douteux.  Si  vous  
feuilletez  le  dictionnaire  de  la  langue  verte,  vous  y  lirez  :  “Vachard,  paresseux,  fainéant;  qui  s’étend  
paresseusement  comme  une  vache,  au  lieu  de  travailler”.  –  Vache,  qui  se  vend  à  la  police  ;  mouchard.  'Mort  aux  
vaches!'  se  dit  dans  un  certain  monde.    
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  According  to  some  writers,  a  shorthand  version  of  this  expression  consists  of  
three  dots  arranged  in  a  triangle,  tattooed  between  the  forefinger  and  thumb,  in  the  
region  of  the  anatomical  snuffbox  (see  Figure  58).  This  anti-­‐police  slogan  has  been  
strongly  associated  with  criminality,  and  the  shorthand  version  in  particular  has  been  
read  as  a  form  of  obscure  and  cunning  criminal  'argot'.  Twentieth-­‐century  French  
criminologist  Jean  Graven  writes  that,  'a  variety  of  dots  [...]  speaks  its  own  more  
discrete  and  mysterious  language,  which  initiates  find  easy  to  decipher.'177  However,  
the  signification  of  the  three  dot  tattoo  varies  greatly  depending  upon  national  and  
historical  context.  For  instance,  it  has  also  been  associated  with  sailors,  who  
traditionally  received  three  dots  to  mark  their  first  voyage.  In  his  lengthy  (and  
frequently  contradictory)  account  of  the  iconography  and  meaning  of  'criminal  tattoos',  
Graven  also  reports  that  'a  ring  or  bracelet  with  a  diamond  designates  penal  
servitude.'178  French  police  superintendent  Jacques  Delarue  confirms  this  interpretation  
in  his  1950  book  Les  Tatouages  du  "Milieu",  in  which  he  reproduces  drawings  of  these  
motifs  (see  Figure  59).179  This  interpretation  of  bracelet  tattoos  comprising  of  
diamonds,  and  geometric  patterns  of  dots,  is  problematic  when  one  considers  the  
complex  cultural  exchanges  that  were  often  involved  in  tattoo  acquisition  among  
Europeans.  Indeed,  the  modern  European  tattoo  contrasts  with  the  traditional  tattooing  
of  many  tribal  societies  in  a  variety  of  ways:  It  is  not  intrinsically  connected  to  one's  
place  in  the  community  as  in  Māori  society;  unlike  Samoan  tattooing,  motifs  are  not  
prescribed;  nor  is  the  process  culturally  embedded  in  ritual  practice  as  it  is  in  the  
Marquesas;  it  is  seldom  performed  therapeutically  as  is  often  the  case  amongst  the  
Kabyle  of  Algeria;  and  neither  are  European  designs  conceived  as  a  single,  
ergonomically  placed  artwork,  as  in  the  case  of  traditional  Japanese  tattooing.  Of  course,  
all  of  these  elements  are  present  to  some  extent  in  European  tattooing  practices.  
Moreover,  I  would  suggest  that  its  very  mutability  is  a  defining  feature  of  the  European  
tattoo:  It  is  frequently  marked  by  heterogeneity,  assimilation  of  foreign  tattoo  styles,  
and  idiosyncrasy,  which  arises  from  an  individualism  that  links  specific  marks  with  
personal  experience.    
  The  forearm  skin  in  Figure  38,  for  instance,  presents  a  highly  complex  array  of  
tattooed  symbols,  which  may  have  multiple  cultural  reference  points.  The  numerous  
dots,  which  are  arranged  in  vertical  and  horizontal  rows,  are  interspersed  with  a  series  

                                                                                                               
177  Graven,  'Le  Tatouage  et  son  Importance  en  Criminologie',  p.91.  Translated  from  the  French:  

Les  différents  points  parlent  aussi  leur  langage,  plus  discret  encore,  plus  mystérieux,  mais  facile  à  déchiffer  
pour  les  initiés.  
178  Ibid.,  p.  90.  Translated  from  the  French:  

La  bague  on  le  bracelet  de  chaîne  avec  un  diamant,  désigne  le  bagne.  
179  Delarue  and  Giraud,  Le  Tatouages  du  "Milieu",  p.  50  and  p.  64.  

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of  small  crosses;  such  designs  bear  striking  resemblance  to  the  traditional  geometric  
tattoo  patterns  found  amongst  the  Berber  in  Tunisia.180  The  diamond-­‐patterned  
bracelet,  and  the  form  of  a  triangle  with  a  series  of  short  diagonal  'spikes'  along  the  
outer  edges,  are  very  similar  to  the  drawings  of  traditional  hand  markings  in  Dr.  E.  
Gobert's  1924  study  of  Tunisian  tattooing181  (see  no.  4,  from  the  town  of  Mateur,  in  
particular:  Figure  60).  On  the  other  hand,  the  image  of  a  tattooed  heart  pierced  with  
arrows  and  a  male  figure,  Latin  lettering,  and  of  course  the  confrontational  phrase  'mort  
aux  vaches',  are  distinctly  European.  The  word  'Lavene'  tattooed  vertically  down  the  
forearm  is  a  French  surname,  possibly  the  name  of  the  individual  to  whom  the  tattoo  
belonged;  thus  these  tattoos  may  represent  broad  transcultural  influences,  rather  than  
a  life  of  criminality  and  penal  servitude,  as  some  criminologists  might  assume.  
  Other  tattoo  motifs  mentioned  in  the  work  of  Graven  and  Delarue  can  be  found  
within  the  Wellcome  Collection:  those  tattoos  described  as  'identification  marks  
relating  to  a  sentence  served  in  a  particular  prison  or  an  appearance  before  a  particular  
court.'  Veterans  of  the  Calvi  punishment  centre  are  reported  to  have  been  identified  by  
a  bunch  of  grapes;182  the  drawing  in  Delarue  (Figure  61)  is  almost  identical  to  the  
tattoo  shown  in  Figure  62  (specimen  number  A708).  A  second  example  in  the  
collection  (specimen  number  A701)  includes  the  addition  of  a  tattooed  pansy  to  the  
design  -­‐  perhaps  indicating  a  punishment  not  easily  forgotten.  Another  tattoo  motif,  
consisting  of  a  crescent  moon  with  a  lantern  suspended  from  the  top  point  (see  Figure  
63)  is  particularly  interesting;  according  to  Graven,  a  similar  motif  known  as  the  falot  
consists  of  'a  crescent  moon  adorned  with  a  lantern  attached  at  the  top  point  and  a  
black  cat  seated  on  the  lower  point:  it  designates  individuals  who  have  appeared  before  
the  military  court  (le  falot  in  slang),183  (see  Figure  64  for  a  drawing  of  the  traditional  
falot,  from  Delarue).  What,  then,  are  we  to  make  of  specimen  number  A704,  which  is  
identical  in  every  detail,  but  for  the  black  cat?  Is  there  some  more  complex  signification  
at  work  in  this  particular  version  of  the  motif  -­‐  perhaps  the  black  cat  refers  to  the  

                                                                                                               
180  It  is  important  to  point  out  that  these  tattoo  motifs  are  usually  applied  to  women  as  protection  and  

fertility  symbols.  Whilst  it  is  possible  that  specimen  A544  came  from  a  woman's  body,  the  French  phrases  
are  perhaps  more  suggestive  of  a  soldier  of  one  of  the  French  colonial  regiments,  stationed  in  North  Africa.  
It  was  not  uncommon  for  soldiers  to  acquire  tattoos  in  the  regional  style  whilst  stationed  abroad;  as  
outsiders  to  the  region,  the  issue  of  gender-­‐appropriate  tattoos  in  that  culture  would  likely  have  been  
considered  unimportant.  There  are  numerous  tattoos  in  the  Wellcome  collection  which  make  explicit  
reference  to  a  North  African  military  context  -­‐  see,  for  example  A626  (Figure  24)  and  A532  (Figure  57).  
181  E.  Gobert,  'Notes  sur  les  tatouages  des  indigènes  Tunisiens',  in  L'Anthropologie,  (1924),  pp.  57-­‐90.  
182  Graven,  'Le  Tatouage  et  son  Importance  en  Criminologie',  p.  91.  See  also  image  plates  7  and  9  in  Delarue  

and  Giraud,  Le  Tatouage  du  "Milieu",  p.  93.  

183  Graven,  'Le  Tatouage  et  son  Importance  en  Criminologie',  p.  90.  The  full  passage  in  French  reads:  

Tout  une  série  de  tatouages  représentent  les  marques  d'identification  du  passage  dans  tel  pénitencier  ou  
devant  tel  tribunal;  la  date  de  l'événement  accompagne  parfois  le  signe.  Le  plus  classique  est  le  falot,  c'est-­‐à-­‐
dire  le  croissant  de  lune  orné  d'une  lanterne  accrochée  à  la  corne  supérieure  et  d'un  chat  noir  assis  sur  la  
corne  inférieure:  il  désigne  les  individus  ayant  passé  en  conseil  de  guerre  (le  falot,  en  argot).  
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outcome  of  a  military  trial?  Or  could  the  absence  of  the  cat  indicate  that  the  bearer  
managed  to  avoid  a  court  appearance?  Does  the  addition  of  a  face  in  the  moon  have  any  
special  significance?184  Alternatively,  the  crescent  moon  and  lantern  tattoo  in  the  
Wellcome  Collection  could  be  entirely  unrelated  to  the  falot.  This  example  underlines  
the  polysemous  character  of  the  tattoo  and  the  ambiguity  of  their  meanings.  Whilst  it  
may  have  once  been  a  recognised  military-­‐penal  tattoo  popular  with  court-­‐marshalled  
recruits,  such  motifs  may  have  later  been  adopted  out  of  nostalgia,  as  a  fashion,  or  for  
aesthetic  reasons,  much  in  the  way  that  traditional  European  sailor  tattoos  such  as  
swallows  and  anchors  are  worn  today  by  young  people  who  have  no  affiliation  with  the  
navy.    
  Certainly  the  only  specimens  in  the  collection  that  are  known  to  have  come  from  
the  body  of  a  criminal,  are  the  two  halves  of  the  chest  piece  belonging  to  Fromain,  
whose  photograph  was  taken  for  police  identification  purposes  on  his  arrest  for  an  
unknown  crime.  Ironically,  there  is  nothing  in  the  iconography  of  his  tattoos  that  would  
suggest  a  link  to  a  criminal  milieu.  Given  the  frequency  of  traditional  military  designs,  
and  taking  into  account  observations  of  technique,  as  well  as  the  historical  diffusion  of  
tattooing  amongst  military  populations,  it  seems  more  than  likely  that  the  majority  of  
tattoos  in  the  Wellcome  Collection  were  produced  in  barracks,  at  sea,  or  in  ports,  
workshops  and  pubs  using  limited  resources  by  non-­‐professionals  -­‐  a  few  striking  
examples  of  more  skilled  work  notwithstanding.185  Attentiveness  to  the  materiality  of  
the  tattooed  skins  can  reveal  a  great  deal  about  their  bearers,  their  fabrication  into  
objects,  and  their  origins  as  collection  pieces.  Following  the  material  clues,  we  are  
inevitably  lead  back  to  the  historical  literature  on  tattooing  in  Europe,  and  into  a  world  
constructed  through  the  fragmentary  stories  of  sailors,  early  scientific  expeditions  to  
the  South  Seas,  practices  of  ethnographic  collecting,  and  the  beginnings  of  criminal  
science.  These  collecting  contexts  and  discourses  will  be  explored  at  greater  length  in  
chapters  four  and  five  respectively.  
 
From  Iconography  to  Archive  
 
Whilst  many  tattoos  in  the  Wellcome  Collection  share  common  (and  familiar)  
iconography  -­‐  such  as  nautical  stars  and  anchors  -­‐  other  motifs  are  somewhat  more  
difficult  to  identify.  It  is  often  these  more  unique  designs,  however,  which  lead  to  the  

                                                                                                               
184  Examples  of  this  motif  that  include  the  "man  in  the  moon",  but  not  the  cat,  appear  in  Delarue  and  Giraud  

(plate  2,  p.  91),  and  in  Jérôme  Pierrat,  Le  tatouage  à  Biribi  (2004),  p.  30.  Both  of  these  versions  of  the  motif  
are  described  by  their  authors  as  le  falot.  
185  These  will  be  discussed  at  length  in  subsequent  chapters.  

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most  fruitful  archival  sources.  Take,  for  example,  specimen  numbers  A754  and  A747  
(Figure  65).  These  two  specimens  were  stored  separately  and  no  connection  between  
them  was  made  in  the  museum  catalogue.  However,  when  pictured  side-­‐by-­‐side,  the  
relationship  between  the  two  becomes  visually  apparent.  Both  segments  of  skin  are  of  
similar  dimensions,  A754  measuring  W144mm  x  H86mm,  and  A747  measuring  
W137mm  x  H88mm.    Both  are  tattooed  in  a  similar,  amateur  style  with  two  large  eyes,  
each  with  short,  thick  eyelashes  and  thick  black  eyebrows.  Hand-­‐held  needles  were  
used,  as  evidenced  by  the  tattoo  itself,  and  both  eyes  were  likely  tattooed  by  the  same  
tattooist.  Furthermore,  when  placed  next  to  one  another,  it  is  clear  from  the  orientation  
of  the  eyebrows  that  they  were  intended  to  form  a  pair,  and  that  A754  and  A747  are  the  
left  and  right  eyes  respectively.  But  if  these  tattoos  were  originally  a  pair,  as  the  images  
themselves  seem  to  suggest,  then  why  preserve  them  as  separate  specimens  and  risk  
losing  the  significance  of  their  iconographic  entirety?  This  question  naturally  leads  me  
to  consider  where  on  the  body  they  might  have  been  worn.  Analysing  the  condition  of  
the  skin  and  the  tattoos  more  closely  gives  an  indication  of  their  former  location  on  the  
body.  When  handling  them,  I  found  the  skin  to  be  hard,  non-­‐pliable  and  unusually  thick.  
Turning  the  skin  over,  the  reverse  side  reveals  a  textured  pattern  of  rounded  
depressions.  This  ‘dimpling’  is  caused  by  relatively  large  adipose  cells,  which  have  left  
an  impression  in  the  fascia,  as  the  skin  has  dried  –  suggesting  that  this  skin  has  been  
removed  from  a  fleshy  area  of  the  body  such  as  the  buttocks  (see  Figure  66).186    Both  
skins  are  also  particularly  hairy,  covered  with  a  layer  of  short,  curly  hair.  Given  the  scale  
of  each  eye,  and  that  they  have  been  collected  as  separate  specimens,  this  further  
suggests  that  they  came  from  the  buttocks,  where  it  would  not  have  been  possible  to  
remove  one  continuous  section  of  skin  which  preserved  both  tattoos  intact.  
  In  fact,  two  eyes  tattooed  onto  the  buttocks  was  at  one  time  a  fairly  common  
motif  amongst  sailors,  and  has  a  long  iconographic  tradition  going  back  to  at  least  the  
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Though  this  kind  of  tattoo  would  have  largely  
remained  hidden  by  clothing  during  life,  there  are  historical  references  to  this  
particular  tattoo.  Known  as  the  ‘King  of  Tattooists’,  George  Burchett  relates  this  
encounter  with  a  client  in  his  memoirs:  
 
A   sailor   breezed   in,   a   tall,   strapping   boy,   fresh   from   a   long   voyage   to   the   Far  
East.  He  just  wanted  two  eyes  tattooed.  Two  bright  blue  eyes  like  his  own.  That  
seemed  simple  enough.  I  told  him  it  would  not  take  long  and  mentioned  the  fee  
he  would  have  to  pay.  The  boy  looked  round,  went  to  the  couch  and  let  down  his  

                                                                                                               
186  I  must  once  again  thank  Dr.  Wendy  Birch  at  UCL  Anatomy  Department  for  her  invaluable  observations  

and  insight  here.  

84  
 
  

bell-­‐bottom   trousers.   ‘I   want   the   eyes   tattooed   on   my   buttocks;   one   on   each  

cheek   and   looking   straight   ahead.’   It   took   me   a   moment   to   recover.   ‘Why   on  
earth  do  you  want  two  eyes  glaring  out  of  your  bottom?’  I  asked.  ‘To  be  able  to  
see  what’s  happening  behind  my  back,’  he  replied.  ‘Some  sauce,  you  wouldn’t  be  
able  to  see  much  when  you  were  sitting  down,’  I  told  him.187  
 
  Whilst  there  is  certainly  an  element  of  bawdy  humour  behind  this  design,  
authors  Scutt  and  Gotch  suggest  that  such  motifs  ‘probably  sprang  from  naive  
superstition,  akin  to  warding  off  the  evil  eye.’188  A  surgeon  captain  and  dermatologist  in  
the  Royal  Navy,  Ronald  Scutt  describes  the  eyes-­‐on-­‐the-­‐buttocks  tattoo  as  ‘not  
uncommon’,  and  presents  two  photographic  examples  in  his  book  Art,  Sex  and  Symbol  
(Figure  67).  In  this  particular  example,  the  meaning  of  the  tattooed  eyes  is  underscored  
by  the  accompanying  statement  'I  see  you.'  This  tattoo  also  appears  in  collections  of  
early  French  criminological  photographs,  many  of  which  have  been  anonymously  
reproduced  in  a  number  of  popular  books  on  the  subject.189  One  of  the  earliest  
iconographic  sources  in  which  the  tattooed  eyes  appear  is  the  1653  engraved  
frontispiece  from  John  Bulwer’s  fantastically  titled  Anthropometamorphosis:  Man  
Transform’d,  or  the  Artificial  Changeling.  Historically  presented,  in  the  mad  and  cruel  
Gallantry,  foolish  Bravery,  ridiculous  Beauty,  filthy  Fineness,  and  loathesome  Loveliness  of  
most  Nations,  fashioning  &  altering  their  Bodies  from  the  Mould  intended  by  Nature.  With  
a  Vindication  of  the  Regular  Beauty  and  Honesty  of  Nature,  and  an  Appendix  of  the  
Pedigree  of  the  English  Gallant.  The  frontispiece  pictures  various  peoples  of  the  world,  
their  bodies  modified  according  to  cultural  tradition,  including  tattoos,  scarification,  
earlobe  stretching  and  piercing,  as  imagined  by  the  author.  Amongst  this  cornucopia  of  
exotic  foreigners  appears  a  figure  in  the  lower  left  hand  corner,  with  two  eyes  tattooed  
onto  his  buttocks  (Figure  68).    This  tattoo  motif  still  appears  today,  and  is  generally  an  
exclusively  male  choice  of  tattoo  motif,  though  its  female  counterpart  exists  in  the  form  
of  two  eyes  tattooed  onto  the  breasts.190  
  In  this  case,  the  materiality  of  the  tattooed  image  and  the  skin  combine  to  tell  a  
story  about  the  broader  context  within  which  these  hybrid  entities  sit  historically;  both  
in  terms  of  the  context  of  the  individual  body  into  which  it  was  inscribed,  and  the  social  
                                                                                                               
187  Burchett,  Memoirs,  p.  180.  
188  R.  W.  B.  Scutt,  and  Christopher  Gotch,  Art,  Sex  and  Symbol.  The  Mystery  of  Tattoo,  (London  and  New  York:  

Cornwall  Books,  1986),  p.  98.  

189  See,  for  example,  plates  26  and  27  in  Delarue  and  Giraud,  Les  Tatouages  du  'Milieu',  p.108.  
190  Having  discussed  this  tattoo  motif  with  an  informant  who  had  two  eyes  tattooed  onto  his  buttocks  

whilst  working  in  an  all-­‐male  factory  environment,  it  would  seem  that  in  a  contemporary  context  at  least,  
this  design  represents  a  playful  enactment  of  normative  male  heterosexuality  in  social  contexts  where  
collective  same-­‐sex  nakedness  is  routine.  In  this  case,  my  informant  told  me  that  he  had  decided  to  get  this  
particular  tattoo  after  joking  about  it  in  the  showers  with  his  male  colleagues,  one  of  whom  was  the  son  of  
an  ex-­‐sailor  who  had  the  same  tattoo.  Thus  the  tattoo,  though  unseen  by  others  in  his  day-­‐to-­‐day  life,  was  
always  intended  to  be  seen  by  his  male  colleagues  in  the  communal  showers  at  his  workplace.  
85  
 
  

environment  that  the  individual  occupied  and  which  enacted  the  tattoo's  significance.  
From  this  and  other  examples  explored  throughout  the  thesis,  it  is  possible  to  see  how  
the  iconography  of  the  tattoos  themselves  'speak'  of  their  origins,  and  lead  me  to  
relevant  archives  which  can  shed  further  light  on  their  object-­‐histories.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

86  
 
  

CHAPTER  THREE  
The  Body  Strip't  Bare:  Flaying  in  Myth,  Folklore  and  Medicine  
 
Having  looked  in  some  depth  at  the  material  properties  of  the  collection,  it  is  worth  
turning  now  to  the  interconnected  histories  within  which  these  materials  are  
enmeshed;  keeping  in  mind  the  multiplicity  of  these  narratives  and  the  contingency  of  
their  particular  historical,  geographical  and  cultural  locations.  Leaving  aside  tattooing  
practices  for  the  moment,  I  instead  want  to  focus  upon  the  substance  which  the  tattoo  
takes  for  its  ground  -­‐  the  skin.  It  would  be  impossible  to  fully  understand  the  Wellcome  
tattooed  skins  (or  for  that  matter  any  practice  of  tattooing  at  all)  without  considering  
the  deeper  cultural  and  iconographic  significance  of  human  skin.  Whilst  chapter  one  
looked  in  some  detail  at  the  complex  relationship  between  physiological,  sensory  and  
emotional  exchanges  related  to  the  skin,  what  I  am  interested  to  explore  here  is  the  
broader  cultural  symbolism  of  skin,  and  of  the  flayed  skin  in  particular.    
  The  significance  of  skin  as  both  a  bodily  and  social  boundary  has  thus  far  been  
touched  upon,  but  not  elaborated  in  great  detail.  In  this  chapter,  I  will  seek  to  explore  
the  complex  and  historically  shifting  relationship  between  dualities  of  self/society,  
internal/external,  surface/exterior,  and  the  special  attention  skin  has  received  in  
articulating  these  exchanges  through  imagery  and  narrative,  as  well  as  social  practice  
and  ritual.  Flaying  may  be  considered  the  most  extreme  of  these  practices,  and  the  
image  of  the  flayed  skin  has  had  (and  continues  to  have)  a  potent  significance  within  
many  cultures.    
  Furthermore,  the  peculiarity  of  preserving  skin,  and  particularly  dry-­‐preserving  
or  tanning  skin,  warrants  an  expanded  approach,  not  limited  to  the  preservation  
methods  and  practices  available  to  the  anatomist,  discussed  in  the  previous  chapter.  
Whilst  Stieda's  methods  are  illuminating,  suggesting  some  possible  techniques  and  
purposes  for  the  preservation  of  tattooed  human  skin  within  a  medical  context,  this  
author  was,  by  his  own  admission,  unable  to  comment  on  tanning  processes,  which  may  
also  have  relevance  to  human  skin  preservation  practices.  The  Wellcome  Collection  
tattooed  skins  may  be  regarded  as  partial  flays,  some  of  which  have  been  preserved  in  a  
manner  reminiscent  of  parchment  or  leather;  the  small  specimen  tattooed  with  an  
inscription  for  instance,  has  the  fine,  pliable  yet  fragile  texture  of  a  thin  parchment  
(specimen  number  A795,  Figure  69).  Other  skins  in  the  collection  possess  a  more  
leather-­‐like  quality,  and  are  by  contrast  much  thicker  and  softer,  such  that  one  could  
almost  fold  them  double  without  risking  any  damage  to  the  specimen  (see,  for  example,  
specimen  number  A534,  Figure  31;  also  specimen  number  A753).    

87  
 
  

  The  production  of  human  leather  and  its  manipulation  into  a  variety  of  objects  
of  use,  has  a  long  and  complex  history,  which  is  frequently  linked  with  corporal  
punishment  (as  a  method  of  execution  through  flaying  alive  or  the  use  of  the  skin  after  
death),  martyrdom,  domination  of  an  enemy  and  trophy  collecting,  and  occasionally  
devotional  or  medicinal  fetishism.191  This  chapter  thus  sets  out  to  trace  the  intersecting  
cultural  and  historical  enactments  of  the  flayed  skin  through  mythology,  folk  medicine,  
corporal  punishment,  trophy  collecting  and  medical  practice.  
 
Mythical  Flaying:  Punishment  and  Martyrdom  
 
Flaying  is  both  a  remote  and  a  contemporary  practice;  it  is  a  recourse  of  law  but  
also  a  form  of  ‘poetic’  or  moral  justice.192  
 
The  above  observation  offers  a  particularly  salient  departure  point  for  the  historical  
discussion  of  flaying  practices  with  which  this  chapter  principally  deals.  The  two  sets  of  
oppositions  presented  in  this  passage  may  be  productively  considered  to  be  the  
defining  poles  within  which  my  own  analysis  is  situated.  On  the  one  hand,  flaying  is  a  
remote  practice  in  so  far  as  myths  and  legends  speak  of  it  as  a  particularly  cruel  form  of  
torture;  and  yet  is  it  also  familiar,  encountered  in  the  contemporary  anatomical  exhibits  
of  Gunther  Von  Hagens  (Figure  70),  and  private  collections  of  nineteenth-­‐century  
preserved  skins,  as  well  as  in  more  disturbing  twentieth-­‐century  accounts  of  ritual  
flaying,  which  will  be  discussed  at  length  later  in  this  chapter.  Similarly,  in  some  parts  of  
Europe,  flaying  was  historically  encoded  as  a  punishment  for  the  most  severe  crimes  in  
medieval  law;  and  although  (as  far  as  we  know)  rarely  carried  through  into  sentencing  
and  execution,  flaying  was  nevertheless  taken  up  as  a  potent  literary  and  iconographic  
symbol  of  justice  within  medieval  and  early  modern  cultures.  Thus  my  discussion  and  
analysis  interweaves  representations  of  flaying  in  myth  and  the  visual  arts,  historical  
accounts  of  flaying,  and  the  fabrication  of  objects  of  use  and  display  from  human  skin,  
some  of  which  survive  in  contemporary  museums  and  collections.    
  The  skin  may  be  considered  as  both  a  physiological  and  symbolic  boundary  
between  the  self  and  world,  the  site  at  which  identity  is  formed,  ascribed  or  

                                                                                                               
191  I  use  the  term  'fetish'  or  fetishism'  throughout  in  terms  of  the  anthropological  concept,  rather  than  in  the  

appropriated  Freudian  sense  of  these  terms.  In  this  sense,  a  fetish  is  an  object  manufactured  by  people  
which  is  believed  to  posses  supernatural  power,  in  particular  power  over  others.  Fetishism  of  this  kind  is  
present  in  all  religions,  and  the  Holy  Cross  and  consecrated  host  within  some  forms  of  Christianity  are  
examples  of  fetishes.  
192  Sarah  Kay,  'Original  Skin:  Flaying,  Reading  and  Thinking  in  the  Legend  of  Saint  Bartholomew  and  Other  

Works',  in  Journal  of  Medieval  and  Early  Modern  Studies,  Vol.  36,  No.  1,  (Winter  2006),  p.  47.  
88  
 
  

dissolved.193  The  sense  of  touch  is  the  first  of  the  senses  to  develop,  and  the  skin  is  the  
primary  point  of  intimate  contact  with  both  the  material  world  and  others.  This  primacy  
of  the  skin  and  the  haptic  sense  is  recalled  in  Paul  Valéry's  famous  dialogue,  in  which  he  
locates  the  most  significant  aspects  of  human  experiences  not  at  the  core,  but  at  the  
surface:  
 
That  which  is  most  profound  in  the  human  being  is  the  skin  [...]  The  marrow,  the  
brain,  all  these  things  we  require  in  order  to  feel,  suffer,  think  [...]  to  be  profound  
[...]  are  inventions  of  the  skin!  [...]  We  burrow  down  in  vain,  doctor,  we  are  [...]  
ectoderm.194  
 
  Claudia  Benthien  argues  that  this  conception  of  self  offered  by  Valéry  stands  in  
marked  contrast  with  the  dominant  trend  in  Western  thought  since  the  Renaissance,  
which  has  increasingly  located  the  'authentic'  or  'true'  self  beneath  the  surface  of  the  
body.  In  this  conception,  the  skin  is  imagined  as  'enclosing'  the  self  in  a  'protective  and  
sheltering  cover',  which  also  has  the  potential  to  be  'concealing  and  deceptive.'195  In  
parallel  the  skin  is  seen  as  a  surface  on  which  the  hidden  self  may  be  read,  through  a  
range  of  affective  physiological  reactions  such  as  blanching,  blushing  and  perspiring.  
She  contrasts  this  view  with  understandings  in  which  the  skin  is  equated  with  the  
person  and  the  body  surface  is  not  a  rigid  boundary  but  a  porous  one.  Archaic  language  
reflects  this  association  between  self  and  surface  in  metonymic  expressions  such  as  
'nasty  skin'  or  'decent  skin',  in  which  the  skin  is  equated  with  the  whole  person.196  As  
art  historian  Daniela  Bohde  writes,  'skin  appears  in  these  expressions  as  something  
intimate  or  as  something  superficial;  often  it  refers  to  life  or  to  the  actual  person.'197    
  These  shifting  conceptions  of  self  and  skin  are  of  central  importance  to  a  
discussion  of  the  symbolism  of  flaying  in  literature  and  the  visual  arts.  However,  these  
conceptions  are  both  fluid  and  conflicting;  in  the  context  of  the  arts  of  the  sixteenth  
century,  for  example,  Bohde  argues  that  the  act  of  flaying  throws  the  identity  of  the  
central  flayed  figure  into  question  in  contradictory  ways,  since  'on  the  one  hand  skin  is  
presented  as  a  bearer  of  identity,  on  the  other  it  appears  as  a  covering,  concealing  the  
'real'  identity.'198  She  also  cautions  that  notions  of  identity  and  the  self  are  subject  to  

                                                                                                               
193  Claudia  Benthien,  Skin.  On  the  Cultural  Border  Between  Self  and  the  World  (New  York:  Columbia  

University  Press,  2002),  pp.  1-­‐15.  

194  Paul  Valéry,  'L'idée  fixe;  ou,  Deux  hommes  à  la  mer',  in  Oeuvres  complètes  (Paris:  Gallimard,  Pléiade,  

1957),  pp.  215-­‐216.  

195  Benthien,  Skin,  p.  17.  
196  Ibid.,  p.  18.  
197  Daniela  Bohde,  'Skin  and  the  Search  for  the  Interior:  The  Representation  of  Flaying  in  the  Art  and  

Anatomy  of  the  Cinquecento',  in  Florike  Egmond  and  Robert  Zwijnenberg  (eds.),  Bodily  Extremities.  
Preoccupations  with  the  Human  Body  in  Early  Modern  European  Culture  (London:  Ashgate,  2003),  p.  11.  
198  Ibid.  

89  
 
  

historical  and  cultural  change  and  variation  and  should  not  be  projected  onto  historical  
art  and  literature.  199  
  Before  discussing  the  various  historical  representations  of  flaying,  it  is  worth  
first  considering  the  structure  and  substance  of  the  skin  itself.  The  word  dermis  is  
derived  from  the  Greek  derein,  meaning  to  flay,  hence  modern  anatomical  terminology  
for  the  skin  structure  retains  an  etymological  trace  of  the  practice  of  flaying,  which  was  
both  significant  in  myth  as  well  as  a  necessary  part  of  medical  dissection  and  the  
production  of  anatomical  knowledge.  Related  terms  for  other  layers  of  the  skin  can  thus  
be  regarded  as  having  their  roots  in  relation  to  this  central  layer,  which  was  the  locus  of  
flaying  in  the  production  of  animal  leathers  and  flayed  human  skins  alike;  epidermis  
(upon  the  flay)  and  hypodermis  (beneath  the  flay)200:    
 
Probing  beneath  the  epidermis,  we  reach  the  second  of  the  skin's  two  primary  
layers,   a   thick   layer   of   dense   connective   tissue   called   the   dermis.   This   is   the  
layer   that   really   imparts   toughness   to   skin.   It   is   pliable,   elastic,   and   has  
considerable  tensile  strength.  Most  of  the  thickness  of  our  skin   -­‐  and  most  of  the  
thickness  of  the  hide  of  any  animal  -­‐  comes  from  the  dermis.201    
 
Modern  anatomy  describes  human  skin  in  terms  of  a  laminar,  or  layered,  structure  with  
distinct  boundaries  between  layers.  For  example,  the  dermis  is  described  as  a  layer  
separate  from  the  fatty  hypodermis  beneath,  despite  the  fact  that  the  hypodermis  has  a  
multifolded  or  'invaginated'  structure.  This  internal  'folding'  of  the  fatty  and  connective  
tissue  into  the  dermis  makes  the  'boundary'  between  the  dermis  and  the  hypodermis  
quite  indistinct,  even  under  a  microscope.  In  keeping  with  the  etymological  structure  of  
skin,  it  is  nevertheless  at  this  ambiguous  boundary  that  the  skins  and  hides  of  animals  
are  separated  in  the  manufacture  of  leather  and  furs.    
  The  flayed  skin  may  in  itself  be  regarded  as  a  kind  of  'double',  a  paradoxical  
surface  with  two  sides:  The  outer,  sensitive  skin  surface,  which  functions  as  both  a  
communicative  sensory  medium  and  a  protective  physiological  barrier  that  contains  the  
self;  and  the  fleshy  'inside',  whose  depth  and  limits  are  not  merely  a  matter  of  the  
demarcation  of  multiple  layers  of  tissue,  but  whose  symbolic  reach  extends  into  
complex  and  contradictory  notions  of  selfhood  and  interiority.  Flaying  thus  destroys  the  
individual  both  through  the  violent  tearing  away  of  the  protective  outer  layer  of  the  
physiological  body,  and  by  enacting  an  irreversible  splitting  of  the  self,  reducing  the  
integrity  of  the  interior  to  a  single,  inverted  layer.  Somewhat  surprisingly,  this  'inside'  
                                                                                                               
199  Ibid.,  p.  14.  
200  R.  Reed,  Ancient  Skins,  Parchments  and  Leathers  (London  and  New  York:  Seminar  Press,  1972),  p.  16.  
201  Nina  G.  Jablonski,  Skin,  A  Natural  History  (Berkley  and  Los  Angeles:  University  of  California  Press,  2006),  

p.  15.  
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layer  of  the  separated,  flayed  skin  has  not  received  much  attention  in  discussions  of  the  
iconography  and  practice  of  flaying,  with  most  analyses  focussing  on  the  'empty'  skin,  
usually  depicted  in  the  visual  arts  as  a  bloodless,  hollow  casing;  or  on  the  exposed  
muscular  body  beneath  the  skin.  However,  a  number  of  paintings  from  the  seventeenth  
and  eighteenth  centuries  which  deal  with  mythical  themes  of  flaying  seem  to  address  
the  interiority  of  the  flayed  skin  itself,  to  which  I  will  return.  
  Accounts  of  flaying  alive  go  back  to  ancient  mythology  and  literature.  Most  
prominently,  Ovid's  Metamorphoses  contains  two  iconic  episodes  of  skin  removal,  which  
have  had  significant  influence  upon  European  imagery  and  narratives  involving  flaying.  
Steven  Connor  identifies  the  conception  of  wholeness  as  being  at  the  core  of  the  ancient  
Greeks'  preoccupation  with  the  skin,  in  which  the  various  animal  and  human  hides  of  
Greek  myth  are  typically  endowed  with  supernatural  or  healing  powers:  
 
The   flayed   or   abstracted   skin   was   the   object   of   fascinated   attention   for   the  
Greeks,  and  was  often  the  bearer  of  specific  powers.  The  skin  was  not  so  much  
the  principle  of  identity  as  that  of  entirety.  You  could  be  made  more  entire,  more  
yourself,  by  taking  on  another’s  skin.202  
 
  This  conception  of  the  magical  'doubling'  of  one's  own  skin  through  the  fatal  
flaying  of  another,  is  a  recurrent  theme  within  mythology,  as  well  in  some  historical  
accounts  in  which  the  flayed  skin  has  been  kept  as  a  trophy,  or  worn  for  it's  perceived  
magical  or  healing  properties.  Of  the  two  ancient  Greek  sources  that  deal  with  the  flayed  
skin  and  its  double,  the  myth  of  Marsyas  is  perhaps  the  most  resonant,  and  became  a  
popular  theme  within  the  visual  arts  from  the  sixteenth  century  onwards.  I  will  return  
to  Marsyas  and  his  representations  shortly;  but  first  I  will  briefly  consider  the  second  
myth,  the  Tunic  of  Nessus,  which  principally  concerns  Heracles  and  Deianira.  According  
to  Ovid's  account  in  his  Metamorphoses  (Book  IX),  Heracles  takes  Deianira  as  his  wife  
after  slaying  the  Lernaean  Hydra,  and  travels  with  her  to  Tiryns.  On  the  way,  the  
centaur  Nessus  offers  to  help  Deianira  across  the  fast-­‐flowing  river  Evenus,  whilst  
Heracles  swims  across.  When  Nessus  attempts  to  carry  her  off,  Heracles  fatally  shoots  
him  with  an  arrow  poisoned  with  the  blood  of  the  Hydra.  Dying  and  determined  to  seek  
revenge,  Nessus  offers  his  blood-­‐soaked  tunic  to  Deianira  as  a  gift,  telling  her  that  it  will  
act  as  a  charm  against  all  infidelity  on  the  part  of  her  husband.  Naively,  Deianira  takes  
the  gift.  Later,  when  she  fears  that  Heracles  has  fallen  in  love  with  Iole,  she  recalls  
Nessus'  promise  and  sends  the  herald  Lichas  to  deliver  the  shirt  to  her  husband.  But  
when  Heracles  puts  the  tunic  on,  the  poisoned  blood  burns  into  his  skin:  

                                                                                                               
202  Steven  Connor,  The  Book  of  Skin  (London:  Reaktion  Books,  2004),  p.  10  

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He  attempts  to  tear  off  the  deadly  garment;  but  where  it  is  torn  off,  it  tears  away  
the   skin,   and   [...]   either   sticks   to   his   limbs,   being   tried   in   vain   to   be   pulled   off,   or  
it  lays  bear  his  mangled  limbs,  and  his  huge  bones.203    
 
Heracles  is  flayed  alive  by  this  second  skin;  the  only  escape  from  his  torment  is  to  
immolate  himself  on  a  funeral  pyre,  which  he  sets  light  to  himself.  Heracles'  horrific  
death  through  malicious  flaying  and  immolation  results  in  his  beatification  and  
ascendance  to  the  pantheon  of  gods  at  Jupiter's  behest.  Whilst  the  bloody  tunic  is  the  
instrument  of  Heracles'  agonising  death,  a  doubling  of  his  skin  that  destroys  rather  than  
fortifies,  the  act  of  flaying  in  this  myth  also  functions  as  symbol  of  immortality  through  
Heracles'  resurrection  as  a  god.204  Thus  the  poisoned  tunic  in  this  narrative  represents  a  
reversal  of  the  flayed  skin's  power  to  reinforce  or  make  the  wearers  skin  more  entire  or  
'whole'.    
  A  belief  in  the  fortifying  or  healing  power  of  the  flayed  skin  recurs  in  ancient  
ritual  practice,205  as  well  as  in  European  folk  medicine,  practiced  right  up  to  the  middle  
of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  his  seminal  book  The  Skin  Ego,  psychoanalyst  Didier  
Anzieu  articulates  the  conception  of  the  flayed  skin  as  a  symbol  of  immortality  and  
resurrection  in  reference  to  the  myth  of  Marsyas.  In  this  narrative,  the  satyr  Marsyas  
picks  up  the  reed  pipes  or  aulos  fashioned  by  Athene,  and  produces  such  beautiful  
music  with  it  that  all  the  peasants  in  Phrygia  are  delighted  by  it:  
 
They   cried   out   that   Apollo   himself   could   not   have   made   better   music,   even   on  
his   lyre,  and  Marsyas   was  foolish   enough   not   to   contradict   them.   This,   of   course,  
provoked   the   anger   of   Apollo,   who   invited   him   to   a   contest,   the   winner   of   which  
should   inflict   whatever   punishment   he   pleased   on   the   loser.   Marsyas   consented,  
and  Apollo  impanelled  the  Muses  as  a  jury.  The  contest  proved  an  equal  one,  the  
Muses  being  charmed  by  both  instruments,  until  Apollo  cried  out  to  Marsyas:  'I  
challenge  you  to  do  with  your  instrument  as  much  as  I  can  do  with  mine.  Turn  it  
upside   down,   and   both   play   and   sing   at   the   same   time.'   This,   with   a   flute,   was  
manifestly   impossible,   and   Marsyas   failed   to   meet   the   challenge.   But   Apollo  
reversed   his   lyre,   and   sang   such   delightful   hymns   in   honour   of   the   Olympian  
gods  that  the  Muses  could  not  do  less  than  give  the  verdict  in  his  favour.206  
 
Having  thus  defeated  Marsyas  in  the  contest,  Apollo  cruelly  flays  him  alive  as  a  
punishment  for  his  hubris.  He  then  either  hangs  or  nails  the  hollowed  out  skin  to  a  tree,  
depending  upon  the  account.  When  preserved  intact  in  this  manner,  this  empty  

                                                                                                               
203  Ovid,  The  Metamorphoses,  trans.  Henry  T.  Riley  (London:  George  Bell  and  Son,  1908),  p.  173.  
204  There  are  also  interesting  parallels  between  the  death  of  Heracles,  who  is  a  demi-­‐god,  and  Christ  and  the  

crucifixion;  both  follow  similar  narrative  structures  involving  deception,  physical  ordeal,  death  and  their  
subsequent  resurrection  and  beatification.  
205  For  example,  the  life-­‐death-­‐rebirth  deity  of  Aztec  mythology  and  religion,  Xipe  Totec,  was  typically  

represented  as  the  flayed  god,  to  whom  human  sacrifices  of  ritual  flaying  were  made.  
206  Robert  Graves,  The  Greek  Myths  (London  and  New  York:  Penguin,  2011),  p.  77.  

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envelope  of  flesh,  according  to  Anzieu,  becomes  invested  with  the  symbolism  of  
resurrection:    
 
the   skin   that   has   been   torn   from   the   body,   if   it   is   preserved   whole,   represents  
the   protective   envelope,   the   shield,   which   one   must   take   from   the   other   in  
phantasy  either  to  simply  have  it  for  oneself,  or  to  duplicate  and  reinforce  one's  
own  skin.207  (my  emphasis).    
 
  Classical  sources  recount  the  preservation  of  Marsyas'  intact  skin  into  historic  
times.  It  was  said  to  have  hung  in  a  cave  where  the  river  Marsyas  rises,  at  the  foot  of  the  
citadel  of  Celaenae.  Anzieu  tells  us  that  the  flayed  hide  of  Marsyas  remained  'sensitive'  
to  the  sound  of  the  river  and  the  music  of  the  Phrygians,  which  'made  it  quiver',208  
suggesting  that  the  skin  possessed  a  latent  power  of  reanimation.  Indeed,  he  describes  
the  skin  as  a  powerful  symbol  of  the  resurrection  of  the  hanged  and  flayed  Phrygian  
god.  
  Renaissance  interpretations  of  the  myth,  known  through  Ovid,  often  carried  an  
unambiguous  moral  meaning,  in  which  the  god  Apollo  justifiably  punishes  Marsyas  as  
an  impudent  challenger.  Writing  on  pictorial  art  of  the  Cinquecento,  Daniela  Bohde  
notes  that  representations  of  flayed  bodies  increased  in  popularity  from  the  mid-­‐
sixteenth  century  onwards.  In  keeping  with  Renaissance  moral  themes,  the  god  was  
frequently  represented  as  a  'radiant  victor',  who  triumphs  over  the  'wild  satyr',  thus  
establishing  a  moral  context  '  in  which  culture,  wisdom  and  justice  have  been  
juxtaposed  against  barbarism,  stupidity  and  an  overestimation  of  self.'209  In  addition,  
Bohde  highlights  the  relationship  between  the  artistic  engagement  with  these  myths  
and  anatomical  illustrations  and  practices:  
 
These   were   usually   either   the   silen   Marsyas   flayed   by   Apollo,   or   St  
Bartholomew,   but   many   anatomical   illustrations   emerged   at   the   time   of  
dissected,   skinless   écorchés   whose   bodies   give   the   impression   of   still   being  
alive.   Yet   partly   skinned   corpses   were,   in   fact,   exhibited.   They   were   displayed  
during   ceremonial   dissections   held   in   the   universities   which   excited  
considerable  public  interest.'210  
 
Claudia  Benthien  contends  that  flaying  became  a  popular  iconographic  theme  during  
this  period  in  part  due  to  the  development  of  anatomy,  and  in  part  because  of  strong  

                                                                                                               
207  Didier  Anzieu,  The  Skin  Ego  (London  and  New  Haven:  Yale  University  Press,  1989),  pp.  50-­‐51.  Relating  

to  the  flayed  skin  as  trophy  Anzieu  also  introduces  an  important  theme  relevant  to  the  collecting  of  human  
skin,  to  which  I  will  return  later  in  this  chapter.  
208  Ibid.,  p.  52  
209  Ibid.  
210  Daniela  Bohde,  'Skin  and  the  Search  for  the  Interior’,  pp.  10-­‐11.  

93  
 
  

associations  with  penal  torture.  According  to  this  assessment,  flaying  represented  a  
'synthesis  of  the  most  extreme  form  of  capital  punishment  (torture)  and  the  medical  
production  of  knowledge.'211  This  observation  seems  particularly  relevant  to  an  
assessment  of  Dirck  van  Baburen's  c.  1623  painting  The  Flaying  of  Marsyas  (Figure  71),  
in  which  the  figure  of  Apollo  is  depicted  making  the  first  incision  to  Marsyas'  tethered  
leg,  cutting  the  skin  with  a  knife  in  one  hand  and  peeling  it  back  with  the  other.  Apollo's  
gaze  is  fixed  in  rapt  concentration  on  the  task  before  him,  his  expression  almost  one  of  
sadistic  delight.  In  this  painting,  Apollo  actively  participates  in  the  punishment  and  
torture  of  Marsyas,  whilst  appearing  to  adopt  the  curious  gaze  of  the  anatomist  who  
probes  beneath  the  surface  of  the  body  in  the  pursuit  of  medical  knowledge.    
  In  some  visual  representations  of  the  myth,  the  flayed  skin  is  addressed  through  
more  symbolic  means  in  the  clothing  of  Apollo.  In  Jusepe  de  Ribera's  1637  painting  
Apollo  and  Marsyas,  for  example,  it  is  the  interior  of  the  flayed  skin  that  seems  to  be  the  
main  theme  of  the  work  (Figure  72).  The  central  figures  of  Apollo  and  Marsyas  are  
compositionally  arranged  in  a  manner  similar  to  Baburen's  painting;  Apollo  is  in  the  
process  of  peeling  the  skin  from  Marsyas'  thigh,  the  raw  interior  of  the  skin  exposed  as  
he  tears  it  away  from  the  muscle  with  his  left  hand.  The  vivid  red  colour  of  the  fleshy  
inside  of  Marsyas'  skin  is  matched  in  Apollo's  cloak,  which  appears  almost  to  merge  
with  the  fresh  wound,  billowing  up  from  the  satyr's  body  and  enveloping  the  god.  The  
cloak  both  separates  and  unites  the  figures,  standing  in  bright  contrast  to  the  subtler  
hues  of  their  skin  -­‐  but  it  also  prefigures  the  stripped,  inverted  skin  of  Marsyas  clothing  
Apollo.  Thus  the  cloak  in  this  image  seems  to  stand  for  the  'doubled'  skin;  in  taking  
possession  of  Marsyas'  hide  Apollo's  authority  is  strengthened  and  his  own  skin  is  
symbolically  reinforced.  Furthermore,  the  raw  and  inverted  skin  suggested  by  the  red  
cloak  powerfully  evokes  Marsyas'  vulnerability  and  shame:  a  'more-­‐than-­‐naked'212  
exposure  that  will  destroy  him.  This  motif  also  appears  in  Antonio  de  Bellis'  The  Flaying  
of  Marsyas  by  Apollo,  (c.1637-­‐1640,  Figure  73),  and  one  of  the  relatively  rare  
eighteenth-­‐century  paintings  engaging  with  the  myth:  Carle  Van  Loo's  Marsyas  Flayed  
by  the  Order  of  Apollo  (1735,  Figure  74).  In  the  latter  painting,  Apollo  does  not  
participate  directly  in  the  flaying,  but  his  otherwise  naked  body  is  draped  in  a  vivid  red  
cloak,  which  appears  almost  to  peel  away  from  his  radiant  skin.  The  figure  of  Apollo  
here  thus  presents  both  sides  of  the  flayed  skin  to  the  viewer  simultaneously,  
anticipating  the  torture  to  which  the  horrified  Marsyas  will  soon  be  subjected.  

                                                                                                               
211  Benthien,  Skin,  p.  63.  
212  Ibid.,  p.  71.  

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  Early  anatomical  illustrations  representing  the  écorché  employed  quite  

different  associations  with  the  flayed  skin,  alluding  to  the  martyrdom  of  Christian  
saints.  Several  saints  were  believed  to  have  been  martyred  through  flaying  alive,  though  
the  death  of  Saint  Bartholomew  is  one  of  the  earliest  and  best-­‐known  biblical  references  
to  flaying  as  a  form  of  both  corporal  punishment  and  an  act  of  martyrdom.  In  this  
legend,  the  Armenian  king  Astyages  ordered  Bartholomew  executed  for  converting  his  
brother  Polimius  to  the  Christian  faith.  Whilst  there  are  varying  accounts  as  to  the  
precise  manner  of  his  death,213  his  flaying  alive  is  the  version  that  has  most  endured  
through  representations  in  art  and  literature.  Michelangelo's  fresco  The  Last  Judgement  
(1537-­‐1541)  on  the  alter  wall  of  the  Sistine  Chapel  depicts  Bartholomew,  presenting  his  
flayed  skin  to  God  as  proof  of  his  martyrdom  (Figure  75).  A  number  of  relics  of  
Bartholomew  were  said  to  have  existed  in  the  Cathedral  of  Saint  Bartholomew  the  
Apostle  in  Lipari,  including  a  large  piece  of  his  flayed  skin,  and  he  is  remembered  today  
as  the  patron  Saint  of  tanners,  leather-­‐workers,  parchment-­‐makers  and  book-­‐binders,  
all  professions  which  have  close  affinities  with  the  skin,  its  removal  and  preservation.  In  
her  discussion  of  medieval  parchment  texts,  historian  Sarah  Kay  notes  that  most  
medieval  narratives  that  involve  flaying  have  their  origins  in  antiquity;  however,  there  
are  occurrences  of  flaying  as  a  form  of  execution  in  medieval  law,  to  which  I  will  return.  
  During  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  the  iconographies  of  the  flaying  
of  Bartholomew  and  Marsyas  also  made  their  way  into  anatomical  illustration.  On  the  
other  hand,  Renaissance  artists  in  particular  were  enthusiastic  about  the  value  of  
anatomy  to  their  work;  some  of  them  (such  as  Leonardo  and  Michelangelo)  carried  out  
their  own  dissections,  and  the  removal  of  the  skin  to  study  the  external  musculature  
was  also  associated  with  anatomical  instruction  of  the  art  academies  that  formed  after  
the  second  half  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Similarly,  the  'increasingly  visual  orientation  of  
anatomists  required  the  cooperation  of  artists',  who  made  significant  contributions  to  
important  anatomy  atlases.214  Perhaps  the  most  striking  example  of  an  anatomical  
illustration  that  also  draws  on  the  iconography  of  Bartholomew,  is  the  1559  engraving  
by  Spanish  artist  Gasparo  Becerra,  which  appeared  in  Juan  Valverde's  Anatomia  del  
corpo  humano  composto,  a  vernacular  adaptation  of  Andreas  Vesalius’  famous  De  
humani  fabrica  (1543).  In  this  image,  an  écorché  holds  up  his  flayed  skin  in  one  hand  
and  a  knife  in  the  other,  appearing  to  have  flayed  himself  (Figure  76);  thus  employing  a  
popular  motif  in  anatomical  illustrations  of  the  period,  in  which  'the  fatality  of  the  

                                                                                                               
213  In  some  accounts,  Bartholomew  is  beaten  unconscious  and  thrown  into  the  sea  to  drown;  in  others  he  is  

crucified  upside  down;  elsewhere  he  is  flayed  alive.  

214  Bohde,  'Skin  and  the  Search  for  the  Interior',  p.  20.  

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flaying  and  the  function  of  the  skin  to  keep  the  body  together  [are]  negated.'215  The  
figure's  gesture  of  holding  up  his  skin  bears  marked  parallels  with  Michelangelo’s  fresco  
of  Saint  Bartholomew  in  the  Sistine  Chapel.  Resonating  with  the  anatomical  
interpretations  of  the  flaying  of  Bartholomew  is  Melchior  Meier's  Apollo  with  the  Flayed  
Marsyas  of  1581,  in  which  Apollo  takes  on  the  characteristic  pose  of  Bartholomew,  skin  
and  knife  in  hand,  and  Marsyas  appears  as  anonymous  écorché  (Figure  77).  In  this  
illustration,  Bohde  identifies  the  main  theme  as  the  separation  of  the  skin  from  the  
body:  
 
In   tearing   the   skin   away   from   the   body   of   muscles,   [Marsyas']   identity   is  
destroyed,   he   is   no   longer   a   recognisable   mythological   figure,   but   instead   a  
nameless  écorché.216    
 
The  god  Apollo,  in  full  possession  of  the  skin,  which  he  holds  up  to  a  group  of  onlookers,  
appears  to  have  further  empowered  himself  in  the  destruction  of  the  satyr's  identity.  
The  skin,  hanging  limply  from  his  hand,  is  indistinguishable  from  the  cloak  draped  
about  his  shoulders,  appearing  as  both  trophy  and  garment.    
  Ribera's  The  Martyrdom  of  Saint  Bartholomew  similarly  depicts  the  saint  bound  
to  a  tree  by  wrists  and  ankle,  as  his  torturer  strips  the  skin  from  his  arm,  outstretched  
towards  the  heavens  (Figure  78).  The  composition  is  also  strikingly  similar  to  many  
early  modern  representations  of  the  flaying  of  Marsyas  by  the  god  Apollo,  which  
frequently  portray  the  inverted  figure  of  Marsyas  tethered  hand  and  foot  to  a  tree.  This  
is  despite  the  accounts  in  classical  sources  locating  the  flaying  as  having  taken  place  in  a  
cave  near  Celaenae.  It  is  only  after  the  satyr  is  flayed  that  the  sloughed  skin  is  nailed  to  a  
pine  tree  by  Apollo  for  all  to  see.  It  may  be  that  the  image  of  the  skin  pinned  to  a  tree,  as  
a  public  display  of  the  consequences  of  challenging  a  god,  had  greater  resonance  for  
early  modern  artists,  since  it  incorporates  a  striking  visual  reference  to  the  Crucifixion.    
  If,  as  we  have  seen  in  the  ancient  Greek  myths  of  Heracles  and  Marsyas,  the  shed  
skin  holds  the  promise  of  renewal,  it  is  not  necessarily  for  the  rebirth  of  the  individual  
sacrificed  in  this  manner.  Rather,  the  ritual  or  punitive  flaying  of  an  individual  often  
serves  to  reinforce  the  status  or  power  of  a  broader  social  or  theistic  order.    The  old  
Persian  legend  of  Cambyses  and  the  flaying  of  Sisamnes  was  first  recorded  by  Heroditus  
in  his  Historiae,  and  later  reproduced  in  the  medieval  text  Gesta  Romanorum,  published  
in  several  editions  from  the  late  fifteenth  century  and  combining  oriental,  legendary  

                                                                                                               
215  Ibid.,  p.  34.  
216  Ibid.,  p.  25.  

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and  classical  fables.217  In  the  case  of  Sisamnes,  the  corrupt  Persian  judge  who  was  flayed  
alive  by  King  Cambyses,  we  see  an  exemplary  punishment  meted  out  as  a  consequence  
of  Sisamnes'  transgression  of  the  judicial  social  order.  The  skin  in  this  story  functions  as  
a  text,  which  in  its  refashioning  into  the  seat  of  judgement  on  which  his  successor  and  
son  must  sit,  acts  as  a  reminder  of  his  father's  transgression  and  punishment.  Though  
dead,  the  flayed  skin  still  registers  of  the  memory  of  the  father's  suffering  and  
punishment;  blank,  dehumanised  and  mute  by  virtue  of  having  his  identity  literally  
stripped  away,  Sisamnes'  skin  nevertheless  retains  the  power  to  'speak'  on  the  part  of  
the  court  who  condemned  him,  as  through  an  act  of  penitential  ventriloquism.    
  Gerard  David’s  fifteenth-­‐century  diptych  paintings  The  Judgement  of  Cambyses  
(Figure  79)  and  The  Flaying  of  Sisamnes  (Figure  80),  depict  the  arrest  and  subsequent  
gruesome  punishment  of  the  corrupt  judge.  Paintings  of  this  type  were  often  displayed  
in  Dutch  and  German  town  halls  during  the  early  modern  period,  and  these  two  were  
hung  in  the  alderman's  chambers  of  the  Town  Hall  of  Bruges.218  In  the  first  painting  we  
see  Sisamnes  seated  on  the  judicial  chair  wearing  his  robes  of  office,  as  King  Cambyses  
accuses  him.  A  guard  takes  him  by  the  arm,  and  in  the  background  the  figure  of  
Sisamnes  can  be  seen  accepting  a  bag,  presumably  the  bribe  which  has  undone  him.  On  
the  wall  on  either  side  of  the  judicial  bench,  are  two  roundels,  which  appear  to  depict  
scenes  from  Ovid's  Metamorphoses.  The  left  image  portrays  the  figures  of  Deianira  and  
Heracles,  referring  to  the  poisoned  tunic  of  Nessus  and  invoking  the  themes  of  revenge  
and  betrayal.  The  image  of  the  right  appears  to  show  a  bound  Marsyas  tied  to  a  tree,  
alongside  whom  stands  a  female  figure,  who  is  perhaps  an  epicene  of  Apollo.  Thus  both  
of  the  iconic  Greek  flaying  myths  appear  within  the  first  painting.  
  In  the  second  painting,  we  see  the  grimacing  figure  of  Sisamnes  laid  out  on  a  
table  which  is  highly  reminiscent  of  the  anatomists'  slab,  suggesting  a  striking  
relationship  between  anatomy  theatre  and  corporal  punishment.  Cambyses  presides  
over  the  execution,  as  four  flayers  set  to  work  on  Sisamnes'  body.  His  judicial  robes,  
stripped  from  his  body,  lay  crumpled  beneath  the  table,  echoing  the  removal  of  the  skin,  
and  referencing  the  poisoned  Tunic  of  Nessus  -­‐  tainted  as  Sisamnes  has  tainted  the  
cause  of  justice  -­‐  which  once  removed,  will  strip  away  the  skin  with  it.  The  raw  red  
sinew  beneath  the  skin  of  one  leg  is  exposed,  the  colour  mirrored  in  the  discarded  robe;  
thus  the  red  garment  in  this  context  also  seems  to  refer  to  the  inverted  skin.  The  
removal  of  the  skin  in  David's  painting  is  employed  as  a  motif  which  re-­‐inscribes  the  
authoritative  power  of  the  social  order  over  the  individual  who  has  transgressed  that  

                                                                                                               
217  Robert  Mills,  Suspended  Animation  (London:  Reaktion  Books,  2005),  p.  59.  
218  The  two  paintings  discussed  here  are  now  in  the  Groeningemuseum  in  Bruges,  Belgium.  

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order.  According  to  the  historical  account  of  Herodotus,  following  his  execution  by  
flaying  alive,  a  seat  was  fashioned  from  Sisamnes’  tanned  skin,  on  which  his  successor  
would  sit  in  judgement:  
 
After   he   had   torn   away   the   skin   he   cut   leathern   thongs   out   of   it   and   stretched  
them   across   the   seat   where   Sisamnes   had   been   wont   to   sit   to   give   judgement;  
and   having   stretched   them   in   the   seat,   Cambyses   appointed   the   son   of   that  
Sisamnes   whom   he   had   slain   and   flayed,   to   be   judge   instead   of   his   father,  
enjoining  him  to  remember  in  what  seat  he  was  sitting  to  give  judgement.219    
 
  In  the  background  of  the  second  painting,  we  see  the  judicial  bench  hung  with  
the  disgraced  judge's  tanned  skin,  a  permanent  reminder  of  the  consequences  of  abuse  
of  office  (Figure  80).  Rather  than  a  symbol  of  resurrection,  here  we  see  that  the  skin  
has  become  a  kind  of  trophy-­‐object  through  its  re-­‐fashioning  into  an  object  of  everyday  
use.  The  particular  significance  of  the  judiciary  chair  further  invests  the  skin  as  relic  of  
legal  and  monastic  power  and  authority:  'the  inscription  of  the  law  is  incarnated  in  the  
skin,  which  is  taken  from  the  individual  and  placed  in  the  possession  of  public  order.'220  
In  this  work  and  others,  such  as  the  various  depictions  of  the  flaying  of  Marsyas,  it  is  
possible  to  see  how  the  skin  stands  in  metonymically  for  the  individuated  self.  Through  
the  removal  of  the  vital  physiological  and  social  barrier  of  the  skin,  the  social  order  re-­‐
asserts  itself  as  dominant:  
 
The  flaying  of  one  man  at  the  hands  of  others  seeks  to  restore  the  existing  order  
symbolically  through  the  use  of  the  most  extreme  means  [...]  The  act  of  flaying  
deprives  the  victims  of  their  identity  along  with  their  lives;  in  extinguishing  the  
skin,  it  obliterated  the  person.221    
 
  Benthien  ascribes  the  'intense  preoccupation'  with  the  theme  of  flaying  in  
sixteenth-­‐  and  seventeenth-­‐century  visual  arts  to  an  'epistemological  rupture  that  was  
triggered  by  the  emerging  discipline  of  anatomy.'222  In  both  Bohde’s  and  Benthien's  
analyses  of  representations  of  the  myth,  connections  may  be  drawn  between  Apollo  and  
the  anatomist,  who  is  often  depicted  as  taking  great  interest  in  the  act  of  flaying,  as  
though  fascinated.  Indeed,  the  flaying  of  Marsyas  almost  seems  a  natural  episode  from  
classical  literature  to  invoke  for  the  purposes  of  scientific  anatomy;  even  Ovid's  

                                                                                                               
219  Herodotus,  The  History  of  Herodotus,  Volume  2,  Book  V,  trans.  George  Campbell  Macaulay  (A  Public  

Domain  Book:  Digital,  2010),  pp.  191-­‐95  

220  Benthien,  Skin,  p.  72.  
221  Ibid.,  p.  72.  
222  Ibid,,  p.  63.  

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description  of  the  scene  betrays  a  kind  of  anatomist's  gaze,  which  lays  bare  the  
sensitive,  palpitating  viscera  exposed  beneath  Marsyas'  flayed  skin:  
 
‘Why,’  said  he,  ‘art  thou  tearing  me  from  myself?’  [...]  As  he  shrieked  aloud,  his  
skin  was  stript  off  from  the  surface  of  his  limbs,  nor  was  he  aught  but  one  entire  
wound.   Blood   is   flowing   on   every   side;   the   nerves,   exposed,   appear,   and   the  
quivering   veins   throb   without   any   skin.   You   might   have   numbered   his  
palpitating  bowels,  and  the  transparent  lungs  within  his  breast."223  
 
Flaying  in  Law  and  Practice    
 
Despite  the  apparently  extreme  nature  of  the  episodes  outlined  above,  similar  practices  
did  take  place  from  medieval  times  and  well  into  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  
centuries.  Various  artefacts  have  been  manufactured  from  the  skins  of  executed  
criminals  during  the  modern  period,  and  in  particular,  numerous  books  bound  in  the  
skins  of  executed  criminals  still  survive.  There  are  also  a  significant  number  of  historical  
references  to  medieval  punitive  flaying  in  England  and  France.  The  most  frequently  
recounted  incidents  concern  the  English  practice  of  flaying  those  who  were  found  guilty  
of  committing  sacrilege.  The  flayed  skins  of  the  malefactors  were  then  nailed  to  church  
doors  as  a  warning  to  invaders  or  heretics,  in  a  manner  somewhat  reminiscent  of  
Marsyas'  skin,  which  was  nailed  to  a  tree.  In  1848,  antiquarian  Albert  Way  wrote  of  the  
'strange  tradition'  that  'darkly  subsists  among  the  peasantry'  in  Hadstock  near  Essex,  
related  to  the  'cruel  and  summary  vengeance  there  supposed  to  have  been  inflicted  
upon  a  sacrilegious  Dane.'224  According  to  local  accounts,  a  Dane  had  been  flayed  as  a  
heretic  during  the  Norman  invasions,  and  his  skin  attached  to  the  north  door  of  the  
church  as  'a  ghastly  memorial  of  ecclesiastical  vengeance,  and  a  warning  to  all  who  
might  approach  the  church  with  like  unhallowed  attention.'225  Such  legends  were  not  
isolated  to  this  locality;  Way  also  recounts  an  entry  in  the  Catalogue  of  Antiquities  and  
Miscellaneous  Curiosities  of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries  of  London,  which  preserved  
within  their  collections  a  fragment  of  skin  taken  from  the  doors  of  Worcester  cathedral:  
 
A  portion  of  skin,  supposed  to  be  human,  according  to  the  tradition  that  a  man,  
who  had  stolen  the  sanctus-­‐bell  from  the  high-­‐altar  in  Worcester  cathedral,  had  
been   flayed,   and   his   skin   affixed   to   the   north   doors,   as   a   punishment   for   such  
sacrilege.  The  doors  having  been  removed,  are  now  to  be  seen  in  the  crypt  of  the  

                                                                                                               
223  Ovid,  Metamorphoses  ,  p.  121.  
224  Albert  Way,  'Some  Notes  on  the  Tradition  of  Flaying,  Inflicted  in  Punishment  of  Sacrilege;  The  Skin  of  the  

Offender  Being  Affixed  to  the  Church-­‐doors',  in  Archaeological  Journal  V  (1848),  p.  185.  
225  Ibid.  

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cathedral,  and  small  fragments  of  skin  may  still  be  seen  beneath  the  iron-­‐work  
with  which  they  are  strengthened.226  
 
  Way  goes  on  to  describe  how  he  himself  obtained  a  fragment  of  skin,  also  believed  to  
be  human,  which  had  been  found  attached  to  the  surface  of  the  north  doors  of  
Worcester  cathedral.  He  sent  the  fragment  to  John  Quekett,  the  then  Assistant  Curator  
of  the  Museum  of  the  Royal  College  of  Surgeons,  for  analysis,  and  received  the  following  
reply:  
 
I  have  carefully  examined  the  portion  of  skin  which  you  forwarded  to  me  for  my  
inspection,  and  beg  to  inform  you  that  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  that  it  is  human  
skin  [...]  A  section  of  the  specimen,  when  examined  with  a  power  of  a  hundred  
diameters,  shews  readily  that  it  is  skin,  and  two  hairs  which  grow  on  it  I  find  to  
be  human  hairs  [...]  The  hairs  of  the  human  subject  differ  greatly  from  those  of  
any  other  mammalian  animal,  and  the  examination  of  a  hair  alone,  without  the  
skin,  would  have  enabled  me  to  form  a  conclusion.227  
 
  Way  sent  on  a  further  two  samples  to  Quekket  for  ‘microscopial  analysis’,  taken  
from  separate  churches  in  Hadstock  and  Copford,  with  the  same  verdict  of  human  skin  
returned.  Although  the  covering  of  doors  with  leather  was  a  common  medieval  practice,  
many  modern  authors  consider  the  use  of  human  skin  for  this  purpose  to  be  
questionable.228  However,  M.  J.  Swanton  points  out  that  punitive  scalping  and  flaying  
were  known  from  the  tenth  century  onwards  in  England.  After  the  Conquest,  as  
concepts  of  treason  became  increasingly  important  in  the  developing  feudal  state,  these  
punishments  entered  into  punitive  codes  for  the  crime  of  lese-­‐majesty;  broadly  
conceived  during  this  period  to  embrace  concepts  of  breaking  faith  or  betrayal  of  trust  
in  any  sense.229  In  English  customary  laws  that  go  under  the  title  Leges  Henrici  Primi,  
any  man  found  guilty  of  murdering  his  lord:  
 
[...]  shall  be  condemned  to  scalping,  or  flaying  excoriatione  (or  disembowling  
evisceratione),  or  to  human  punishment  which  in  the  end  is  so  harsh  that  while  
ending  the  dreadful  agonies  of  his  torture  and  the  miseries  of  his  vile  manner  of  
death,  he  may  appear  to  have  yielded  up  his  wretched  life  before  he  won  an  end  
to  his  sufferings.230  
 
  It  is  perhaps  from  the  thirteenth-­‐century  English  Romance  Havelock  the  Dane  
that  stories  of  the  flayed  skins  of  Viking  invaders  being  pinned  to  church  doors  first  

                                                                                                               
226  Ibid.,  p.  186  (citation).  
227  Ibid.,  p.  187.  
228  Reed,  Ancient  Skins,  Parchments  and  Leathers,  p.  187.  
229  M.  J.  Swanton,  '"Dane-­‐Skins":  Excoriation  in  Early  England',  in  Folklore,  Vol.  87.,  No.  1,  (1976),  p.  21.  
230  Ibid.,  (citation).  

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found  inspiration.  In  this  narrative,  one  of  the  condemned,  'the  king's  own  friend',  Earl  
Goddard,  is  condemned  to  be  flayed  alive  for  his  treachery.231  Medieval  historian  W.  R.  J.    
Barron  notes  that  flaying  alive  held  a  particular  fascination  to  the  medieval  authors  of  
romance,  but  contends  that,  in  England  at  least,  flaying  was  an  exceptional  punishment  
meted  out  according  to  ancient  custom:  
 
In  the  English  romances,  so  often  based  on  French  originals,  flaying  alive  is  the  
characteristic   death   inflicted   on   Christian   knights   captured   by   giants,   pagans,  
Saracens   -­‐   an   indication   of   the   inherent   barbarity   of   their   traditional   foes;  
paradoxically,   it   is   also   the   death   thought   appropriate   to   giants,   pagans,  
Saracens   whenever   they   fall   into   the   hands   of   Christian   knights   -­‐   appropriate  
because  they  have  rebelled  against  God  or  know  nothing  of  Him.232    
   
Although  scalping  is  mentioned  in  the  Laws  of  King  Edmund  (AD939-­‐46)  as  a  penalty  
for  runaway  slaves  guilty  of  theft,  and  as  a  punishment  for  recidivists  under  the  Laws  of  
Canute  (AD1016-­‐35),  Barron  nevertheless  considers  that  in  the  English  context,  'flaying  
made  an  impression  upon  the  popular  imagination  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  
frequency.'233  Documented  cases  of  judicial  excoriation  in  England  are  indeed  rare;  in  
1176  the  king's  vice-­‐chancellor,  Adam,  was  condemned  for  treason  and  sentenced  to  be  
hanged  and  flayed,  but  managed  to  escape  his  fate  by  claiming  benefit  of  clergy.  Edward  
I's  treasurer,  Hugh  de  Cressingham,  was  not  so  lucky,  however  -­‐  after  the  battle  of  
Stirling  Bridge  in  1297,  the  victorious  Scots  took  the  body  of  their  enemy  and  'cut  his  
skin  into  small  pieces  -­‐  not  as  souvenirs,  but  in  contempt,  for  they  declared  he  was  not  
so  much  a  treasurer  as  a  traitor  to  the  king.'234    
  In  the  feudal  society  of  the  Middle  Ages,  treason  constituted  the  most  
fundamental  offence.  Plotting  the  death  of  the  sovereign,  counterfeiting  his  coinage  or  
falsifying  his  signature,  seducing  his  wife  or  the  wife  of  his  son  and  heir,  and  betraying  
the  realm  to  an  enemy,  were  all  considered  acts  of  treason,  since  they  constituted  both  a  
betrayal  of  trust  and  an  attack  on  the  State.235  These  crimes  thus  demanded  exemplary  
punishments,  such  as  hanging,  drawing,  quartering,  disembowelling  and  beheading.  
Although  flaying  alive  was  rare  even  as  an  exemplary  punishment,  Barron  notes  that,  in  
France  at  least,  'flaying  was  evidently  not  merely  a  means  of  inflicting  a  cruel  death  on  a  

                                                                                                               
231  Ibid.,  pp.  21-­‐22.  
232  W.  R.  J.  Barron,  'The  Penalties  for  Treason  in  Medieval  Life  and  Literature',  in  Journal  of  Medieval  History,  

Vol.  7,  No.  2,  (1981),  p.  193.  

233  Ibid.,  p.  191.  
234  Swanton,  '"Dane  Skins"',  p.  22.  
235  Barron,  'The  Penalties  for  Treason',  p.  187.  

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criminal,  but  of  marking  abhorrence  of  breaches  of  the  fundamental  bond  of  feudal  
society.'236    
  There  are  a  number  of  historical  cases  of  flaying  in  the  literature.  Philip  and  
Walter  de  Launoy  were  also  condemned  to  be  flayed  alive  'by  degrees'  in  1314,  
following  their  conviction  for  adultery  with  two  daughters-­‐in-­‐law  of  King  Philip  IV  of  
France.237  In  1366  the  chamberlain  of  Robert,  Count  of  Rouci,  betrayed  his  lord's  castle  
to  an  attacking  force,  and  was  partially  flayed  prior  to  being  executed  for  his  treachery.  
Another  episode  occurs  in  which  flaying  is  meted  out  as  an  act  of  popular  retribution:  
Guillaume  des  Baux,  prince  of  Orange,  was  seized  by  rioting  citizens  of  Avignon  during  
the  Albigensian  crusade  in  1218,  flayed  alive,  and  dismembered.238  In  this  and  other  
instances  occurring  in  France,  Barron  contends  that  'to  the  popular  imagination,  flaying  
was  a  fit  expression  of  hatred  of  and  contempt  for  a  noble  who  might  be  regarded  as  a  
traitor  to  a  cause  espoused  by  the  mob.'239  Punitive  incidences  of  excoriation,  though  no  
mere  fictional  horror  in  the  French  medieval  context,  would  rarely  have  been  witnessed  
as  a  real-­‐life  event.  Nevertheless,  flaying  seems  to  have  exerted  a  powerful  influence  in  
folk-­‐memory,  reflected  in  both  popular  medieval  romances  and  common  expressions  
such  as  crier  comme  si  l'on  vous  écorchait    ('shout  as  if  you  were  skinned').  In  England,  
the  enduring  power  of  flaying  as  a  particularly  cruel  and  iconic  punishment  is  reflected  
in  popular  accounts  of  the  'Dane  Skins'.  A  particularly  interesting  oral  account  was  
recorded  by  John  Throsby  in  Leicestershire  during  the  eighteenth  century,  in  which  
elements  borrowed  from  classical  myth  are  interwoven  into  the  tale:    
 
Almost  a  century  ago  a  shepherd  boy,  a  servant  to  one  Day,  a  farmer  of  
Sharnford,  folding  sheep  in  the  field  near  High-­‐Crofts  (ss?),  was  threatened  by  
some  villains,  if  he  did  not  leave  his  master's  doors  undone  (or  unmade)  at  
night,  they  would,  the  next  time  they  found  him  a-­‐folding,  skin  him  alive!  The  
boy,  however,  told  his  master,  and  he  was  kept  from  folding  for  some  time.  But  
going  again,  these  unparalleled  and  execrable  villains  skinned  the  boy  alive,  in  a  
hollow  place  in  the  field  near  High  Cross,  and  hung  up  his  skin  on  a  thorn.  The  
story  goes,  that  they  skinned  a  sheep  to  wrap  him  in;  the  boy  went  home  in  this  
woeful  condition,  and  expired  in  great  agonies.  This  story  most  old  people  
talked  of  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  have  lately  asked  an  old  man  of  Sharnford,  who  
relates  the  circumstance  as  above,  which  I  believe  to  be  real  facts.  -­‐  Mr.  Fowke  of  
Elmesthorpe.240  
 
                                                                                                               
236  Ibid.,  p.  192.  
237  Swanton,  '"Dane  Skins"',  p.  22.  
238  Achille  Luchaire,  Social  France  at  the  Time  of  Philip  Augustus,  trans.  Edward  Benjamin  Krehbiel  (New  

York:  Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  1912),  p.  272.  

239  Barron,  'The  Penalties  for  Treason',  p.  193.  
240  John  Throsby,  The  Supplementary  Volume  to  the  Leicestershire  Views:  Containing  A  Series  of  

Excursions  in  the  Year  1790,  to  the  Villages  and  Places  of  Note  in  the  County  (London:  J.  Nichols,  1790),  p.  
239.  
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The  hanging  of  a  shepherd  boy's  skin  from  a  thorn  is  reminiscent  of  Marsyas'  hide  hung  
from  a  tree  by  Apollo;  the  especially  cruel  act  of  sending  him  home  wrapped  in  a  
sheepskin  also  mockingly  recalls  the  myth  of  the  Golden  Fleece.    
  In  each  of  the  major  mythical  or  legendary  accounts  of  flaying  -­‐  Marsyas,  
Bartholomew  and  Sisamnes  -­‐  there  are  three  intersecting  themes  which  underpin  the  
ritual  punishment:  Firstly,  the  skin  is  flayed  from  the  entire  body  whilst  the  victim  is  
alive  in  a  public  spectacle  of  punishment;  secondly,  the  violent  tearing  away  of  the  skin  
is  both  a  symbolic  and  literal  act  of  destroying  the  self;  and  finally,  the  flayed  skin  is  
preserved,  either  as  a  trophy  of  punishment  and  justice;  or  as  a  symbol  of  martyrdom,  
and  therefore  immortality.  Whilst  the  symbolic  power  of  the  flayed  skin  has  great  
resonance  in  such  myths  and  morality  tales,  actual  historical  cases  of  execution  by  
flaying  alive  are  extremely  rare  and  tend  to  be  confined  to  the  Middle  Ages.  
  A  more  recent  case  was  reported  in  Mongolia  in  the  1920s,  however;  what  is  
even  more  surprising  about  this  incident,  which  would  be  otherwise  easy  to  dismiss  as  
a  legend  of  war,  is  that  the  entire  flayed  and  dried  skin  of  the  victim,  'Prince  
Khaisan/Chaisana'  is  preserved  to  this  day  in  the  National  Museum  in  Prague  (see  
Figure  81).  This  artefact  has  been  stored  in  the  museum's  collections  since  1981,  
having  originally  been  in  the  personal  possession  of  Václav  Kopecký,  an  army  
quartermaster  who  brought  it  from  Irkutsk  to  Prague  in  1920.  He  apparently  obtained  
it  from  Captain  Vasili  Bulatov  of  the  41st  Siberian  Rifle  Regiment,  during  military  service  
in  Siberia.  Bulatov  had  discovered  more  than  one  flayed  human  skin  in  the  course  of  his  
mission  to  negotiate  and  arrest  the  notorious  Mongolian  warlord  Dambiijantsan,  also  
known  as  Ja  Lama  (see  Figure  82).  Dambiijantsan  was  regarded  as  a  ruthless  warlord  
and  had  a  reputation  for  incredible  cruelty  and  brutality.  According  to  Czech  
anthropologist  Emanuel  Vlček:  
 
He  had  prisoner's  hearts  cut  out  or  had  them  skinned  alive.  He  frequently  
carried  out  torture  himself.  He  regarded  human  skins  as  ritual  objects  and  hung  
them  in  his  yurt  in  order  to  inspire  terror  in  his  visitors  and  subjects.241  
 
  In  1914,  Bulatov  was  under  orders  to  negotiate  with  Dambiijantsan  and  compel  
him  to  subordinate  himself  to  the  Russian  government;  if  he  disobeyed  he  was  to  place  
him  under  arrest.  Dambiijantsan  attempted  to  evade  Bulatov  and  was  seized  at  his  

                                                                                                               
241  Emanuel  Vlček,  'Kůže  stažená  z  živého  člověka.  Pozoruhodný  exponát  Národního  muzea',  in:  Vesmír  Vol.  

82,  únor  2003/02,  p.  94.  Translated  from  the  Czech:  

Nechával  je  bičovat,  tlouci  holemi,  zajatcům  dával  zaživa  vyříznout  srdce  nebo  je  nechal  stáhnout  z  kůže.  
Mučení  mnohdy  vykonával  sám.  Lidské  kůže  považoval  za  rituální  předměty,  visely  v  jeho  jurtě,  aby  naháněly  
hrůzu  návštěvníkům  a  poddaným.  
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home,  where  Bulatov  made  an  inventory  of  his  property  before  deporting  him  to  Russia.  
There  he  found  fifty  wooden  sticks  covered  in  human  blood  and  two  flayed  skins,  both  
of  which  he  kept  as  exhibits  which  could  be  used  in  court.  The  provenance  of  the  flayed  
skin  which  now  resides  in  the  National  Museum  of  Prague  is  described  only  through  the  
evidence  gathered  by  Bulatov  through  interviews  with  local  people  following  
Dambiijantsan's  arrest;  and  documentation  which  Václav  Kopecký  brought  to  Prague  
with  the  skin  itself.  Vlček  relates  the  story  as  follows:  
 
Prince  Dambiijantsan,  or  Ja  Lama,  had  a  disagreement  with  Prince  Khaisan,  his  
kinsman,  over  some  altogether  trifling  affair.  However,  they  fell  out  to  such  an  
extent  that  Ja  Lama  ordered  Khaisan's  imprisonment.  Khaisan's  mother  knew  of  
Ja  Lama's  cruelty  and  therefore  she  immediately  sent  to  plead  for  her  son's  life.  
As  a  ransom,  she  offered  all  her  gold,  precious  stones,  silver  vessels,  clothing  
and  furs,  and  allowed  all  her  herds  of  cattle,  horses  and  camels  to  be  driven  
away.  
Ja  Lama  feigned  agreement  with  the  proffered  ransom;  however,  while  his  
herdsmen  were  driving  the  livestock  away,  he  ordered  Prince  Khaisan  to  be  
skinned.  He  entrusted  the  work  to  a  trained  Kyrgyz  and  ordered  him  to  remove  
the  skin  in  such  a  way  that  Khaisan  would  remain  alive.  The  Kyrgyz  began  from  
the  soles  and  the  back  of  the  lower  limbs,  then  continued  with  cuts  which  led  to  
the  buttocks  and  up  to  the  back  of  the  head.  However,  in  the  midst  of  his  
torment,  Khaisan  died.  Ja  Lama,  who  was  present,  was  enraged,  for  now  he  
could  not  carry  through  his  aim  -­‐  to  hand  the  son  over  to  the  mother,  skinned  
but  still  alive.  Therefore,  even  though  Khaisan  was  already  dead,  Ja  Lama  shot  
him  through  the  head;  he  also  had  the  Kyrgyz  flayed.  Then  he  sent  the  mother  
the  bloodied  skin  of  her  son;  the  woman  went  mad  on  the  spot.242  
 

  In  this  account,  backed  up  by  official  documents  and  the  flayed  skin  itself,  the  
skin  of  the  victim  is  a  trophy  enacted  through  the  brutal  torture  and  subjugation  of  an  
enemy.  Although  Bulatov  had  kept  the  flayed  skins  as  evidence  to  be  used  in  court  
against    Dambiijantsan,  it  is  not  clear  whether  these  items  were  ever  produced  at  trial.  
The  whereabouts  of  the  second  skin  is  unknown.  As  for  Dambiijantsan,  he  returned  to  
Mongolia  following  the  October  Revolution,  and  was  later  assassinated  in  1922  by  
Mongol  revolutionaries.  Following  his  death,  Dambiijantsan  was  decapitated  and  his  
head  taken  back  to  Russia,  where  it  was  displayed  at  the  State  Hermitage  Museum  in  St.  
Petersberg.  Thus  Dambiijantsan's  remains  also  became  a  kind  of  trophy,  in  this  case  

                                                                                                               
242  Vlček,  'Kůže  stažená  z  živého  člověka',  p.  96.  Translated  from  the  Czech:  

Džá-­‐lama  s  nabídnutým  výkupným  naoko  souhlasil,  avšak  zatímco  pastevci  přiháněli  dobytek,  dal  knížete  
Chaisana  stáhnout  z  kůže.  Práci  svěřil  cvičenému  Kirgizovi  a  přikázal  mu  stahovat  kůže  tak,  aby  Chaisan  
zůstal  živý.  Kirgiz  začal  od  chodidel  a  dolních    končetin,  pak  pokračoval  z  řezů  vedených  na  zádech  a  na  týlu  
hlavy.  Chaisan  však  uprostřed  trýzněni  zemřel.  Přítomný  Džá-­‐lama  se  rozzuřil,  neboť  již  nemohl  uskutečnit  
svůj  záměr  -­‐  předat  matce  syna  staženého  z  kůže,  a  přece  živého.  Proto  Chaisanovi,  již  mrtvému,  prostřelil  
hlavu  a  z  kůže  nechal  stáhnout  i  Kirgize.  Poté  předal  matce  zkrvavenou  kůže  synovu.  Žena  na  místě  zešílela.  
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belonging  to  the  state  that  regarded  him  as  a  politically  troublesome  warlord  (see  
Figure  83).  

The  Medical  Gaze  and  the  Criminal  Corpse  

 
As  we  have  seen,  an  exploration  of  the  iconographic  theme  of  flaying  from  the  fifteenth  
to  the  seventeenth  century  in  the  visual  arts  involves  both  the  medical  gaze  of  the  
anatomist  who  'peeled  back  the  body  surface  to  expose  what  lay  beneath',  and  the  
‘horror  of  excessive  exposure’  latent  within  the  social  subconscious  of  the  period,  which  
was  connected  to  ingrained  associations  between  the  extremes  of  corporal  punishment  
and  the  anatomists  table.243  The  use  of  the  criminal  corpse  as  raw  material  in  medical  
practice  was  not  limited  to  the  anatomy  school  or  university  dissection  theatre,  
however;  the  body  of  the  criminal  was  also  highly  valued  in  European  folk  medicine,  to  
which  I  will  return.    
  Although  representations  of  flaying  in  the  pictorial  arts  ceased  to  be  a  popular  
theme  in  the  nineteenth  century,  muscle  figures  known  as  écorchés  (flayed  men)  were  
still  commonly  in  use  in  European  art  schools,  and  in  both  England  and  France,  corpses  
were  flayed  and  cast  to  produce  life-­‐like  muscle  figures,  often  mimicking    the  poses  of  
ancient  statues.  The  famous  Smugglerius  was  a  cast  in  1776  from  the  body  of  a  criminal  
in  the  pose  the  Dying  Gaul  for  William  Hunter,  and  military  surgeon  and  artist  Jean-­‐
Galbert  Salvage  flayed  corpses  to  produce  the  écorché  in  the  pose  of  the  Borghese  
Gladiateur  for  the  French  Art  Academy.244  A  particularly  striking  example  of  a  sculptural  
work  depicting  the  flayed  criminal  body  dates  from  the  early  nineteenth  century.  In  
1802,  English  sculptor  Thomas  Banks  sold  a  plaster  cast  of  the  executed  criminal  James  
Legg's  flayed  and  crucified  corpse  to  the  Royal  Academy,  where  it  still  hangs  as  part  of  
their  collection  of  anatomical  casts.  James  Legg  was  convicted  of  murder  and  hanged  
before  his  body  was  turned  over  to  the  surgeon  Joseph  Constantine  Carpue  for  
dissection.  At  the  behest  of  Banks  and  two  other  Royal  Academicians  -­‐  Benjamin  West  
and  Richard  Cosway  -­‐  the  body  was  first  to  be  nailed  to  a  crucifix  in  the  manner  of  
Christ,  and  then  flayed  once  the  body  had  'settled'  in  this  position.  The  experiment  
aimed  to  establish  that  most  depictions  of  the  Crucifixion  were  anatomically  inaccurate,  
as  Banks  and  his  colleagues  believed.  Carpue  describes  the  procedure  as  follows:    
 

                                                                                                               
243  Benthien,  Skin,  pp.  61-­‐94.  
244  See  for  the  Smugglerius  Martin  Kemp  and  Martina  Wallace,  Spectacular  Bodies:  the  Art  and  Science  of  the  

Human  Body  (London:  Hayward  Gallery,  2000),  and  for  Salvage:  Philippe  Comar  (ed):  Une  Leçon  
D’Anatomie  à  L’École  des  Beaux-­‐Arts  (Paris:  Beaux-­‐arts  de  Paris  éditions,  2008),  pp.  226-­‐231.  
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A  building  was  erected  near  the  place  of  execution;  a  cross  provided.  The  subject  
was  nailed  to  the  cross;  the  cross  suspended...the  body,  being  warm,  fell  into  the  
position  that  a  dead  body  must  fall  into...When  cool,  a  cast  was  made,  under  the  
direction  of  Mr.  Banks,  and  when  the  mob  was  dispersed  it  was  removed  to  my  
theatre.  245  
 
  After  this  grim  public  display,  the  body  was  taken  to  Carpue's  theatre  where  he  
flayed  the  body.  Banks  then  made  his  cast  (Figure  84).  There  are  a  number  of  intriguing  
aspects  of  this  incident  and  the  anatomical  cast  itself.  Firstly,  it  draws  a  parallel  
between  the  iconography  of  the  crucified  Christ  and  the  flaying  of  Marsyas.  As  well  as  
touching  on  the  deep-­‐rooted  cultural  symbolism  of  Christianity  and  Greek  mythology,  
we  also  see  a  re-­‐enactment  of  these  episodes  within  a  nineteenth-­‐century  legal-­‐
scientific  framework,  in  which  the  perpetrator  of  a  capital  crime  is  executed  before  a  
public  audience,  and  whose  body  is  then  transformed  into  a  spectacle  of  archaic  torture  
for  the  purpose  of  satisfying  scientific  curiosity.  Although  the  process  of  flaying  the  
body  is  carried  out  away  from  the  'mob'  that  witnessed  the  death,  the  final  artefact,  the  
cast  of  the  flayed  body,  is  nevertheless  put  on  public  display  after  the  body  has  been  
disposed  of.  The  Anatomical  Crucifixion  (James  Legg)  speaks  on  multiple  levels  of  the  
interrelated  practices  of  flaying,  penal  punishment,  the  medical  gaze,  and  the  
uncovering  of  the  body  to  reveal  the  'truth'  of  what  lies  beneath  -­‐  in  this  case,  the  
arrangement  of  the  muscles  of  a  crucified  body.  Whilst  Christ's  Martyrdom  did  not  
involve  flaying,  we  are  reminded  of  the  parallel  between  Marsyas'  crime  and  
punishment  and  Christ's;  both  were  perceived  to  have  challenged  the  social  and  theistic  
order,  and  both  were  hung  by  their  tormentors  from  a  support  -­‐  a  tree  and  a  crucifix  
respectively.246    
  As  a  scientific  experiment  carried  out  on  a  criminal  corpse  in  order  to  satisfy  
primarily  artistic  curiosities,  the  flaying  of  James  Legg  is  an  unusual  case.  However,  the  
criminal  body  has  long  been  put  to  other  less-­‐than-­‐scientific  uses,  and  the  raw  material  
of  the  criminal  corpse  has  been  used  both  for  its  magical  properties  in  folk  medicine,  
and  to  fashion  objects  of  use  such  as  bags,  books  and  boots,  to  which  I  will  return.  
During  the  nineteenth  century,  the  criminal  body  became  the  site  of  intense  study  by  
forensic  scientists  and  criminologists,  who  sought  to  understand  the  criminal  'soul'  
through  the  decoding  of  the  surface  signs  of  the  body.  In  prison,  the  criminal  body  was  
observed,  measured,  and  classified.  Following  executions,  bodies  were  carefully  
                                                                                                               
245  Image  and  text  available  online:  

<www.racollection.org.uk/ixbin/indexplus?_IXSESSION_=on_RhmDMKsE&_IXSR_=&_IXACTION_=display&_
MREF_=11091&_IXSP_=1&_IXFPFX_=templates/full/&_IXSPFX_=templates/full/&_IXTRAIL_=Academicians
>    (accessed  16/10/2011).  
246  Though  representations  of  Marsyas  often  depict  him  inverted,  the  arms  are  almost  always  bound  

outstretched  in  a  similar  arrangement  to  that  of  traditional  crucifixions.    

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examined  for  any  abnormalities  that  might  reveal  clues  to  their  criminal  make  up,  and  
notable  specimens  were  carefully  preserved  for  criminological  museums  and  forensic  
teaching  collections.247  
  Writing  on  the  history  of  the  criminological  museum  in  Europe  during  the  late  
nineteenth  century,  Susanne  Regener  describes  the  still-­‐complete  collection  assembled  
by  Cesare  Lombroso,  which  is  housed  at  the  Institute  for  Medical  Jurisprudence  in  Turin  
(Instituto  di  Medicina  Legale).  This  collection  comprises  a  core  of  visual  artefacts,  which  
established  the  Archive  for  Psychiatry,  Anthropology  and  Criminal  Science  in  1880.  
During  a  visit  to  the  archive,  Regener  describes  some  of  the  material  within  the  
collection,  including:    
 
Photographs,  drawings  and  lithographs  depicting  criminals,  psychiatric  patients,  
and  prostitutes;  objects  and  pictures  that  were  made  in  prisons  and  psychiatric  
institutions   by   their   inmates;   brains   and   whole   heads   preserved   in   liquid   […]  
wax   and   plaster   masks   of   fugitives,   plaster   casts   of   ears   and   hands,   preserved  
pieces   of   tattooed   skin;   a   mummy   in   a   cupboard,   and   many   skeletons   and  
skulls.248    
 
This  is,  in  fact,  the  only  explicit  reference  to  an  extant  collection  of  preserved  tattooed  
skin  assembled  by  a  nineteenth-­‐century  criminologist  that  I  have  discovered  -­‐  what  was  
far  more  common  practice  was  the  ‘collection’  of  drawings  of  tattoos  traced  from  life,  
which  will  be  discussed  at  greater  length  in  chapter  four.  Both  Lombroso  and  
Lacassagne’s  collections  contained  numerous  drawings  of  tattoos,  and  despite  their  
theoretical  differences,  it  seems  that  both  scientists’  main  interest  in  these  marks  was  
'directed  towards  their  (objects)  usefulness  for  bio-­‐semiotics.'249  Visual  artefacts  in  
general,  and  tattoos  in  particular,  'were  ascribed  a  power  of  expression,  as  it  were,  as  if  
they  could  speak  for  themselves.'250  Indeed,  Lacassagne's  famous  characterisation  of  
tattoos  as  ‘speaking  scars’,  suggests  not  only  that  he  regarded  these  marks  as  a  peculiar  
form  linguistic  expression,  but  also  that  the  surface  of  the  body  could  be  ‘read’  in  the  
manner  of  pages  in  a  book,  an  observation  which  presents  intriguing  associations  with  
French  practices  of  binding  books  in  tattooed  human  skin,  to  which  I  will  return.    

                                                                                                               
247  Gaston  Variot's  report  on  the  autopsy  of  the  notorious  murderer  Henri  Pranzini  is  particularly  

interesting  in  this  respect.  He  described  the  body,  which  is  otherwise  healthy,  in  great  detail,  making  special  
note  of  his  'very  well  developed  genitals',  and  the  'remarkably  well  developed'  muscles  of  his  torso,  
shoulders  and  upper  arms.  He  also  commented  that  the  weight  of  his  brain  was  'slightly  below  average,'  
and  that  the  examination  of  the  skull  by  his  colleague  Professor  Papillault  showed  'several  anomalies.'  
Variot,  'Remarques  sur  l'Autopsie...',  p.  43.      
248  Susanne  Regener,  'Criminological  Museums  and  the  Visualization  of  Evil',  Crime,  Histoire  &  

Societes/Crime,  History  &  Societies,  Vol.  7,  No.  1  (2003),  p.  3.  
249  Ibid.,  p.  5.  
250  Ibid.  

107  
 
  

  Further  indication  that  the  flaying  -­‐  and  possibly  even  the  public  display  -­‐  of  the  
skin  of  an  executed  criminal  was  practiced  in  continental  Europe  during  the  nineteenth  
century,  may  be  found  in  the  recent  discovery  of  the  fully  flayed  and  heavily  tattooed  
skin  of  an  unidentified  Frenchman,  currently  held  in  a  private  collection  in  London.  
Initially  found  at  the  famous  Parisian  flea  market  at  the  Porte  de  Clignancourt,  some  
eleven  years  ago,  this  object  remains  fully  intact  and  is  still  pinned  to  the  door  that  
apparently  provided  the  original  support  for  stretching  and  drying  the  skin.  Upon  
meeting  the  collector  (who  prefers  to  remain  anonymous)  early  in  2010,251  he  shared  
with  me  the  story  of  how  this  rather  gruesome  artefact  came  to  be  in  his  possession.  
Whilst  wandering  Les  Puces  in  2002,  he  was  drawn  into  a  small  medical  and  scientific  
antiques  shop:  
 
There  seemed  to  be  a  large  dark  door  leaning  there.  Something  was  odd  about  it  
though.  For  some  reason  the  top  corners  had  been  sawn  away  lending  it  the  
appearance  of  a  wide  coffin  lid.  In  the  dim  light  I  could  see  that  there  was  
something  adorning  the  surface  of  the  panel.  I  made  my  way  in  past  racks  of  
dusty  old  medical  and  scientific  equipment.  A  small  angle-­‐poise  lamp  cast  a  pool  
of  light  on  the  floor  and  I  pushed  it  up  towards  the  panel.  It  took  me  a  moment  
to  take  in  what  it  was  I  was  actually  looking  at.  A  dark  crumpled  face  with  blank  
sockets  looked  down  at  me.  As  my  eyes  adjusted  to  the  light  I  could  see  that  it  
was  a  figure  of  a  man  or  rather  half  of  one.  Imagine  drawing  a  line  around  your  
body  from  the  ankle,  up  the  sides  of  the  legs  and  thighs,  along  the  front  of  the  
arms,  across  the  top  of  the  shoulders,  up  behind  the  ears  and  over  the  top  of  the  
head  and  then  down  the  other  side.  Someone  had  taken  a  knife  and  flayed,  quite  
crudely,  the  entire  front  skin  off  of  a  man's  body.  The  skin  was  cured  in  some  
way  and  while  still  soft,  had  been  laid  out  on  the  door  and  stuffed  with  what  
looked  like  rags  and  horsehair.  The  skin  had  then  been  nailed  around  its  edge  
every  few  inches.  With  the  stuffing  he  was  presented  in  3D,  a  nightmarish  
approximation  of  how  he  had  once  looked  in  life.  Looking  up  at  his  face  I  could  
make  out  his  ears  and  some  short  hair  to  the  sides.  His  neck  seemed  stretched  
or  marked.  Running  from  the  left  side  of  his  chest  to  his  groin  was  a  cut,  which  
had  been  stitched  back  together  with  thick  thread.  His  groin  was  a  patchwork  of  
flaps  of  skin  and  stitching  but  without  'Mr  Happy'  that  I  could  see.  It  was  as  I  
was  peering  at  this  peculiar  arrangement  that  I  made  out  a  word  tattooed  just  
above  where  this  unfortunate  man's  appendage  should  have  been.  In  quite  large  
letters  was  the  word,  'Bonheur'.252  
 

                                                                                                               
251  The  collector  initially  contacted  me  for  an  expert  opinion  on  the  tattoos  that  cover  most  of  the  dorsal  

surface  of  the  body.  The  majority  of  these  tattoos  are  extremely  crude  and  most  certainly  made  by  an  
amateur;  the  orientation  of  tattoos  covering  the  thighs  in  particular  indicate  that  at  least  some  of  them  
were  made  by  Bonheur  himself,  as  they  appear  upside-­‐down  to  the  viewer.  Almost  all  the  tattoos  are  black,  
with  the  exception  of  some  small  and  remarkably  bold  areas  of  red  on  the  legs,  which  were  most  likely  
produced  using  a  cinnabar-­‐heavy  pigment,  as  discussed  in  the  previous  chapter.  A  large  proportion  of  the  
tattoos,  particularly  those  on  the  thighs,  are  explicitly  sexual.  
252  Anon.,  I  Live  With  Another  Man  Only  He's  Dead  and  Nailed  to  a  Door,  unpublished  manuscript,  written  by  

the  collector  and  Bonheur's  owner.  The  abdominal  tattoo  'Bonheur'  is  visible  in  Figure  85.    
108  
 
  

  'Bonheur',  as  he  has  come  to  be  known,  is  very  interesting  in  a  number  of  ways.  
Insofar  as  the  skin  is  both  heavily  tattooed  and  dry-­‐preserved,  this  entity  is  comparable  
with  the  Wellcome  tattoos;  initial  laboratory  testing  also  indicates  that  the  preservation  
dates  from  around  1860,253  which  would  make  this  specimen  roughly  contemporary  
with  Lavalette's  tattoo  collection  (see  Figure  86;  an  interesting  visual  comparison  may  
be  made  between  the  flayed  and  stuffed  skin  pinned  to  the  door  panel  and  David's  
figure  of  Sisamnes  in  Figure  80).  However,  there  are  also  a  number  of  important  
differences  between  these  preservations,  which  will  be  discussed  later.  Most  intriguing  
of  all  is  the  story  -­‐  or  perhaps  it  would  be  more  accurate  to  say  the  legend  -­‐  that  was  
passed  on  with  the  skin  when  it  was  sold  in  2002.  This  story,  like  a  folk  tale  passed  on  
through  oral  tradition,  was  recounted  by  the  antique  shop  owner,  before  it  was  passed  
on  to  me  by  the  collector:  
 
[Bonheur]  had  been  a  sailor  in  Marseilles,  date  unknown.  Convicted  of  rape  and  
murder  he  was  sentenced  to  death,  hung  and  the  body  turned  over  to  the  local  
medical  school  for  dissection.  Then  at  the  last  minute  the  law  courts  decided  to  
make  an  example  of  him  and  ordered  him  to  be  flayed,  nailed  to  the  door  and  
then  displayed  in  the  courts  as  a  grim  warning  to  all.254  
 
  The  structure  of  this  tale  bears  striking  resemblance  to  the  flaying  myths  and  
legends  of  antiquity  and  the  Middle  Ages.  The  framing  context  is  one  of  crime  and  
exceptional  punishment;  the  motif  of  flaying  is  coupled  with  more  familiar  eighteenth-­‐
century  associations  of  degradation  and  increased  severity  of  punishment  through  post-­‐
mortem  dissection  imported  from  Britain;  and  the  use  of  a  door  as  simultaneous  
support  for  the  preservation  of  the  skin  and  exemplary  display  recalls  medieval  
practices  (whether  real  or  imagined)  of  pinning  the  skins  of  malefactors  to  church  
doors.  Whereas  the  flaying  myths  previously  discussed  are  not  validated  by  surviving  
artefacts  (human  relics  preserved  at  Lipari  notwithstanding),  here  we  have  an  artefact  
of  human  remains  with  an  unsubstantiated  story  of  origin  strongly  reminiscent  of  
common  flaying  myths.  The  story  of  the  flaying  of  Sisamnes  has  particular  resonance  in  
relation  to  Bonheur  -­‐  both  individuals,  having  transgressed  the  social  and  moral  order,  
received  exemplary  punishment  enacted  primarily  through  the  removal  and  
preservation  of  the  entire  skin.  Whilst  Sisamnes'  skin  was  fashioned  into  the  seat  of  
judgement  for  his  successor,  Bonheur's  hide  was  pinned  to  a  door  and  thus  may  seem  to  

                                                                                                               
253  The  skin  has  been  at  the  Forensic  Anthropology  laboratory  of  Bournemouth  University  since  2011  for  

material  testing.  Dating  of  the  artefact  has  been  established  through  analysis  of  the  wooden  support  on  
which  the  skin  is  pinned.  Close  observation  of  the  support,  pins  and  the  drying  pattern  of  the  skin  indicate  
that  the  skin  has  not  been  removed  from  the  wooden  door  since  it  was  originally  preserved.  
254  Unpublished  manuscript.    

109  
 
  

have  more  in  common  with  the  English  'Dane-­‐Skin'  myths  of  the  eleventh  century.  
However,  the  particular  manner  in  which  his  skin  was  preserved  in  relief,  stuffed  with  
horsehair  and  rags  in  order  to  retain  a  certain  voluminous  or  life-­‐like  quality,  suggests  a  
closer  resemblance  with  upholstered  furniture,  of  which  the  human  leather  seat  in  the  
Sisamnes  legend  is  the  iconic  example.  This  similitude  is  reinforced  through  the  use  of  
upholstery  tacks  to  pin  the  skin  to  the  door,  and  may  even  suggest  that  an  upholsterer,  
rather  than  an  anatomist  or  a  tanner,  carried  out  this  particular  preservation.    
  Is  such  a  grim  judicial  spectacle  likely  to  have  taken  place  in  mid-­‐nineteenth  
century  France?  This  would  seem  highly  unlikely;  nevertheless,  at  least  one  aspect  of  
the  story  may  be  borne  out  through  material  analysis  of  the  skin  and  the  door  it  takes  
for  its  support.  The  long  mid-­‐line  suture,  which  runs  from  clavicle  to  groin,  certainly  
suggests  that  an  autopsy  was  performed,  if  not  full  medical  dissection.  It  also  seems  
probable  that  this  skin  was  obtained  directly  from  a  French  medical  school.  Moreover,  
there  are  also  some  intriguing  features  to  the  support  itself,  which  may  indicate  that  
this  artefact  was  intended  for  macabre  display  of  some  sort.  Something  that  impressed  
upon  the  collector  when  he  first  saw  it  in  the  Paris  market  shop,  was  the  peculiar  way  in  
which  the  top  corners  had  been  cut  away,  which  gave  the  strong  impression  of  'a  wide  
coffin  lid',  (see  Figure  87).  This  alteration  seems  to  be  intentional,  suggesting  that  it  
was  a  conscious  (and  somewhat  morbid)  display  decision.  On  further  examination  of  
the  door  panel,  it  is  apparent  that  small  rectangular  sections  have  also  been  cut  from  
the  lower  corners,  leaving  a  long  narrow  strip  along  the  base  of  the  door  panel.  There  is  
a  clear  watermark  stain,  rising  upwards  from  the  lower  edge  of  this  strip,  which  further  
suggests  that  the  entire  panel  was  once  propped  upright,  perhaps  slotted  into  a  
purpose-­‐built  wooden  support  base,  which  would  allow  it  to  be  free  standing.  If  this  
was  the  case,  it  seems  unlikely  that  the  door  was  ever  intended  to  be  hung  at  a  court  of  
law  or  indeed  in  any  other  sort  of  building  -­‐  rather,  it  suggests  a  portable  exhibition  
piece,  which  may  have  even  been  displayed  outdoors  or  at  temporary  exhibits,  thus  
accounting  for  the  water  stain.    
  Whether  or  not  Bonheur  was  hung  for  murder  and  castrated  for  rape  has  not  
been  possible  to  determine,  though  there  would  almost  surely  be  court  records  of  such  
a  case  if  indeed  there  were  any  veracity  to  the  story.  In  the  absence  of  such  records,  his  
story  must  be  regarded  as  an  oral  legend,  possibly  passed  on  from  the  original  
collectors  who  put  the  preserved  skin  on  display  for  a  public  who  would  be  drawn  in  by  
such  a  gruesome  story.  It  is  perhaps  more  reasonable  to  speculate  that  he  was  a  
criminal,  whose  body  was  made  readily  available  for  dissection  following  an  otherwise  
natural  death  in  prison.    

110  
 
  

  This  chapter  has  thus  far  dealt  mainly  with  the  symbolism  and  meaning  of  the  
entire  flayed  human  skin  -­‐  stripped  from  the  body,  preserved  and  displayed  whole.  But  
what  of  the  fragment?  There  are  significant  distinctions  to  be  made  between  the  entire  
preserved  skin  and  the  fragment:  Specifically,  the  whole  skin  can  retain  a  confronting  
sense  of  individuality  and  personhood,  as  I  experienced  first  hand  in  the  case  of  
Bonheur.  This  is  also  reflected  in  the  naming  of  what  is  an  otherwise  anonymous  skin  
after  one  of  his  tattoos  -­‐  a  distinguishing  characteristic  of  the  skin  itself.  All  those  that  I  
have  spoken  to  who  have  encountered  Bonheur,  tend  to  refer  to  the  flayed  skin  by  name  
or  as  'he',  rather  than  'it.'  The  isolated  fragments  of  tattooed  skin  in  the  Wellcome  
Collection,  by  contrast,  do  not  generally  conjure  the  same  subject  pronouns.  These  
pieces  have  become  abstracted  from  the  body,  and  thus  have  lost  much  of  their  identity;  
in  some  cases  even  appearing  as  flat  documents,  not  unlike  papers  in  an  archive255  (see  
Figure  69).    
  One  attribute  that  the  entire  skin  and  the  fragment  have  in  common  across  a  
broad  range  of  geographical  and  historical  contexts  is  their  potential  enactment  as  
trophies  and  healing  relics.  Whilst  the  entire  flayed  skin  is  endowed  with  magical,  
restorative  and  reinforcing  properties  in  mythological  narratives,  it  is  invariably  the  
fragment  that  finds  practical  application  in  European  folk  medicine.  Human  bone,  blood,  
fat,  skin  and  other  body  parts  considered  to  possess  potent  healing  powers,  have  long  
been  used  in  the  treatment  of  a  wide  range  of  ailments  from  epilepsy  to  skin  
conditions.256  As  well  as  the  holy  relics  of  martyred  saints  such  as  Bartholomew,  the  
body  parts  of  executed  criminals  were  especially  revered  for  their  potency,  and  often  
highly  sought  after.  Folklorist  Wayland  Hand  notes  that:    
 
It   is   one   of   the   ironies   of   folk   medical   practice   that   things   connected   with   the  
realm   of   the   dead   should   by   some   inexplicable   logic   be   employed   to   combat  
sickness  and  sustain  life.257  
 
  The  curative  power  of  the  corpse  (and  particularly  the  criminal  corpse)  has  a  
long  history  in  Europe.  The  Romans  valued  human  blood  as  a  cure  for  epilepsy;  and  in  
Hanau  and  Berlin  it  was  reported  as  late  as  the  1860s  that  some  spectators  attending  
public  executions  would  arrive  at  the  scaffold  equipped  with  spoons,  cups  and  cloths,  in  

                                                                                                               
255  A  critical  analysis  of  this  comparison  will  be  taken  up  in  more  depth  in  chapter  four.  
256  For  a  fascinating  overview  of  this  field  see,  Richard  Sugg,  Mummies,  Cannibals  and  Vampires:  The  History  

of  Corpse  Medicine  from  the  Renaissance  to  the  Victorians  (London  and  New  York:  Routledge,  2011).  
257  Wayland  D.  Hand,  'Hangmen,  the  Gallows  and  the  Dead  Man's  Hand  in  American  Folk  Medicine',  in  J.  

Mandel  and  B.  A.  Rosenberg,  (eds.)  Medieval  Literature  and  Folklore  Studies:  Essays  in  Honor  of  Francis  Lee  
Utley  (New  Brunswick  and  New  Jersey:  Rutgers  University  Press,  1970),  p.  323.  
111  
 
  

order  to  collect  the  fresh  blood  of  the  corpse  for  medicinal  purposes.258  Handkerchiefs  
soaked  in  the  blood  of  the  criminal  were  often  sold  by  the  executioners  themselves,259  
who  traditionally  operated  a  side-­‐line  trade  in  human  material  obtained  from  the  
scaffold.260  The  sudden  traumatic  and  violent  death  of  the  executed  criminal  was  
directly  linked  to  the  potent  healing  powers  of  the  corpse,  which  were  commonly  
believed  to  '[derive]  from  a  vital  force  which  remained  in  the  body  beyond  the  moment  
of  death.'261  Kathy  Stuart  writes  that  the  role  the  German  executioner  from  1600  to  the  
1800s  was  frequently  also  that  of  lay  healer,  and  that  they  often  presented  themselves  
as  medical  professionals  who  were  careful  to  convey  that  there  was  nothing  'magical  or  
miraculous'  about  their  practice.262  In  England,  access  to  the  executed  criminal  body  
could  be  obtained  by  paying  a  fee  to  the  hangman.263    
  As  well  as  consuming  parts  of  the  dead  body,  the  touch  of  a  corpse  was  thought  
to  impart  healing  properties.  Christopher  Hibbert  writes  that  English  children  were  
taken  onto  the  scaffold  so  that  the  dead  man's  hand,  'damp  with  death  sweat'  could  be  
'rubbed  against  their  skin  as  a  cure  for  scrofulous  diseases.'264  The  notorious  'dead  
man's  hand',  or  'hand  of  glory'  as  it  is  more  popularly  known,  has  historically  been  
amongst  the  most  sought  after  of  criminal  relics;  according  to  Wayland  Hand,  the  trade  
in  this  most  potent  of  body  parts  continued  unabated  well  into  the  nineteenth  
century.265  Human  skins  were  also  fashioned  into  belts  worn  by  pregnant  women  
during  labour,266  recalling  the  magical  and  protective  'doubled  skin'  of  flaying  myth,  and  
suggesting  powerful  associations  with  birth,  death  and  re-­‐birth:  
 
Flaying  is  always,  it  seems,  accompanied  or  followed  by  the  possibility  of  a  re-­‐
assumption:   either   the   assumption   of   another   skin,   or   the   resumption   of   one’s  
own   skin   (through   healing).   The   skin   therefore   provides   a   model   of   the   self  
preserved  against  change,  and  also  reborn  through  change.267  
 

                                                                                                               
258  Christopher  Hibbert,  The  Roots  of  Evil:  A  social  history  of  crime  and  punishment,  (London:  Weidenfeld  &  

Nicolson,  1963),  pp.  267-­‐268.  

259  Ibid.  
260  This  trade  was  also  practiced  by  executioners  in  early  modern  France,  Italy  and  Britain.  For  more  on  

these  contexts,  see  Sugg,  Mummies,  Cannibals  and  Vampires,  pp.  84-­‐87.    
261  Kathy  Stuart,  Defiled  Trades  and  Social  Outcasts:  Honor  and  Ritual  Pollution  in  Early  Modern  Germany,  

(Cambridge:  Cambridge  University  Press,  1999),  p.  160.  See  also  Hand,  'Hangmen,  the  Gallows  and  the  Dead  
Man's  Hand',  p.  324.  
262  Ibid.,  p.  172.  
263  William  George  Black,  Folk  Medicine:  A  Chapter  in  the  History  of  Culture,  (London:  The  Folklore  Society,  

1883),  p.  101.  

264  Hibbert,  The  Roots  of  Evil,  p.  268.  See  also  Black,  Folk  Medicine,  pp.  100-­‐101.  
265  Hand,  'Hangmen,  the  Gallows  and  the  Dead  Man's  Hand',  p.  324.  
266  Robert  Jütte,  ‘Haut  als  Heilmittel’,  in  Ulrike  Zeuch  (ed.),  Verborgen  im  Buch  –  Verborgen  im  Körper.    

Ausstellungskataloge  der  Herzog-­‐Anton-­‐August  Bibliothek  Wolfenbüttel,  No.  81  (Wiesbaden:  Harrowitz  

Verlag,  2003).  See  also,  Stuart,  Defiled  Trades  and  Social  Outcasts,  p.  158.  
267  Connor,  The  Book  of  Skin,  pp.  31-­‐32.  

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  The  skin  of  the  criminal  corpse  thus  obtained  a  special  place  within  European  
folk  medical  practice,  perhaps  also  accounting  to  some  extent  for  the  fetishization  of  
objects  manufactured  from  criminal  skins.  In  England  and  Scotland  a  number  of  books,  
wallets  and  card-­‐cases  have  historically  been  produced  from  the  skins  of  high  profile  
murderers,  in  particular.  A  card-­‐case  made  from  the  skin  of  William  Burke,  who  was  
executed  in  1829  for  murdering  sixteen  people  in  order  to  sell  their  cadavers  to  the  
local  anatomy  school,  is  still  on  display  today  at  the  Edinburgh  Police  Museum  (see  
Figure  88)  and  a  notebook  allegedly  bound  in  his  skin  is  shown  at  the  Surgeon’s  Hall  
Museum  at  the  Royal  College  of  Surgeons  of  Edinburgh.  Numerous  other  human  skin  
objects  survive  in  libraries  and  museums  across  Europe  and  in  the  US,  the  majority  of  
which  date  from  the  nineteenth  century.  Frequently,  it  is  doctors  and  police  officers  that  
were  responsible  for  their  manufacture  and  collection.  The  American  doctor  and  
Democratic  politician  John  Eugene  Osborne  (1858-­‐1943),  for  instance,  made  a  bag,  a  
coin  purse,  and  a  pair  of  shoes  from  the  skin  of  George  Parrot,  who  was  sentenced  to  
death  for  the  murder  of  two  law  officers.  He  was  lynched  in  1881  by  an  impatient  mob  
before  the  official  sentence  could  be  carried  out.  Osborne  carried  out  the  autopsy  on  the  
body  to  determine  whether  there  were  any  observable  'criminal  abnormalities'  in  
Parrot's  brain,  before  having  his  skin  tanned.268  He  is  alleged  to  have  worn  the  human-­‐
skin  shoes  to  his  inauguration  as  Governor  of  Wyoming  in  1893.  The  bag  and  purse  
have  since  been  lost;  however,  the  shoes  can  be  seen  in  the  Carbon  County  Historical  
Society  Museum,  in  Wyoming  (Figure  89).  
  Shoes  made  from  human  skin  were  also  historically  known  in  France.  According  
to  Valmont  de  Bomare,  during  the  eighteenth  century,  Royal  surgeon  Jean-­‐Joseph  Sue  
(the  Elder),  grandfather  of  the  novelist  Eugène  Sue,  presented  a  pair  of  human  leather  
slippers  to  the  Cabinet  du  Roi  in  Paris;  Bomare  also  mentions  that  this  collection  
possessed  a  leather  belt  on  which  a  human  nipple  was  clearly  visible.269  Numerous  
accounts  of  human  skin  bags,  belts,  boots,  waistcoats,  and  breeches  are  found  in  the  
literature,270  though  few  of  these  items  can  be  located  in  extant  collections,  and  some  

                                                                                                               
268  Ruth  Penfold-­‐Mounce,  'Consuming  Criminal  Corpses:  Fascination  with  the  Dead  Criminal  Body',  in  

Mortality,  Vol.  15,  No.  3,  (2010),  p.  259.  Penfold-­‐Mounce  draws  a  comparison  between  John  Osborne's  
actions  and  the  habit  of  some  serial  killers,  who  take  and  wear  the  skins  of  victims  and  keep  body  parts  as  
souvenirs.  She  gives  the  example  of  Ed  Gein,  whose  female  body  suit  fashioned  from  the  skins  of  his  victims  
famously  inspired  the  character  'Buffalo  Bill'  in  Thomas  Harris's  The  Silence  of  Lambs.  This  would  seem  to  
be  an  overstatement,  however,  since  Osborne  did  not  actually  murder  Parrot  for  his  skin;  a  more  
appropriate  parallel  may  perhaps  be  drawn  with  Dambiijantsan's  flaying  of  Khaisan.  
269  Valmont  De  Bomare,  Dictionnaire  Raisoné  Universel  d’Histoire  Naturelle,  Paris  (1775),  Tom.  6,  N-­‐PIE,  pp.  

502-­‐506.  See  also  the  entry  “Peau  Humaine  Passée”  in  d’Alembert  et  Diderot’s  Encyclopédie,  Tome  12,  1765,  
p.  220.  
270  For  an  exhaustive  account  of  these,  see  the  chapter  'Religatum  de  Pelle  Humana'  in  Lawrence  

Thompson's  Bibliologia  Comica:  or,  Humourous  aspects  of  the  caparisoning  and  conservation  of  Books,  
(Hamden,  Connecticut:  Archon  Books,  1968),  pp.  119-­‐152.  
113  
 
  

are  no  doubt  the  stuff  of  legend.  A  particularly  interesting  account  of  a  human  leather  
vest  comes  from  Italy:    
 
 [...]  the  sixteenth-­‐century   sculptor   Silvio   Cosini   of   Fiesole   made   a   vest   out   of   the  
skin  of  a  criminal  corpse  he  had  stolen  for  dissection  and  wore  it  over  his  shirt  
for  its  magical  and  protective  powers.271  
 
  In  this  narrative,  we  see  the  intersection  of  multiple  themes  relating  to  the  
treatment  of  the  criminal  body  and  the  power  of  the  flayed  skin:  Cosini,  as  both  an  artist  
and  a  member  of  an  Italian  brotherhood  responsible  for  criminals  condemned  to  death,  
would  have  been  familiar  with  two  very  different  ways  of  dealing  with  the  corpse;  the  
performance  of  last  rights  for  the  executed,  and  the  use  of  the  body  as  raw  material  for  
dissection  by  artists  and  anatomists.272  His  fabrication  of  the  skin  of  a  criminal  corpse  
into  a  garment  however,  has  more  in  common  with  folk  medicine  and  magical  practices  
involving  body  parts,  as  well  as  recalling  the  image  of  Apollo,  shrouded  in  the  raw  
inverted  skin  of  the  flayed  Marsyas.    
  The  manufacture  of  garments  from  human  skin  in  particular,  seems  to  suggest  
affinities  with  the  magical  notion  of  'doubling'  or  reinforcing  one's  own  skin  through  the  
appropriation  of  another's.  In  France,  rumours  abounded  of  the  production  of  human  
leather  during  the  French  Revolution,  though  to  what  extent  this  was  merely  Royalist  
propaganda  has  been  the  subject  of  much  debate.  One  particular  tannery  at  Meudon  on  
the  outskirts  of  Paris  is  frequently  mentioned  in  the  historical  literature  on  human  
leather,  to  the  extent  that  it  was  somewhat  mythologised  by  nineteenth-­‐century  
commentators.  Bibliographic  scholar  Lawrence  Thompson  considers  the  impetus  given  
to  anthropodermic  bibliophagy273  and  related  arts  during  the  early  nineteenth  century  
as  being  a  result  of  such  myths  of  the  French  Revolution.  The  tannery  at  Meudon  was  
said  to  have  filled  all  the  requisitions  for  the  leather  goods  needed  by  the  revolutionary  
army  quartermasters,  including  gloves  and  breeches.  Despite  the  doubt  surrounding  the  
historical  accuracy  of  such  reports,  these  stories  were  still  being  quoted  in  the  early  
twentieth  century.  In  his  1901  Practical  Treatise  on  the  Leather  Industry,  A.  M.  Villon  
includes  the  following  story  from  the  Souvenirs  de  la  Marquise  Crequi:  
 
At  Meudon  they  tan  human  skins,  and  when  it  comes  from  this  factory  it  leaves  
nothing  to  be  desired  in  either  quality  or  condition.  It  is  well  known  that  many  
people  wear  breeches  of  the  same  kind  and  of  the  same  material;  this  material  

                                                                                                               
271  Katherine  Park,  'The  Criminal  and  the  Saintly  Body:  Autopsy  and  Dissection  in  Renaissance  Italy',  in  

Renaissance  Quarterly,  Vol.  47,  No.  1  (Spring,  1994),  p.  26.  

272  Bohde,  'Skin  and  the  Search  for  the  Interior',  p.  28.  
273  The  binding  of  books  in  human  skin.  

114  
 
  

having   been   furnished   by   the   bodies   of   those   executed   in   the   revolution   of   1789  
[...]   The   skin   which   is   provided   by   men   is   of   a   consistency   and   excellence  
superior  to  that  of  the  chamois;  but  it  has  less  solidity  due  to  the  softness  of  its  
tissue.274  
 
  Such  stories  of  the  preservation  and  fabrication  of  human  skin  into  clothing  and  
objects  of  use  during  this  period  of  intense  social  and  political  upheaval,  suggest  an  
element  of  the  trophisation  of  human  skin  within  the  popular  imagination,  which  may  
have  endured  in  cultural  memory  of  earlier  punitive  flaying  practices.  Parallels  may  also  
be  drawn  with  later  collections  containing  human  skin.  Indeed,  Susanne  Regener  
considers  human  remains  held  in  the  criminological  museums  of  the  late  nineteenth  
century  in  similar  terms,  since,  she  argues  that  such  objects  'also  function  as  symbols  of  
victory,  trophies,  in  the  fight  against  crime.'275    
  The  mythologization  of  flaying  is  also  recalled  during  the  Second  World  War  in  
German  concentration  camps,  where  everyday  objects  such  as  book  covers  and  
lampshades  were  reportedly  fashioned  from  human  skin.  Ilse  Koch,  the  infamous  
‘Kommandeuse  of  Buchenwald’  was  alleged  to  have  selected  inmates  from  within  the  
Buchenwald  concentration  camp  whose  tattoos  she  admired,  which  she  then  had  
removed  and  preserved  at  her  whim.276  Whilst  SS  Dr.  Erich  Wagner  certainly  did  
remove  tattoos  from  the  bodies  of  concentration  camp  prisoners  at  Buchenwald  
following  up  from  his  doctoral  work  on  the  tattoo,277  preserved  tattoo  specimens  within  
this  context  are  certainly  trophies  of  domination.  Benthien  characterises  practices  of,  
 
reshaping   of   human   skin   into   trophies   and   the   simultaneous,   deliberate  
degradation  of  human  body  parts  into  mere  articles  of  everyday  use  […]  [as]  a  
symbolic   assertion   of   power   over   a   human   being’s   most   elemental   possession:  
his  skin.278    

                                                                                                               
274  A.  M.  Villon,  Practical  Treatise  on  the  Leather  Industy,  (London:  Scott,  Greenwood  &  Co.,  1901),  p.  28.  
275  Regener,  'Criminological  Museums',  p.  8.  
276  In  his  2010  book,  The  Lampshade:  A  Holocaust  Detective  Story  from  Buchenwald  to  New  Orleans,  

journalist  and  author  Mark  Jacobson  reports  on  the  peculiar  Nazi  inclination  for  collecting  and  fabricating  
objects  from  (often  tattooed)  human  skin.  Czech  Communist  surgeon  and  prisoner  of  war  Dr.  Franz  Blaha,  
who  gave  evidence  at  the  Nuremburg  war  crimes  trials  testified  that:  'It  was  common  practice  to  remove  
the  skin  from  dead  prisoners  […]  It  was  chemically  treated  and  placed  in  the  sun  to  dry.  After  that  it  was  cut  
into  various  sizes  for  use  as  saddles,  riding  breeches,  gloves,  house  slippers,  and  ladies  handbags.  Tattooed  
skin  was  especially  valued  by  SS  men.'  (p.  13).  Anecdotal  evidence  of  the  habits  of  Ilse  Koch  also  crops  up.  
Reporting  in  1945,  UPI  correspondent  Ann  Stringer  quoted  a  Dutch  engineer  who  had  been  a  prisoner  at  
Buchenwald.  He  described  how  Ilse  Koch  'would  have  prisoners  with  tattoos  on  them  line  up  shirtless.  
Then  she  would  pick  a  pretty  design  or  mark  she  particularly  liked.  That  prisoner  would  be  executed  and  
his  skin  made  into  an  ornament'  (p.  19).  For  a  more  critically  nuanced  discussion  of  the  allegations  made  
against  Ilse  Koch,  see  Alexandra  Przyrembel,  'Transfixed  by  an  Image:  Ilse  Koch,  the  'Kommandeuse  of  
Buchenwald',  in  German  History,  Vol.  19,  No.  3  (2001),  pp.  369-­‐399.  
277  See  Erich  Wagner,  Ein  Beitrag  zur  Tätowierungsfrage,  Inaugural  Dissertation  (1940),  einer  Hohen  

Medizinischen  Fakultät  der  Friedrich-­‐Schiller-­‐Universität  zu  Jena.  This  thesis  contains  photographic  
examples  of  tattoo  specimens  he  collected  post-­‐mortem.  
278  Benthien,  Skin,  pp.  81-­‐82.  

115  
 
  

  Whether  or  not  stories  such  as  those  of  the  Meudon  tannery  were  entirely  
mythologised,  or  just  exaggerated,  there  is  nevertheless  one  description,  related  by  
Villon  in  his  Treatise,  which  provides  some  useful  information  as  to  methods  for  the  
preparation  of  human  leather.  He  refers  to  Valmont  de  Bomare’s  Dictionnaire  
universelle  d’histoire  naturelle  first  published  in  1765-­‐,  which  describes  experiments  
carried  out  at  Meudon,  and  relates  the  following  recipe  for  the  tanning  of  human  skin:  
'Allow  it  to  macerate  for  several  days  in  a  wash  charged  with  alum279,  Roman  vitriol280  
and  common  salt;  take  it  out,  dry  it  in  the  shade,  then  taw  it.'281  Villon  goes  on  to  
provide  the  following  description  of  human  leather:  
 
Human   skin   is   sometimes   harsh   and   dry,   sometimes   soft   and   glossy;   its   colour  
varies   from   the   palest   pink   to   the   deepest   brown.   Its   thickness   varies   from   a  
seventieth  of  an  inch  to  a  sixth  of  an  inch,  its  greatest  thickness  being  found  over  
the  belly.  When  tanned,  it  increases  in  thickness  and  gives  a  very  tough  leather,  
fine-­‐grained  and  very  soft.282  
 
  In  the  case  of  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattooed  skins,  almost  all  conform  to  the  
former  description  of  their  tactile  properties  as  being  ‘harsh  and  dry’,  having  a  closer  
resemblance  to  parchment  than  leather.  Whilst  leather  has  traditionally  been  used  in  
the  manufacture  of  clothing  and  bookbindings,  quite  different  preservation  processes  
have  historically  been  used  in  the  production  of  parchments  used  for  writing.  The  
correspondences  between  the  skin  as  writing  surface  and  the  tattoo  as  a  form  of  
writing,  alluded  to  in  the  work  of  many  nineteenth  century  criminologists,  invites  
further  reflection  on  the  preserved  tattoos  as  a  kind  of  pre-­‐inscribed  parchment.  
 
Anthropodermic  Bibliophagy:  The  Body  As  Book  
 
In  a  1929  newspaper  interview,  French  novelist  and  poet  Anatole  France  described  his  
experience  of  watching  the  tattooed  American  dancer  Irene  Woodward  perform  on  
stage  in  Paris.  Interestingly,  he  made  repeated  and  explicit  reference  to  her  tattooed  
body  as  a  book,  whose  surface  he  variously  described  as  an  'art  gallery',  a  'handbook  of  
historical  facts',  and  a  'fleshy  textbook.'  Popularly  known  as  La  Belle  Irène,  France  

                                                                                                               
279  Alum  is  both  a  specific  chemical  compound  and  a  class  of  chemical  compounds.  The  specific  compound  is  

the  hydrated  potassium  aluminium  sulphate  (Potassium  alum)  with  the  formula  KAl(SO4)2.12H2O.  The  
wider  class  of  compounds  known  as  alums  have  the  related  empirical  formula,  AB(SO4)2.12H2O.  Ammonium  
alum  is  known  to  be  used  in  tanning.  
280  Blue,  or  roman  vitriol  is  cupric  sulphate  (or  Copper(II)  Sulphate).  
281  Villon,  Treatise  on  the  Leather  Industry,  p.  28.  
282  Ibid.,  p.  27.  

116  
 
  

related  his  experience  of  seeing  her  performance,  in  his  conversation  with  Revue  de  
France  journalist  Nicolas  Ségur:  
 
I   have   known   at   least   one   illustrated   woman.   That   was   Irène,   the   beautiful  
dancer   at   the   Eden,   who   was   much   written   about   in   the   press   [...]   her   entire  
body,   from   head   to   toe,   was   an   art   gallery,   a   handbook   of   historical   facts   [...]   I  
was   madly   curious   to   see   these   key   events   from   the   Bible   and   history   on   the  
desirable  white  body  of  La  Belle  Irène.  What  an  education  such  a  book  would  be,  
and   how   one   would   sail   through   one’s   history   exams   after   deciphering   this  
fleshy  textbook!  However,  it  was  all  in  vain.  According  to  Lemaître  at  least,  the  
beautiful  Irène  was  a  closed  octavo  book  with  just  one  reader:  her  husband.283  
 
  France's  description  of  her  as  an  octavo  book  is  particularly  suggestive:  Both  of  
her  own  diminutive  feminine  form,  framed  as  a  small  book  that  may  be  intimately  kept  
on  one's  person,  hidden  in  a  pocket;  but  also  via  the  reference  to  many  pages  created  by  
folding  one  sheet  over  and  over  on  itself,  suggesting  that  the  dancer's  body  consisted  of  
a  many  layered  skin,  whose  multiple  stories  were  concealed  through  the  'doubling  over'  
or  inversion  of  the  tattooed  skin.  This  episode  is  particularly  striking  for  its  quite  explicit  
interpretation  of  the  tattoo  as  both  text  and  image  from  which  'facts'  may  be  learned,  a  
concept  that  was  also  strongly  implied  in  the  work  of  nineteenth-­‐century  criminologists  
such  as  Lacassagne.  This  resemblance  of  the  tattoo  with  forms  of  writing  suggests  
notions  of  the  skin  as  a  parchment  on  which  a  text  may  be  written;  in  this  way  the  body  
may  be  regarded  as  a  fleshy  'book,'  which  contains  multiple  stories  that  are  continually  
unfolded  on  its  surface.  As  Steven  Connor  points  out,  'the  implication  of  the  skin  in  the  
idea  of  the  book  is  more  than  a  metaphor.  For  centuries  of  manuscript  and  book  
production,  books  were  primarily  things  of  skin,'284  having  traditionally  been  written  on  
parchment  and  bound  in  leather.    
  Writing  on  the  reading  and  handling  of  medieval  Christian  manuscripts,  Sarah  
Kay  describes  the  materiality  of  these  parchments:  
 
Just  occasionally  you  can  make  out  on  its  velvety  surface  a  trace  of  its  genesis,  
most  commonly  a  pattern  of  hair  follicles,  or  a  filigree  of  tiny  veins:  subliminal  
reminders  that  it  cannot  altogether  escape  the  time-­‐bound  world  of  mortality.285  

                                                                                                               
283  Nicolas  Ségur,  'Nouveaux  propos  d’Anatole  France',  in  Revue  de  France,  November  1929.  In  this  

interview,  France  described  the  tattoos  on  Irène's  body  in  highly  erotic  terms:  'The  beautiful  American’s  
back  allegedly  depicted  the  Battle  of  Trafalgar,  her  belly  showed  the  War  of  Seccession  and  the  Discovery  of  
America  by  Christopher  Columbus.  The  Adoration  of  the  Magi  adorned  her  chest  and  her  two  breasts  were  
the  hemispheres  of  the  globe.  Anybody  embraced  by  the  arms  of  the  beautiful  Irène  would  be  covered  by  
the  conquest  of  Mexico,  which  is  represented  on  them,  and  anyone  imprisoning  her  thighs  would  also  have  
simultaneously  captured  Jerusalem  which  adorned  them,  conquered  by  Tancredi.'  
284  Connor,  The  Book  of  Skin,  p.  42.  
285  Sarah  Kay,  'Original  Skin’:  Flaying,  Reading  and  Thinking  in  the  Legend  of  Saint  Bartholomew  and  Other  

Works',  in  Journal  of  Medieval  and  Early  Modern  Studies,  Vol.  36,  No.  1  (Winter  2006),  p.  35.  
117  
 
  

This  description  of  animal  skin  parchments  may  equally  be  applied  to  the  Wellcome  
Collection  tattoos,  whose  various  skin  adnexa  and  surface  features  attest  to  their  human  
materiality;  in  specimen  number  A670  for  instance,  the  tracery  of  fine  red  capillaries  
can  be  discerned  just  beneath  the  surface,  as  well  as  hair  follicles  and  the  protrusion  of  
a  nipple  (see  Figure  90).  Kay  describes  imperfect  parchments  variously  as  'scarred,  
blotchy,  scraped,  cut,  split,  holed,  torn,  stretched,  strained,  or  dried  to  a  hornlike  
consistency,  all  blemishes  which  are  consequent  on  the  flaying,  scraping,  stretching  and  
drying  of  hides.'286  On  precious  parchments,  the  flawed  parts  of  the  skin,  which  testify  
to  it's  animal  origins,  are  avoided  by  the  writing  block,  and  generally  appear  at  the  
limits  of  the  page.  The  materiality  of  the  parchment  is  thus  marginalised:  This  practice  
is  to  some  extent  paralleled  in  the  preparation  of  a  number  of  the  Wellcome  tattoos,  in  
which  the  frilled  and  pinned  edges  have  been  carefully  trimmed  away,  thus  minimising  
the  signs  of  their  preservation  (see  Figure  69).  In  her  discussion  of  parchment  
manuscripts  which  recount  the  martyrdom  of  saints  such  as  Bartholomew,  Kay  
considers  that  perfect  parchments  may  be  regarded  as  representing  the  immortality  of  
the  protagonists  whose  narratives  are  contained  within  the  page.  By  the  same  token,  
damaged  parchments  can  reflect  a  graphic  realisation  of  the  texts'  content  of  suffering:    
 
These  causes  of  damage  -­‐  scraping,  cutting,  splitting,  tearing,  holing,  stretching,  
drying  out  -­‐  are  all  processes  that,  inflicted  on  a  living  human  body  rather  than  
on   a   dead   animal   would   be   forms   of   torture.   Folios   bearing   defects   like   these  
thus   constitute   a   mute   doubling   of   the   kinds   of   suffering   undergone   by   the  
protagonists  of  many  of  the  texts  that  are  written  on  them.287  
 
  But  what  of  human  parchments,  such  as  those  in  the  Wellcome  collection?  These  
are  not  entities  that  can  be  presumed  to  be  'mute';  their  'texts'  are  pre-­‐inscribed  on  the  
'page',  which  in  many  cases  speak  quite  directly  of  the  suffering  of  their  protagonists  
through  tattooed  statements  such  as  Enfant  du  malheur  (Figure  6),  l'amour  fait  souffrir;  
l'envie  de  crier;  fait  courir  (specimen  number  A583,  Figure  91),  or  even  through  images,  
such  as  the  dagger-­‐through-­‐the-­‐heart,  previously  explored  in  chapter  one  (Figure  14).  
'The  wounds  in  the  parchment'  described  by  Kay,  also  recall  the  'wounded  tattoo'  
described  in  chapter  two  (specimen  number  A544,  Figure  39).  The  wounds  that  Kay  
writes  of  in  animal  parchments  are  literal  wounds  -­‐  and  just  as  larger  cuts,  holes  and  
splits  may  be  stitched  in  the  production  of  traditional  parchments288,  so  too  are  
damages  to  the  human  skins  preserved  in  the  Wellcome  collection.  Tears  such  as  the  

                                                                                                               
286  Ibid.  
287  Ibid.,  p.  36.  
288  Ibid.,  p.  35.  

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one  pictured  in  one  of  the  skins  from  the  collection  which  appear  in  the  centre  of  a  
specimen,  the  ruptured  edges  drawn  back  together  during  the  preservation  process,  call  
to  mind  the  suturing  of  wounds  (Figure  39).  In  the  case  of  medieval  texts,  Kay  
considers  that  the  symbolic  interplay  between  narrative  and  parchment  surface  
'sutures'  the  theme  of  flaying  to  the  page'289;  a  parallel  that  may  certainly  also  be  drawn  
between  anthropodermic  bindings  and  the  texts  contained  within  them.  
  Claudia  Benthien  makes  the  claim  that  in  Europe,  a  cultural  shift  took  place  from  
the  eighteenth  century  onwards,  in  which  flaying  transitioned  from  a  real-­‐life  penal  
practice  with  ‘high  iconographic  visibility’,  to  metaphor  that  'remained  in  social  
consciousness',  but  which  largely  disappeared  from  the  visual  arts.290  However,  this  
observation  does  not  seem  to  be  born  out  historically;  both  in  the  example  of  James  
Legg,  whose  body  was  actually  flayed  post-­‐mortem  as  part  of  a  penal  process  and  
manipulated  to  produce  art,  and  in  practices  of  binding  books  in  human  skin,  
particularly  the  skin  of  criminals.  Steven  Connor  writes:  
 
[…]  although  binding  in  skin  is  often  thought  of  as  a  kind  of  atavistic  barbarity,  
the   practice   does   not,   according   to   Lawrence   Thompson   at   least,   seem   to   have  
been  known  before  the  eighteenth  century.291  
 
  In  fact  it  is  during  the  early  nineteenth  century  that  some  of  the  most  well  
known  examples  of  anthropodermic  bibliophagy  originate.  In  England,  these  followed  
the  pattern  of  flaying-­‐as-­‐penal-­‐punishment,  with  a  number  of  volumes  being  bound  in  
the  skin  of  executed  criminals,  such  the  murderer  John  Horwood  in  1821.  This  binding  
survives  in  the  archives  of  the  Bristol  Record  Office  (Figure  92).  In  this  and  similar  
cases,  the  skin  was  used  to  bind  volumes  which  contained  the  reports,  case  and  trial  
notes  of  the  executed  person,  in  an  apt  gesture  of  ‘admonitory  ventriloquism’.  As  
Connor  succinctly  puts  it:  
 
As  a  mute  affidavit  of  the  authenticity  of  the  account  it  encloses,  the  skin  binding  
provides   the   same   kind   of   bodily   countersign   as   the   cross   or   thumbprint   by  
means   of   which   the   illiterate   may   make   their   attesting   marks   in   legal  
documents.   Normally,   it   is   the   legal   document   that   is   biding   upon   the   body   it  
concerns;   here   the   body’s   own   binding   seems   to   underwrite   and   circumscribe  
the  power  of  the  official  record.292  
 

                                                                                                               
289  Ibid.,  p.  38.  
290  Benthien,  Skin,  p.  81.  
291  Connor,  The  Book  of  Skin,  p.  43.  
292  Ibid.  

119  
 
  

  However,  there  is  another  factor  at  work  here,  which  involves  the  fabrication  of  
the  body  into  its  own  text  -­‐  the  text  of  a  misspent  life  which  is  re-­‐enveloped  in  that  
corporeal  symbol  of  individuation,  the  flayed  and  preserved  skin.  This  relatively  recent  
historical  practice  seems  to  have  much  in  common  with  medieval  notions  of  flaying  as  a  
form  of  'poetic'  or  exemplary  justice;  the  narrative  of  the  life  within  the  book  and  
anthropodermic  binding  together  present  a  kind  of  exemplum  justitiae  which  may  be  
summed  up  as:  'these  are  his  deeds,  and  this  is  what  became  of  him.'  Furthermore,  in  
the  case  of  anthropodermic  bindings,  'the  skin  validates  the  book,  but  the  text  must  
reach  outside  itself  to  give  its  authenticating  stamp  to  the  mute  skin  that  confines  and  
confirms  it.'293  In  other  words,  whilst  the  skin  is  recognised  as  a  bearer  of  the  social  
inscription  of  meaning,  the  cover  of  the  anthropodermic  book  must  nevertheless  
declare  itself  to  be  human  skin  through  inscriptions  such  as  Cutis  Vera  Johannis  
Horwood  (the  skin  of  John  Horwood).    
  Such  textual  anchors  are  not  necessary,  however,  if  the  skin  already  bears  an  
inscription  which  testifies  to  it’s  human  individuality  -­‐  an  inscription  such  as  a  tattoo.  In  
contrast  with  the  English,  it  is  reported  by  bibliographic  scholars  that  French  penal  
practice  was  not  so  enthusiastic  about  the  dissection  of  deceased  criminals,  with  only  
one  known  example  cited  in  the  literature  of  a  criminal  whose  skin  was  used  to  bind  a  
book  in  France  since  the  Revolution.  The  subject  of  this  binding  was  the  executed  
criminal  known  as  'Campi',  whose  real  name  was  apparently  never  revealed  to  the  
public,  and  a  portion  of  whose  skin  was  supposed  to  have  been  used  to  bind  an  account  
of  his  trial  and  dissection.294  The  whereabouts  of  this  book  is  unknown.  This  
unsubstantiated  example  aside,  it  seems  that  the  practice  of  fabricating  criminal  skins  
into  bindings  for  exemplary  moral  accounts  of  their  misdeeds  was  a  peculiarly  English  
practice.  Human  skin  bindings  were,  however,  popular  in  some  French  circles.  As  late  as  
the  1920s,  specialist  bookbinders  of  Paris  were  still  receiving  commissions  for  
anthropodermic  bindings,  some  of  which  had  particularly  interesting  features.  
Lawrence  Thomas  relates  this  particular  instance:  
 
One  lover  of  unusual  bindings,  a  Dr.  Cornil  of  the  Academy  of  Medicine,  senator  
from  L’Allier,  and  professor  of  pathological  anatomy  in  the  Faculty  of  Medicine  
in  Paris,  managed  to  find  a  tattooed  skin  portraying  two  knights  from  the  period  
of   Louis   XIII   in   single   combat,   and   he   could   think   of   nothing   more   appropriate  
than   to   order   his   copy   of   ‘The   Three   Musketeers’   bound   in   this   hide.   He   had  
another  tattooed  bit  of  human  integument  showing  a  heart  pierced  by  an  arrow,  
and   this   was   used   for   binding   his   copy   of   ‘Bubu   de   Montparnasse’.   His   binder  

                                                                                                               
293  Ibid.,  pp.  44-­‐5.  
294  Anon.,'Les  Reliures  en  Peau  Humaine',  in  La  Chronique  Médicale,  V  (1898),  p.  137.  

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was  Rene  Kieffer,  who  protected  the  worthy  doctor  by  calling  him  Dr.  V  […]  in  
his  communications  to  the  ‘Mercure  de  France’  on  the  matter...295  
 
  This  is  certainly  intriguing,  and  the  adoption  of  a  pseudonym  by  Professor  
Cornil  suggests  that  he  was  well  aware  of  the  questionable  nature  of  his  collection.  
Moreover,  'Dr.  V'  recalls  the  elusive  'Dr.  La  Valette'  or  'Lavalette',  who  met  with  
Johnston-­‐Saint  at  the  Paris  Faculté  de  Médecine,  where  Cornil  was  made  professeur  
agrègé  in  1869.  Whilst  Cornil's  death  in  1908  rules  him  out  as  the  man  who  met  with  
Johnston-­‐Saint  in  1929,  the  pathology  professor  may  have  been  involved  in  assembling  
a  tattoo  collection  at  the  Paris  school  prior  to  his  death,  which  could  then  have  been  
sold  on  by  a  colleague  or  friend  at  the  school.  In  a  speech  to  the  Société  d'Anthropologie  
de  Paris  in  1929,  Dr.  Gaston  Variot  also  comments  on  Cornil's  collection  of  
anthropodermic  books:  
 
The   notion   of   tanning   human   skin   to   preserve   it   has   existed   since   time  
immemorial,  and  lately  in  particular,  bibliophiles  have  had  the  notion  of  binding  
precious  books  with  this  rare  skin.  My  friend  Dr.  Paul  Dorveaux,  the  archivist  at  
the   Academy   of   Sciences,   has   provided   me   with   some   information   about   the   use  
of   human   skin,   which   I   reproduce   verbatim   here.   Professor   Cornil   had   several  
books   bound   in   this   way   in   his   library   collection,   which   was   broken   up   and   sent  
to  the  saleroom  after  his  death.296  
 
  Thompson  relates  a  number  of  like  reports  of  privately  commissioned  tattooed  
bindings  from  Ernest  de  Crauzat’s  French  Binding  from  1900  to  1925  (La  reliure  
française  de  1900  à  1925).  Rene  Kieffer  was  in  fact  the  dean  of  anthropodermic  
bibliopegists  in  Paris,  completing  a  number  of  special  tattooed  human  skin  bindings  for  
clients:    
 
For  R.  Messimy  he  bound  a  copy  of  Fêtes  foraines  with  an  inlaid  piece  of  human  
skin   tattooed   with   the   likeness   of   a   wrestler,   a   copy   of   Les  trois  dames  de  Kasbah  
with  inlaid  plates  of  human  skin  on  both  covers  showing  two  ladies  in  states  of  
dress   reminiscent   of   'Sacred   and   Profane   Love',  as   well   as   a   further   two   more  
tattooed  volumes.297    
 

                                                                                                               
295  Thompson,  Bibliographica  Comica,  p.  139  
296  Variot,  'Remarques  sur  l'Autopsie...',  p.  45.  Translated  from  the  French:    

‘De  temps  immémorial  on  a  eu  l'idée  de  tanner  la  peau  humaine  pour  de  faire  relier  des  livres  précieux  avec  
cette  peau  rare.  je  dois  à  mon  ami  le  Dr.  Paul  Dorveaux,  archiviste  de  l'Académie  des  Sciences,  quelques  
renseignements  sur  l'utilisation  de  la  peau  humaine,  les  reproduis  tels  quels.  Le  professeur  Cornil  avait  
plusieurs  livres  reliés  de  cette  manière  dans  sa  bibliothèque  qui  fut  dispersée  à  l'hôtel  des  ventes,  après  sa  
mort.’  
297  Thompson,  Bibliographica  Comica,  pp.  150-­‐151.    

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Messimy  is  described  by  Thompson  as  'an  indefatigable  collector  of  tattooed  
anthropodermic  bindings'.  As  well  as  commissioning  works  by  Keifer,  he  also  had  the  
book-­‐binder  De  Sambleaux-­‐Weckessen  bind  a  volume  of  Sahara  et  Sahel  'with  an  inlaid  
tattoo  of  an  equestrian  knight  of  armor.'  Such  volumes  were  frequently  bound  with  
human  skins  sought  for  the  specificity  of  their  tattooed  images  in  relation  to  the  context  
of  the  text  bound  within.  The  French  binder  Firmin-­‐Didot  also  reportedly  bound  a  copy  
of  a  Dance  of  Death  for  Edmond  Halphen  'in  the  skin  of  a  sailor  with  tattoos  portraying  
exotic  love  themes  side  by  side  with  reverent  portraits  of  superior  officers'.  According  
to  De  Crauzat,  Halphen  later  presented  this  volume  to  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale.298  
Many  of  the  tattooed  bindings  mentioned  by  De  Crauzat  and  Thompson  are  thought  to  
still  survive  in  private  collections,  and  remarkably,  De  Crauzat  reproduces  photographs  
of  some  these  in  La  Reliure  Française  (see  Figures  93  and  94).  
  In  the  case  of  British  and  French  anthropodermic  book-­‐binding,  it  is  clear  that  
different  motivations  were  at  work  in  different  national  milieus;  whereas  British  
anthropodermic  bindings  were  most  often  (but  not  always)  the  result  of  corporal  
punishment,  and  very  much  still  connected  to  the  skin  of  the  criminal,  the  French  
counterpart  to  this  practice  seems  to  have  largely  been  practiced  amongst  private  
collectors  and  doctors,  with  greater  fetishistic  value  attached  to  tattooed  human  skins.  
Benthien’s  contention  is  that  forms  of  partial  flaying,  such  as  the  Nazi  collection  of  
tattoos  at  Buchenwald,  was  not  representative  of  practices  which  ‘expose  what  is  
beneath  the  surface’,  as  was  the  case  in  anatomy,  but  rather  represented  a  symbolic  
assertion  of  power  and  fetishisation  of  the  skin  through  its  collection  and  preparation.    
  However,  it  is  difficult  to  locate  collections  such  as  the  tattooed  human  skins  of  
the  Wellcome  Collection  easily  in  either  one  category  or  the  other.  In  the  absence  of  
specific  historical  documentation  regarding  this  collection  of  nineteenth-­‐century  
tattoos,  it  is  possible  to  speculate  that  the  amassing  of  such  collections  was  in  fact  an  
attempt  to  ‘scratch  beneath  the  surface’  of  the  criminal  psyche,  through  interpretation  
of  the  surface  signs  of  the  body.  In  this  sense,  criminologists  could  be  considered  to  be  
involved  in  a  search  for  the  ‘criminal  soul’  which  lay  beneath  the  surface  of  tattooed  
other,  the  tattoos  themselves  providing  the  unmistakable  clue  to  the  deviant  or  
abnormal  psychology  within.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  perhaps  the  case  that  this  
collection  bears  more  in  common  with  tattooed  anthropodermic  bookbindings  of  the  

                                                                                                               
298  Ibid.  See  also  De  Crauzat,  La  Reliure  Française,  p.  137.  There  is  no  trace  of  such  a  volume  at  the  

Bibliotheque  Nationale  today.  

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period,  linked  with  the  criminal  body,  human  trophy  collecting  and  the  fetishization  of  
human  skin.299  
  Throughout  European  history,  the  skin  has  been  variously  invested  with  
complex  and  often  conflicting  notions  of  selfhood  and  identity,  appearing  as  a  deceptive  
cover  that  masks  the  'true'  inner  self,  representing  the  principle  of  selfhood  and  
entirety,  or  a  surface  on  which  identity  may  be  inscribed.    Once  the  skin  is  removed  
from  the  body,  these  meanings  are  complicated  further:  The  flayed  skin  is  encountered  
historically  in  practices  and  narratives  of  exemplary  torture  and  execution;  as  a  barrier  
which  must  be  breached  in  the  pursuit  anatomical  and  medical  knowledge  in  the  visual  
arts  and  medicine;  as  a  healing  relic  whose  deathly  touch  can  restore  the  skin  of  the  
living  in  folk  medicine;  as  a  trophy  of  war  or  justice  done;  or  as  an  especially  fetishised  
raw  material  for  the  manufacture  of  rare  luxury  goods.  To  conclude,  the  complex  and  
shifting  cultural  meanings  of  the  flayed  skin  discussed  in  this  chapter  inform  and  enact  
the  kinds  of  entities  that  collections  of  preserved  tattoo  skins  may  become  through  their  
shifting  use,  display  and  assembly  into  collections:  'trophies,  souvenirs,  sources  of  
knowledge,  things  to  possess  and  trade,  deceased  relatives,  scientific  data,  once  living  
persons,  traces  of  previous  violence,  channels  of  communication,  potent  political  
substance  and  remains  of  ancestors.'300  
 
     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                                                                               
299  The  Pranzini  case  discussed  in  chapter  two  would  seem  to  be  the  archetypal  example  which  involves  all  

three  of  these  elements.  

300Hallam,  'Articulating  Bones',  p.  465.  

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CHAPTER  FOUR:  
Collecting  and  the  Body  in  the  Archive  
 
Having  looked  at  the  various  historical  contexts  of  flaying  and  the  fabrication  of  human  
skin  into  objects  of  use,  as  well  as  considering  the  specific  materiality  of  the  Wellcome  
Collection  tattoos,  I  will  now  focus  upon  the  particular  collecting  practices  involved  in  
assembling  the  collection.  As  I  have  shown,  material  analysis  of  the  collection  raises  
many  questions,  and  provides  some  answers;  particularly  in  terms  of  preparation  
techniques,  and  who  may  have  been  interested  in  preserving  tattooed  human  skin  
during  the  late  nineteenth  century.  But  in  considering  the  complex  motivations  for  
collecting  the  tattoos,  another  approach  must  be  sought.  With  these  questions  in  mind,  
it  is  necessary  to  locate  the  Wellcome  tattooed  skins  -­‐  and  indeed  the  tattoo  and  tattoo  
collections  more  generally  -­‐  within  the  broader  context  of  the  collecting  cultures  of  the  
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries.  Thus  the  exploration  and  analysis  of  comparative  
collections  of  tattooed  human  remains,  as  well  as  iconographic  collections  of  tattoos  in  
the  form  of  drawings,  photographs  and  waxes  also  constitute  a  significant  part  of  my  
discussion.  Finally,  this  chapter  looks  at  the  ways  in  which  different  collecting  practices  
enact  the  tattoo  in  multiple  ways  and  for  different  discursive  purposes,  considering  
their  fabrication  into  museum  artefacts  in  terms  of  Bruno  Latour's  concept  of  the  
immutable  mobile.301  Particular  attention  will  be  paid  to  the  sites  in  which  tattoos  are  
encountered,  such  as  the  clinic,  the  prison  or  police  archive,  the  pathology  lab,  and  the  
criminological  museum,  opening  up  the  discussion  of  medical  and  criminological  
discourses  surrounding  the  tattoo  in  chapter  five.  
  Beginning  with  the  tattoo  collectors,  it  is  important  to  identify  the  contexts  in  
which  the  tattoo  is  first  acquired.  As  I  will  demonstrate,  becoming  tattooed  in  the  
European  context  may  in  itself  be  regarded  as  a  form  of  collecting.  Initially,  the  itinerant  
tattooee,  classically  the  sailor  or  soldier,  acquires  on  their  travels  various  tattoo  marks  
as  souvenirs.  Later,  following  the  death  of  the  tattooed,  another  collector  selects,  
excises,  prepares  and  collates  the  tattoos  for  a  private  or  institutional  collection,  
ostensibly  for  academic  study.302  Time  passes,  academic  interests  shift  and  change  -­‐  
some  schools  of  thought  fall  out  of  favour  or  are  discredited,  and  tattooing  ceases  to  be  
an  active  study  concern  in  disciplines  such  as  criminology.  The  collection  is  sold,  and  

                                                                                                               
301  Bruno  Latour,  ‘Visualisation  and  Cognition:  Drawing  Things  Together’  in,  H.  Kuklick  (ed.),  Knowledge  

and  Society  Studies  in  the  Sociology  of  Culture  Past  and  Present  ,  Jai  Press,  Vol.  6  (1986),  pp.  1-­‐40  
302  As  previously  explored  in  chapter  three  in  some  depth,  it  seems  more  than  likely  that  there  was  an  

element  of  fetishisation  at  play  behind  the  collection  of  tattooed  human  skin  even  within  academic  
contexts.  Specific  instances  of  this  form  of  collecting  will  be  examined  further  in  this  chapter.  
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absorbed  into  yet  another  collection,  that  of  the  museum  -­‐  the  repository  for  curious  
relics  of  past  human  endeavour.  Thus  with  each  shift  in  location,  or  site  of  enactment  -­‐  
living  body,  medical  teaching  collection  or  cabinet  of  curiosity,  and  public  institution  -­‐  it  
is  possible  to  see  that  the  meanings  ascribed  to  these  objects  metamorphoses  also,  
thereby  complicating  the  question  of  why  and  for  what  purpose  they  were  assembled.    
  In  what  follows,  I  will  aim  to  demonstrate  how  the  tattoos  of  the  Wellcome  
Collection  were  collected  in  multiple  senses  and  in  more  than  one  instance,  in  each  case  
enacting  a  different  conception  of  the  tattoo  and  the  collection,  enlisting  examples  of  
comparative  collections  in  order  to  historically  locate  the  tattoos  within  their  sites  of  
enactment.    
 
The  First  Collectors:  The  Tattooed  
 
The  earliest  documented  incidence  of  the  collection  of  a  tattooed  human  skin  dates  
from  seventeenth-­‐century  England.  This  skin,  now  lost,  belonged  to  a  native  of  the  
island  Meangis  known  as  'Prince  Giolo'  or  'Jeoly',  who  was  transported  to  England  in  
1691  by  explorer-­‐adventurer  William  Dampier.303    Jeoly's  entire  body  was  tattooed  with  
the  elaborate  geometric  markings,  which  resemble  traditional  Micronesian  tattoos  of  
the  Caroline  and  Palau  Islands,304  as  well  as  sharing  formal  similarities  with  Marquesan  
te  patu  tiki,305  which  Dampier  describes  in  the  account  of  his  travels,  A  New  Voyage  
Around  the  World:  
 
He   was   painted   all   down   the   Breast,   between   his   Shoulders   behind;   on   his  
Thighs   (mostly)   before;   and   in   the   Form   of   several   broad   Rings,   or   Bracelets  
round  his  Arms  and  Legs.  I  cannot  liken  the  Drawings  to  any  Figure  of  Animals,  
or  the  like;  but  they  were  very  curious,  full  of  great  variety  of  Lines,  Flourishes,  
Chequered-­‐Work,   &c.   keeping   a   very   graceful   Proportion,   and   appearing   very  
artificial,  even  to  Wonder,  especially  that  upon  and  between  his  Shoulder-­‐blades  
[...]   I   understood   that   the   Painting   was   done   in   the   same   manner,   as   the  
Jerusalem  Cross   is   made   in   Mens   Arms,   by   pricking   the   Skin,   and   rubbing   in   a  
Pigment.306    
 

                                                                                                               
303  Meangis  is  the  seventeenth-­‐century  name  given  by  Dampier;  this  is  almost  certainly  the  present  day  

island  of  Miangas,  also  known  as  Palmas,  part  of  the  Talaud  Islands  archipelago  in  Indonesia.    
304  See  Tricia  Allen,  'European  Explorers  and  Marquesan  Tattooing:  The  Wildest  Island  Style'  in  D.  E.  Hardy  

(ed.)  Tattootime  Volume  V:  Art  from  the  Heart  (1991),  pp.  86-­‐101;  also  Kotondo  Hasebe,  'The  Tattooing  of  
the  Western  Micronesians',  in  The  Journal  of  the  Anthropological  Society  of  Tokyo  Vol.  XLIII,  No.s  483-­‐494  
(1928),  pp.  129-­‐152  (in  Japanese).  
305  Te  patu  tiki  is  the  common  term  for  indelible  body  marking  in  the  Marquesan  language,  meaning  to  

'wrap  in  images'.  

306  William  Dampier,  cited  in  Geraldine  Barnes,  'Curiosity,  Wonder  and  William  Dampier's  Painted  Prince',  

in  Journal  for  Early  Modern  Cultural  Studies,  Vol.  6,  No.  1  (Spring/Summer  2006),  pp.  37-­‐38.  
125  
 
  

Having  failed  in  his  mission  to  discover  unexploited  spice  and  gold  wealth  in  the  Spice  
Islands,  Dampier  found  in  his  'Painted  Prince'  Jeoly  ample  compensation  as  a  
marketable  curiosity  on  his  return  to  England.307  His  ambitions  were  thwarted  on  his  
arrival  home,  however,  when  financial  exigency  forced  him  to  sell  Jeoly  on  to  other  
interested  parties.  Jeoly  thus  began  a  new  and  short-­‐lived  career  'as  a  sight'  at  the  Blue  
Boar's  Head  Inn  on  Fleet  Street  in  London.  The  broadsheet  advertising  his  public  
appearances  from  June  1692  includes  an  illustration  by  John  Savage,  which  represents  
the  elaborate  tattoos  over  the  front  portion  of  Jeoly's  body  in  some  detail  (Figure  95).  
The  tattoos  depicted  in  this  illustration  are  similar  to  tattoo  designs  recorded  by  other  
visitors  to  the  Marquesas  in  the  early  nineteenth  century,  such  as  the  1804  engraving  of  
a  tattooed  inhabitant  of  Nuku  Hiva  (Figure  96),  based  on  drawings  by  artists  on  the  
first  Russian  circumnavigation  lead  by  Ivan  Kruzenshtern,  captain  of  the  Nadezhda.308  A  
brief  handwritten  account  of  Jeoly's  life    -­‐  and  his  death  in  Oxford  -­‐  is  recorded  by  the  
chaplain  of  Merton  College,  John  Pointer,  and  preserved  among  the  manuscripts  
collections  at  St  Johns  College  Library  at  Oxford  University:  
 
This  Indian  Prince  (whose  Body  was  thus  curiously  painted)  was  taken  prisoner  
by  an  English  Man  of  War  as  he  and  his  Mother  were  going  out  upon  the  sea  in  a  
Pleasure-­‐boat.   His   Mother   died   on   ship-­‐board;   at   which   the   Prince   her   Son  
show'd   abundance   of   concern   and   sorrow.   His   language   was   unintelligible.   He  
was  about  30  years  of  age,  and  well  shaped.  He  was  shown  for  a  Sight,  his  Body  
being  so  curiously  painted.  This  more  Sham'd  to  those  that  so  expos'd  him,  one  
of   the   Royal   Blood.   Being   brought   to   Oxford,   he   fell   sick   of   the   Small-­‐Pox   and  
there  dy'd,  and  was  buried  in  the  Churchyard  ^in  1694.  His  Skin  was  taken  off  
by   Mr.   Poynter   the   Surgeon   at   the   desire   of   the   University   who   was   willing   to  
have   it   preserved   in   the   Anatomy-­‐School.   See   a   further   Account   of   him   in  
Dampiers  travels.309  
 
  Preserved  human  skins  had  been  put  on  display  as  curiosities  in  anatomical  
cabinets  throughout  the  seventeenth  century;  four  items  of  human  skin  were  exhibited  
at  the  Kabinet  Van  Anatomie  in  Leiden,  for  instance.310  In  the  anatomy  school  at  Oxford  
University,  a  number  of  human  skin  specimens  were  preserved  and  recorded  in  
seventeenth-­‐century  inventories  of  the  collections.  Such  descriptions  as  "A  piece  of  a  
womans  skin  Tanned",  and  "The  Skin  of  a  man  stuff'd  with  the  Hair  on  his  head",  are  

                                                                                                               
307  For  a  critical  discussion  of  Dampier's  account  of  Jeoly,  see  Barnes,  'Curiosity,  Wonder  and  William  

Dampier's  Painted  Prince'.  

308  See  Elena  Govor,  '"Speckled  Bodies"':  Russian  Voyagers  and  Nuku  Hivans,  1804',  in  Nicholas  Thomas  et  

al  (eds.),  Tattoo:  Bodies,  Art  and  Exchange  in  the  Pacific  and  the  West  (London:  Reaktion,  2004),  pp.  53-­‐71;  
this  engraving  is  also  reproduced  in  Nicholas  Thomas'  introduction  to  the  same  volume,  pp.    9-­‐10.  
309  John  Pointer,  Manuscripts,  St  Johns  College  Oxford,  MS253  Volume  4:  Folio  23.  
310  Arthur  MacGregor,  'Collectors  and  Collections  of  Rarities  in  the  Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centuries',  in  

Arthur  MacGregor  (ed.),  Tradescant's  Rarities:  Essays  on  the  Foundation  of  the  Ashmolean  Museum  1683,  
(Oxford:  Clarendon  Press,  1983),  p.  78.  
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listed  by  historian  of  science  and  founder  of  the  Museum  of  the  History  of  Science  at  
Oxford,  Robert  Theodore  Gunther.311  The  fragment  of  Jeoly's  skin  described  by  Pointer  
seems,  however,  not  to  have  survived.  In  her  discussion  of  the  collection  and  what  
became  of  this  particular  fragment  of  tattooed  skin,  early  modern  cultural  historian  
Geraldine  Barnes  notes  that:    
 
Unsystematic   cataloguing   and   lax   security   in   the   Anatomy   School   might   well  
have   resulted   in   the   disappearance   of   this   particular   natural   rarity   into   the  
hands  of  a  private  collector  or  collectors.312  
 
  This  episode  establishes  an  earlier  form  of  tattoo  collecting  which  encoded  the  
tattooed  skin  of  the  native  as  a  curiosity  of  potential  anatomical  interest.  Although  
extant  skins  of  this  type  are  uncommon  within  contemporary  museum  collections  
(discounting  ancient  tattooed  mummies  in  Russian,  Egyptian  and  European  collections  
that  have  been  excavated  from  archaeological  burial  sites),  there  is  one  example  of  an  
anomalous  tattooed  skin  at  the  anthropology  department  of  the  Muséum  National  
d'Histoire  Naturelle  (MNHN).  This  collection,  perhaps  the  best  comparative  exemplar  
for  the  Wellcome  Collection,  contains  many  examples  of  late  nineteenth  and  early  
twentieth-­‐century  tattoos  of  European  origin.  One  particular  piece  is  conspicuously  
different,  however:  This  large  fragment  of  skin  was  excised  from  the  right  side  of  the  
chest,  on  which  a  nipple  is  visible,  extending  all  the  way  down  to  the  hip,  preserving  the  
skin  of  the  abdomen,  as  well  as  the  right  shoulder,  a  portion  of  the  upper  arm,  and  part  
of  the  back  over  the  shoulder  blade.  The  skin  is  notably  darker  in  colour  than  the  other  
specimens  in  the  collection,  appearing  quite  brown;  the  tattoos  cover  a  significant  
portion  of  the  skin  fragment,  which  has  been  cut  economically  to  follow  the  form  of  the  
tattoos.  These  are  black,  consisting  of  a  distinctive  tribal  pattern  incorporating  
geometric  shapes  and  abstracted  zoomorphic  forms  (Figure  97).313  Collection  records  
indicate  that  the  provenance  of  this  tattoo  is  Laos;  thus  this  specimen  falls  into  a  
different  category  of  ethnographic  and  iconographic  interest  to  the  other  tattoos  within  
the  MNHN  Anthropology  Department  collection.  
  Etymologically,  the  word  tattoo  and  associated  terms  in  European  languages  
(such  as  the  French  tatouage)  derive  from  the  Tahitian  word  tatau,  an  onomatopeic  
word  meaning  to  strike,  mark  or  tattoo.  The  terms  tattow  and  tattoo  first  appear  in  
English  in  1771,  in  the  published  accounts  of  Captain  James  Cook's  voyages  to  the  South  

                                                                                                               
311  R.  T.  Gunther,  Early  Science  in  Oxford,  Vol.  3  (1925),  pp.  260-­‐264.  
312  Barnes,  'Curiosity,  Wonder  and  William  Dampier's  Painted  Prince’,  p.  45.  
313  MNHN  collection  records  indicate  that  this  specimen  originated  from  Laos,  and  was  donated  by  a  'Mr.  

Rouffiandies',  whose  collection  dated  from  c.1906-­‐1919.  

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Seas.314  Although  the  Pacific  encounter  had  a  significant  effect  upon  wider  European  
consciousness  of  tattooing  practices,  these  experiences  were  not,  as  has  been  claimed  
by  some  authors,  the  originary  point  for  European  tattooing.  According  to  Jane  Caplan  
and  others,  the  historical  material  points  rather  to  a  process  of  'convergence  and  
reinforcement',  in  which  the  tattoo  was  'propelled  into  a  new  quality  of  visibility  from  
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century.'315  Written  accounts  in  the  journals  of  early  explorers  
and  sailors  sometimes  reveal  their  familiarity  with  similar  practices  in  Europe;  thus  it  
seems  more  than  likely  that  European  encounters  with  Pacific  tattooing  reinvigorated  
latent  European  tattooing  practices.  These  accounts  are  invaluable  in  reconstructing  
early  European  experiences  of  tattooing  within  specific  milieu.  
  In  most  cases,  however,  it  is  impossible  to  know  many  aspects  of  the  lives  of  
tattooed  European  sailors,  soldiers,  and  workingmen,  since  they  seldom  left  behind  
written  personal  histories  -­‐  save  for  the  words  and  images  they  inscribed  into  their  
flesh.316  Nevertheless,  it  is  with  these  historically  obscured  individuals  that  we  must  
begin.  The  sailor  or  marines,  (and  to  a  lesser  extent  soldier’s)  tattoo  can  now  be  
regarded  as  iconic,  both  in  broad  cultural  terms  and  within  tattoo  art  practice  -­‐  indeed,  
this  category  of  images  could  now  be  said  to  have  become  a  genre  within  the  corpus  of  
contemporary  European  tattoo  iconography.317  Collections  of  tattooed  images  bound  up  
with  seafaring  life,  (such  as  those  seen  in  specimen  number  A585,  Figure  99)  are  
emblematic  of  early  sailor  tattoos  -­‐  a  fouled  anchor,  possibly  indicative  of  rank;318  the  
pierced  heart  symbolising  betrayal  in  love,  a  common  woe  of  the  sailor  away  at  sea  for  
long  stretches  of  time;  creatures  of  the  sea;  and  the  bearer’s  name,  inscribed  to  provide  
an  identifying  mark  in  the  event  of  death.  It  is  often  difficult  to  determine  whether  such  
tattoos  belonged  to  ordinary  civilian  seamen  or  men  enlisted  in  the  marines  corps:  In  
his  1881  study  Le  Tatouage,  criminologist  Alexandre  Lacassagne  lists  numerous  
professional  tattoo  emblems,  describing  the  variations  these  professional  motifs  may  
take.  Under  the  category  "Marine"  for  instance,  he  lists  tattooed  inscriptions  of  the  word  
marine;  fouled  anchors;  anchors;  the  figure  of  a  sailor;  a  ship  and  fouled  anchor;  and  
naval  insignia  consisting  of  a  barrel  and  axe,  all  as  possible  variants.319  The  Wellcome  
Collection  contains  a  number  of  tattoos  of  naval  insignia  -­‐  specimen  number  A689  for  
                                                                                                               
314  Nicholas  Thomas:  'Introduction',  in  Thomas,Tattoo,  p.  7.      
315  Caplan,  'Introduction',  in  Caplan,  Written  on  the  Body,  p.  xx.  
316  The  notion  of  tattooing  as  a  form  of  body-­‐writing  or  personal  memoire  is  explored  by  Philippe  Artières  

in  his  book  A  Fleur  de  Peau.  Médecins,  Tatouages,  et  Tatoués  1880-­‐1910  (Paris:  Editions  Allia,  2004).  
317  See,  for  example,  the  classic  twentieth  century  tattoo  flash  by  American  tattooist  "Sailor  Jerry"  Norman  

Keith  Collins  (Figure  98),  who  was  himself  a  sailor  in  the  United  States  Navy  from  the  age  of  19.  He  was  
one  of  the  twentieth  century's  most  famous  tattooists,  and  made  his  name  as  a  professional  tattooist  to  
sailors.  
318  The  fouled  anchor  is  often  associated  with  the  Chief  Petty  Officer.  
319  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  Les  Tatouages,  étude  anthropologique  et  médico-­‐légale  (1881),  p.  47.  

128  
 
  

example  is  tattooed  with  a  fouled  anchor,320  the  year  "1883"  and  the  designation  "1er  
MNE"  (First  Marine  Corps),  (Figure  100).    Men  employed  as  sailors,  or  more  likely  in  
naval  regiments  of  the  armed  forces,  make  up  a  small  but  relatively  unambiguous  
percentage  of  the  occupations  represented  within  the  collection.  Traditionally,  this  
group  has  also  been  among  the  most  enthusiastic  of  tattoo  collectors  in  Europe.  
Commenting  upon  the  acquisition  of  tattoo  marks  by  European  sailors  visiting  
Polynesia  in  the  eighteenth  century,  historical  anthropologist  Nicholas  Thomas  makes  
the  following  observation:  
 
Whereas  objects  gathered  might  be  lost,  broken  or  sold,  and  could  only  ever  be  
tenuously  connected  with  one’s  person  and  uncertain  in  their  significance,  your  
tattoo   is   not   only   ineradicable   and   inalienable,   it   is   unambiguously   part   of  
you.321  
 
Thomas  explicitly  likens  the  act  of  becoming  tattooed  to  a  form  of  collecting;  
specifically,  he  views  the  tattoo  in  this  context  as  a  bodily  inscription  that  records  the  
trace  of  an  encounter.  Following  on  from  this  argument,  it  is  further  more  useful  to  
conceptualise  the  tattoo  with  Bruno  Latour  and  Simon  Schaffer  as  a  kind  of  ‘immutable  
mobile’322:  it  is  mobile  insofar  as  the  tattooed  body  travels,  in  this  case  the  body  of  the  
sailor  who  brings  home  proof  of  an  ethnographic  encounter;  and  it  is  immutable  by  its  
very  nature  as  a  permanent  mark.  The  emergence  of  ‘a  novel  tattoo  fashion’  amongst  
the  ordinary  seamen  who  made  up  the  crew  of  Cook’s  Endeavour  in  1769  can  be  
contextualised  within  a  broader  shipboard  collecting  culture,  in  which  all  crew  were  
encouraged  to  participate  in  the  gathering  of  cartographic  and  navigational  data.323  
Simon  Schaffer  has  shown  how  the  European  tendency  during  this  period  of  exploration  
and  information  gathering  was  to  interpret  Polynesian  tattooing  as  a  form  of  writing.324  
Given  the  scientific  remit  of  voyages  such  as  Cook’s  it  is  thus  easy  to  imagine  how,  for  
the  common  sailor  who  may  not  possess  a  great  deal  of  literacy,  'tattooing  became  a  
form  of  peculiarly  apt  collection,  an  inventory  of  signs  both  mobile  and  exquisitely  
immutable.'325  
  It  was  not  only  the  common  sailors  on  early  voyages  who  were  tattooed,  
however.  Sydney  Parkinson,  the  artist  responsible  for  producing  iconic  images  of  

                                                                                                               
320  This  particular  naval  symbol  dates  back  to  1588,  when  it  was  used  as  the  official  seal  of  Lord  Howard  

Effingham,  the  Lord  Admiral  of  Great  Britain.  It  has  since  become  a  universal  symbol  for  naval  forces  
around  the  world.  
321  Thomas,  Tattoo,  p.  20.  
322  See  Latour,  Visualisation  and  Cognition.  
323  Thomas,  Tattoo,  p.  19.      
324  Schaffer,  '“On  Seeing  Me  Write”',  p.  93.    
325  Ibid.,  p.  100.  

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tattooed  Māoris  on  the  Cook  voyages,  was  apparently  not  merely  an  ethnographic  
observer,  but  was  himself  tattooed  whilst  moored  at  Tahiti:  
 
[Myself]  and  some  others  in  our  company  underwent  the  operation,  and  had  our  
arms   marked:   the   stain   left   in   the   skin,   which   cannot   be   effaced   without  
destroying  it,  is  of  a  lively  bluish  purple,  similar  to  that  made  upon  the  skin  by  
gun-­‐powder.326  
 
According  to  historical  anthropologist  Bronwen  Douglas,  this  transcultural  exchange  
'inaugurated  a  famous  nautical  tradition  that  made  a  tattoo  the  badge  of  a  voyage  to  
Polynesia  in  the  eighteenth  century.'327  Numerous  accounts  of  these  encounters  may  be  
found  in  the  travel  diaries  of  the  men  who  participated  in  pioneering  European  voyages  
around  the  globe.  As  Joanna  White  observes:    
 
Journals   from   the   period   [reveal]   how,   for   the   gentlemen   professionals   and  
some  of  the  sailors  who  travelled  on  board  ships  to  the  Pacific,  the  experience  of  
being  tattooed  was  a  novel  activity,  engaged  in  out  of  curiosity.328  
 
Whilst  tattooing  may  have  been  a  'novel  activity'  for  some  of  these  crews,  others  were  
already  familiar  with  the  practice.  Journal  records  occasionally  disclose  an  acquaintance  
with  tattooing  procedures  as  practiced  at  home;  the  Frenchman  Jean  Pottier  de  l'Horme,  
for  instance,  arriving  in  Doubtless  Bay  onboard  the  St  Jean  Baptiste  nine  days  after  Cook  
had  passed,  remarked  that  the  indelible  black  body  marking  of  the  Māori  were  'inlaid  in  
the  skin  in  the  same  way  that  some  people  have  crosses  inlaid  on  their  arms.'329  These  
comments  strongly  suggest  that  l'Horme  was  well  aware  of  analogous  European  
tattooing  practices,  and  it  seems  probable  that  he  was  referring  to  the  long-­‐standing  
tradition  of  Christian  pilgrimage  tattooing.  It  was  perhaps  this  latent  awareness  of  
similar  tattooing  customs  at  home  that  contributed  to  the  rapid  appropriation  and  
adaptation  of  indigenous  tattooing  motifs.  In  some  cases,  tattoo  designs  that  served  as  a  
mark  of  distinction  among  certain  tribes  and  groups  were  adopted  by  European  sailors  
for  their  own  purposes.  For  instance,  John  Elliott,  a  mid-­‐shipman  on  board  the  
Resolution  during  Cook's  second  voyage,  describes  how  he  and  his  messmates  were  
collectively  tattooed  during  their  visit  to  Borabora  in  the  Society  Islands:  
                                                                                                               
326  Sydney  Parkinson,  A  Journal  of  a  Voyage  to  the  South  Seas  in  his  Majesty's  Ship,  the  'Endeavour'  (1773),  p.  

25.  
327  Bronwen  Douglas,  '"Cureous  Figures":  European  Voyagers  and  Tatau/Tattoo  in  Polynesia,  1595-­‐1800'  in  

Thomas,  Tattoo,  p.  44.  

328  Joanna  White,  'Marks  of  Transgression:  The  Tattooing  of  Europeans  in  the  Pacific  Islands',  in  Thomas,  

Tattoo,  p.  74.  

329  Jean  Pottier  de  l'Horme,  'Extrait  du  journal  de  Pottier  de  l'Horne  [sic],  lieutenant  du  vaisseau  le  St  Jean  

Baptiste  pour  le  voyage  des  découvertes  dans  le  sud  commencé  en  1769  et  fini  en  1773',  in  Robert  McNab  
(ed.),  Historical  Records  of  New  Zealand,  Vol.  II,  (Wellington,  1914),  pp.  322-­‐324.  
130  
 
  

 
[...]   all   our   Mess   conceived   the   idea   of   having   some   mark   put   on   ourselves,   as  
connecting   us   together,   as   well   as   to   commemorate   our   having   been   at   Otaheite.  
For   which   purpose   we   determined   on   having   a   compleat   Star   drawn   and   then  
tattowed   with   black,   the   same   way   as   the   Natives   are   tattowed,   upon   our   left  
Breast,  and  painful  as  this  operation  was,  we  all  underwent  it,  and  each  have  a  
very  handsome  Black  Star  on  our  left  Breast,  the  size  of  a  Crown  piece.330  
 
The  black  star  motif  adopted  by  Elliott  and  his  messmates  was  perhaps  similar  to  the  
black  star  tattoo  seen  in  specimen  number  A721  (Figure  101).  This  particular  tattooed  
star  is  unusual  -­‐  most  stars  within  the  collection  are  nautical  stars,  which  feature  two  
overlaid  four  point  stars,  referencing  the  four  major  points  and  four  midpoints  of  a  
compass  (see  for  example,  specimen  number  A779,  Figure  102).  Sailors  and  marines  
traditionally  wore  the  nautical  star  as  a  talisman  to  protect  against  being  lost  at  sea.  A  
further  example  of  the  eight-­‐point  nautical  star  can  be  found  in  specimen  number  A584  
(Figure  37).  Elliott's  account  reveals  how  tattooing  was  in  some  cases  adopted  amongst  
European  sailors  as  a  'multi-­‐referential'  practice:  The  tattoo  could  enact  a  common  
bond  amongst  the  crew,  'connecting  us  together',  as  well  as  functioning  as  a  souvenir  of  
the  voyage.  White  notes  that  this  'dual  expressive  potential'  of  tattooing  held  particular  
appeal  for  European  sailors  who  possessed  little  in  the  way  of  personal  possessions,  
and  for  whom  the  forming  close  social  bonds  with  one's  crewmates  was  necessitated  by  
the  extended  periods  spent  together  away  from  home  and  in  close  quarters.331  In  this  
context,  the  mutual  experience  of  acquiring  a  tattoo  could  help  to  cement  social  
relationships,  whilst  the  permanent  mark  was  a  souvenir  that  one  could  unambiguously  
call  one's  own.  
  The  notion  of  collecting  is  thus  ingrained  in  established  European  tattooing  
traditions  that  record  experiences  of  travel,  present  in  the  Christian  pilgrimage  tattoo  
and  the  sailor's  tattoo  alike.  Moreover,  the  notion  of  marking  novel  experiences  or  
ethnographic  encounters  on  the  body  is  also  reflected  in  the  iconographic  or  formal  
pattern  of  European  tattooing,  which  can  appear  on  the  body  as  a  'collection'  of  motifs.  
The  tattooed  skin  specimen  shown  in  Figure  25  is  an  exceptional  example  of  a  
'collection'  of  tattoos;  twenty  individual  designs,  grouped  tightly  together  and  arranged  
to  balance  the  relative  scale  of  each  image,  jostle  over  what  was  one  half  of  the  chest  in  
a  space  almost  twenty-­‐one  centimetres  by  sixteen.  In  contrast  with  the  distinctive  
Japanese  form  of  tattooing,  or  irezumi,  which  emerged  during  the  Edo  period  (1600-­‐
1868),  the  European  individual  tended  to  be  tattooed  with  a  number  of  different,  
                                                                                                               
330  John  Elliott,  in  Captain  Cook's  Second  Voyage:  The  Journals  of  Lieutenants  Elliott  and  Pickersgill,  (ed.)  

Christine  Holmes  (1984),  p.  20.      

331  White,  'Marks  of  Transgression',  pp.  74-­‐75.  

131  
 
  

isolated  designs  that  were  not  necessarily  thematically  linked  and  could  be  added  to  
over  time.  The  development  of  the  Japanese  style,  by  comparison,  was  strongly  
influenced  by  woodblock  illustrations  depicting  characters  and  scenes  from  the  popular  
Chinese  novel  Suikoden  by  the  fourteenth-­‐century  writer  Shi  Nai'an  (translated  as  
Water  Margin  in  English).  Thus  irezumi  was  intrinsically  connected  with  the  broader  
cultural  field  of  narrative  and  pictorial  arts;  the  tattoo  in  this  context  was  conceived  
both  thematically  and  ergonomically  as  a  single  work  of  art  that  would  be  applied  to  the  
skin  over  a  number  of  sessions  (see  Figure  103).  In  contradistinction  to  the  Japanese  
form  of  tattooing,  it  is  possible  to  view  eighteenth-­‐  and  nineteenth-­‐century  European  
tattooing  as  a  process  of  curio  collecting:  The  more  tattooed  souvenirs  one  possessed,  
the  more  the  body  came  be  viewed  as  ‘exotic’  and  strange.  This  is  most  evident  in  the  
case  of  those  who  took  their  tattoo  collecting  to  the  extent  of  acquiring  entire  body  
coverage.  The  bodies  of  the  European  and  American  Tattooed  Man  or  Lady  thus  became  
living,  breathing  ‘cabinets  of  curiosities’,  from  which  they  could  make  a  living  as  
performers  at  fairs,  sideshows  and  circuses  (see,  for  example,  the  postcard  of  American  
tattooed  brother  and  sister  double  act,  Frank  and  Annie  Howard,  Figure  104).  Whilst  
many  tattooed  performers  did  employ  narrative  in  their  acts,  often  inventing  outlandish  
and  dramatic  stories  of  kidnap  and  forcible  tattooing  at  the  hands  of  'savage'  natives  in  
far-­‐flung  exotic  lands,332  the  element  of  narrative  in  European  tattooing  is  marked  by  its  
mutability  and  fluidity.  This  tendency  emerges  as  a  consequence  of  the  multifarious  
possible  narrative  linkages  between  many  distinct  motifs;  a  tendency  which  I  have  
already  touched  upon  in  relation  to  the  reading  of  Fromain's  tattoos  in  chapter  one.  
Further  inference  that  tattooing  and  storytelling  were  linked  in  the  popular  European  
imagination  may  be  drawn  from  the  comments  of  Anatole  France  made  in  the  Revue  de  
France,  in  which  he  described  the  tattooed  body  of  La  Belle  Irène  as  a  beautiful  
illustrated  book.333  
  A  particularly  interesting  collection  of  nineteenth-­‐century  French  tattoo  motifs  
can  be  found  in  the  fonds  Lacassagne  at  the  Bibliothèque  Municipale  de  Lyon,  collated  in  
a  rare  design  album  dated  1889,  which  once  belonged  to  a  Lyonnaise  tattooer  (see  
Figure  56;  also  Figure  7).  On  one  page  in  this  book,  we  see  a  collection  of  different  
tattoo  motifs,  sketched  over  the  tattooer's  impression  of  a  male  torso  (see  Figure  105).  

                                                                                                               
332  This  was  a  common  trope  among  the  earliest  tattooed  European  and  American  performers:  The  

Englishman  John  Rutherford  who  travelled  with  a  'caravan  of  wonders'  in  the  1820s  and  1830s  for  instance  
claimed  that  he  had  been  taken  captive  by  Māoris  in  New  Zealand  in  1816  and  forcibly  tattooed.  On  early  
European  and  American  tattooed  performers  see  Stephan  Oettermann,  'On  Display:  Tattooed  Entertainers  
in  America  and  Germany',  in  Caplan  (ed.)  Written  on  the  Body,  pp.193-­‐211.  
333  Nicolas  Ségur,  'Nouveaux  propos  d’Anatole  France',  in  Revue  de  France,  November  1929.  See  my  

previous  discussion  of  this  episode  in  chapter  three,  p.  137.  
132  
 
  

It  is  highly  unlikely  that  this  drawing  represents  the  selection  and  placing  of  tattoos  on  
a  specific  client;  the  sketch  was  not  intended  to  be  a  portrait  or  'life  drawing',  but  was  
rather  a  portfolio  of  designs  belonging  to  a  professional  tattooer,  used  to  display  his  
wares.  Moreover,  this  drawing  presents  us  with  a  remarkable  example  of  the  traditional  
pattern  of  European  tattoo  acquisition:  Unlike  twentieth-­‐century  and  contemporary  
tattoo  flash  sheets,  which  include  a  number  of  isolated  designs  on  a  flat  white  ground  
(see,  for  example,  Figure  98),  the  unnamed  nineteenth-­‐century  Lyonnaise  tattooer  has  
arranged  a  selection  of  isolated  motifs  over  a  background  sketch  of  a  specific  body  
part334;  not  only  presenting  an  array  of  tattoo  design  choices  to  his  clients,  but  also  
suggesting  their  body  location,  and  even  how  these  individual  designs  may  be  
supplemented  in  relation  to  one  another  over  time.  The  arrangement  of  several  self-­‐
contained  pictures  over  the  chest  in  the  Lyonnaise  drawing,  reflect  the  wider  tattooing  
habits  of  European  men  (and  some  women)  during  the  nineteenth  and  twentieth  
centuries,  in  which  the  process  of  becoming  tattooed  may  in  itself  be  regarded  as  a  form  
of  collecting.  Whilst  in  many  cases  these  'collections'  may  signify  nothing  more  than  the  
memory  of  the  process  of  becoming  tattooing,  I  would  argue  that  the  European  tattoo  
acquisition  pattern  invites  a  tendency  for  'reading'  by  non-­‐tattooed  Europeans  who  
view  them.  
  Thus  the  tattooee  is  the  first  collector  in  a  series  -­‐  selecting  both  a  design  and  
section  of  skin  on  which  to  have  it  inscribed,  and  building  up  a  unique  set  of  images  
which  allude  to  their  travels  and  experiences,  perhaps  over  the  course  of  a  lifetime.  In  
some  cases,  this  reference  is  made  so  explicit  as  to  almost  render  itself  redundant:  
‘Souvenir  du  Sahara’  (specimen  number  A784,  Figure  15)  speaks  quite  literally  of  the  
tattoo-­‐as-­‐souvenir,  and  is  not  an  isolated  example  in  the  Wellcome  collection.  The  
historical  material  through  which  the  European  tattoo  may  be  traced  frequently  follows  
a  peripatetic  pattern.  The  men  whose  tattoos  were  recorded  in  archives,  documented  in  
photographs  and  removed  post-­‐mortem  were  often  employed  in  itinerant  trades,  which  
took  them  to  far  flung-­‐places.  Soldiers  in  particular  recorded  these  destinations  on  their  
bodies  through  tattooing.  Writing  in  1820,  French  surgeon  and  naturalist  René  
Primevère  Lesson  gave  his  account  of  the  relationship  between  European  tattooing  and  
travel:  
   
There   is   no   doubt   that   in   the   course   of   long-­‐distance   voyages   this   class   of  
individuals   [European   sailors]   has   borrowed   this   bizarre   decoration   from  
savages,   and   that   idleness   and   caprice   efficiently   propagated   it,   as   is   easy   to  
                                                                                                               
334  Another  example  from  the  pages  of  this  particular  design  book  which  shows  drawings  of  tattoo  designs  

on  the  body  can  be  seen  in  Figure  7.  

133  
 
  

ascertain  among  those  who  are  assembled  on  board  ship,  in  camps,  prisons,  and  
galleys.335  
 
Although  incorrect  in  his  estimation  of  European  tattooing  as  a  practice  essentially  
'borrowed'  from  foreign  cultures  encountered  during  exploratory  voyages  and  
expeditions,  this  opinion  was  not  uncommon  amongst  French  intellectuals  during  the  
nineteenth  century.  The  intense  period  of  study  of  the  tattoo  which  came  about  from  
around  the  1880s  onwards,  coincided  with  a  period  of  increased  visibility  of  the  tattoo  
in  Europe,  during  which  the  first  professional  tattooists  emerged  in  Britain  and  
America,  and  the  art  form  went  through  a  number  of  technological  and  artistic  changes.  
Foreign  design  influences  such  as  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  Japanese  irezumi,  
combined  with  technological  invention  in  the  form  of  Samuel  O’Reilly’s  1891  electric  
tattoo  machine,  and  the  patronage  of  royalty  –  traditionally  the  preserve  of  the  fine  arts  
–  all  coincided  to  inspire  a  generation  of  tattooists,  who  took  advantage  of  a  surge  in  the  
popularity  of  tattooing.  It  was  also  during  this  period  that  collections  of  tattoo  imagery,  
as  well  as  examples  of  preserved  tattooed  skin,  were  assembled  by  physicians  and  
criminologists.  
 
Secondary  Collectors:  Criminologists,  Police  and  Physicians  
 
The  surge  in  popularity  of  tattooing  amongst  the  male  European  working  classes336  
caught  the  attention  of  a  second  group  of  collectors  during  the  late  nineteenth  century.  
Although  there  was  certainly  a  strong  interest  in  the  tattoo  amongst  prominent  
criminologists  during  the  nineteenth  century,  there  appears  to  be  no  explicit  reference  
to  or  discussion  of  the  collecting  and  preparation  of  tattooed  skin  in  their  work.  There  
is,  however,  one  account  of  an  extant  tattooed  skin  specimen  at  the  Museum  of  
Criminology  and  Jurisprudence  in  Turin,  historically  assembled  by  the  prominent  
Italian  criminologist  Cesare  Lombroso,  suggesting  that  the  collection  of  tattooed  skin  
was  not  an  unheard-­‐of  practice  amongst  forensic  specialists.337  Jane  Caplan  makes  the  
assertion  in  the  endnotes  to  her  essay  ‘National  Tattooing’:  Traditions  of  Tattooing  in  
Nineteenth-­‐Century  Europe  that  'pathology  clinics  might  preserve  a  few  examples  of  

                                                                                                               
335  René  Primevère  Lesson,  'Du  tatouage  chez  les  différens  peuples  de  la  terre',  in  Annales  maritimes  et  

coloniales,  Part  II,  (1820),  pp.  290.  

336  Amongst  the  collections  of  tattoo  tracings,  photographs  and  preserved  skins  held  in  police,  

criminological  and  medical  archives,  are  numerous  examples  of  the  trade  insignia  of  ordinary  working  men  
-­‐  tinsmiths,  stonemasons,  blacksmiths,  winegrowers  -­‐  suggesting  that  there  was  a  significant  class  
dimension  involved  in  tattoo  collecting  practices.  
337  As  discussed  in  chapter  three,  p.  125;  see  also  Regener,  'Criminological  Museums  and  the  Visualization  

of  Evil',  p.  3.  

134  
 
  

tattooed  skin,  but  this  was  not  the  standard  recording  method'.338  However,  the  three  
hundred  skin  specimens  in  the  Wellcome  Collection  alone  amount  to  much  more  than  a  
‘few’  examples  -­‐  and  there  are  many  more  in  comparable  collections  across  Europe.  In  
Paris,  for  example,  the  anthropology  department  of  the  MNHN  holds  fifty-­‐six  pieces  of  
tattooed  human  skin  within  their  collection.  Similarly,  the  Department  of  Forensic  
Medicine  at  Jagiellonian  University  in  Krakow,  Poland  has  sixty  wet-­‐prepared  tattoos;  
the  Instituto  Nacional  de  Medicina  Legal  e  Ciências  Forenses  (INMLCF)  collections  in  
Lisbon,  Portugal,  contains  seventy  wet-­‐preserved  tattoos;  the  anatomist  Dr.  Ludwig  
Stieda  also  mentioned  a  collection  of  two  hundred  pieces  in  Königsberg;  and  there  are  
many  more  examples  of  smaller  collections  in  London,  Berlin,  and  Austria.  The  question  
then,  is  who  -­‐  if  not  the  major  criminological  theorists  of  the  time  -­‐  were  collecting  
tattooed  human  skins?  Although  the  identity  of  the  collector  'Dr.  Lavalette'  remains  
obscure,  the  archival  clues  which  have  led  me  to  the  Academie  de  Medecin  in  Paris  at  
the  turn  of  the  twentieth  century,  suggest  several  possible  candidates  for  the  Wellcome  
Collection  tattoos  in  particular.  A  number  of  sources  cite  the  involvement  of  at  least  
three  prominent  doctors  in  the  collecting  and  preservation  of  tattooed  human  skin:  Dr.  
Andre-­‐Victor  Cornil  (1873-­‐1908),  Professor  of  Pathology,  known  for  his  interest  in  
tattooed  anthropodermic  bookbindings;  Dr.  Paul  Poirier,  Professor  of  Anatomy,  most  
notably  associated  with  the  Pranzini  scandal  mentioned  in  chapter  two;  and  the  
paediatrician  Dr.  Gaston  Felix  Joseph  Variot,  who  also  specialised  in  tattoo  removal,  
having  worked  as  medecin  de  l'infirmerie  centrale  des  prisons,  and  whose  work  on  
tattoos  will  be  examined  in  greater  detail  in  chapter  five.  
  It  is  reasonable  to  assume  that  the  tattoo  collectors  had  some  medical  training,  
as  well  as  access  to  tattooed  cadavers;  I  would  put  forward  the  suggestion  that  it  was  
likely  that  the  surgeons  and  pathologists  who  were  employed  in  prisons  (like  Variot),  
barracks  and  on  the  battlefield  who  were  gathering  this  ‘raw  data’,  which  could  
contribute  to  the  production  of  criminological  or  medical  knowledge.  This  supposition  
would  follow  Caplan’s  observation  that  much  of  the  original  research  that  nineteenth-­‐
century  academic  studies  of  tattoos  drew  upon,  was  actually  collected  by  ‘the  ordinary  
prison  or  army  medical  officers’  […]  who  were  ‘practitioners  not  academics.’339  
  In  France,  the  most  prominent  criminologist  writing  on  tattoos  during  the  late  
nineteenth  century  was  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  carrying  out  detailed  research  into  the  
incidence  of  tattooing  amongst  prison  populations.  This  work  involved  the  gathering  of  
a  considerable  amount  of  data,  which  he  then  set  about  systematizing:  

                                                                                                               
338  Caplan,  '"National  Tattooing"',  p.  289.  
339  Ibid.,  p.  161.  

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By   1881   he   had   collected   copies   of   1,600   tattoo   images,   traced   from   life,  
mounted   on   specially   prepared   paper   and   carefully   catalogued   according   to  
seven   categories   of   image,   ten   specifications   of   location   on   the   body,   and   so  
on.340  
 
  As  well  as  drawings  traced  directly  from  the  skin  of  the  tattooed  criminal,  
photographs  -­‐  and  in  some  cases  even  the  tattooed  skins  themselves  -­‐  were  collected  as  
raw  data  by  prison  wardens,  military  physicians  and  criminologists.  In  the  1890  edition  
of  the  most  important  journal  of  forensic  science  of  the  period,  the  Archives  
d'anthropologie  criminelle,  an  article  appears  which  describes  the  extensive  forensic  
teaching  collection  Lacassagne  assembled  at  the  laboratory  of  Legal  Medicine  in  Lyon.  
Located  upstairs  from  the  state-­‐of-­‐the-­‐art  criminological  laboratory,  where  teaching  
and  research  took  place,  was  a  large  criminological  museum,  where  students,  colleagues  
and  visiting  professionals  could  study  preserved  specimens  from  a  variety  of  crime  
scenes  including  suicides,  accidental  deaths,  and  homicides.  The  museum  contained  
everything  from  cases  dedicated  to  the  study  of  skull  fractures,  caused  by  falls,  bullets  
and  blunt-­‐force  trauma;  to  vials  containing  a  range  of  poisons;  to  a  cabinet  displaying  
cartridges  and  projectiles  from  all  known  firearms;  to  a  collection  of  photographs'  of  
criminals  faces  numbering  in  the  hundreds,  carefully  categorised  and  displayed  
according  to  the  crimes  they  had  committed.  As  well  as  a  collection  of  various  ropes  and  
cords  used  in  cases  of  hanging,  the  article  also  mentions  a  'curious  and  magnificent  
collection  of  two  thousand  tattoos.'341  How  exactly  these  tattoos  had  been  collected,  
prepared  and  displayed,  is  not  described  by  the  anonymous  writer.    
  What  became  of  this  collection  of  preserved  tattoos  is  unclear;  Lacassagne's  
collection  of  photographs  of  tattooed  criminals  has  also  been  lost  or  dispersed,  most  
likely  into  private  collections.342  Only  four  photographs  remain  in  the  fonds  Lacassagne  
at  the  Bibliothèque  Municipale  de  Lyon  today.  It  is  possible  that  Lacassagne's  sizable  
tattoo  collection  -­‐  which  would  have  dwarfed  the  Wellcome  Collection  -­‐  was  also  
absorbed  into  the  anthropological  and  medical  collections  of  other  French  museums  
and  institutions.  The  aforementioned  MNHN  collection,  for  instance,  contains  fifty-­‐six  
examples  of  dry-­‐prepared  tattooed  skin  (formerly  belonging  to  the  Musée  de  l'Homme).  
One  of  these  fragments,  bearing  the  tattooed  phrase  Le  passé  m'a  trompé  /  Le  present  me  
                                                                                                               
340  Ibid.  
341  Anon.,  'Les  Musée  du  laboratoire  de  médecine  légale  à  Lyon',  in  Archives  de  l'anthropologie  criminelle  

(1890),  p.  366.  Translated  from  the  French:    

N'oublions  pas  une  curieuse  collection  de  cordes  ou  liens  de  pendus  et  une  magnifique  collection  de  2,000  
tatouages.  
342  The  contemporary  American  collector  Stanley  Burns  has  several  photographs  of  tattooed  criminals,  

which  were  part  of  Lacassagne's  original  collection,  for  instance.  

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tourmente  /  L'avenir  m'épouvante  (The  past  has  deceived  me  /  The  present  torments  
me  /  The  future  terrifies  me),  no  longer  appears  to  be  amongst  the  current  collection  of  
preserved  tattoos  at  the  MNHN.  However,  a  photograph  of  this  particular  specimen  is  
reproduced  in  Jacques  Delarue's  Les  Tatouages  du  'Milieu';343  the  handwriting  of  the  
tattooer  bears  striking  similarity  to  the  same  tattooed  phrase  that  Lacassagne  had  
printed  onto  a  private  collection  of  dinnerware  (see  Figure  106).    
  Other  useful  comparisons  may  be  drawn  between  extant  collections  of  tattooed  
skin,  photographs  and  drawings  of  tattoos  recorded  in  textual  sources  from  the  period  
in  question.  The  tattoo  design  album  preserved  in  the  fonds  Lacassagne  at  the  Lyon  
municipal  library  for  instance,  contains  a  number  of  drawings  with  remarkable  
iconographic  similarity  to  some  of  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattoos.  The  first  of  these,  a  
pencil  sketch  of  a  soldier  carrying  full  kit  and  a  standard  (see  Figure  107)  may  be  
compared  with  the  partially  faded  tattoo  depicting  a  soldier  in  a  similar  attitude  (see  
Figure  49).  This  particular  tattoo  was  initially  quite  difficult  to  interpret;  large  portions  
of  the  design  are  invisible  or  indistinct  due  to  excessive  fading,  and  the  relative  angles  of  
the  male  figure's  head,  body  and  arms  are  confusing.  He  appears  to  stride  forwards,  
whilst  looking  back  over  his  right  shoulder  -­‐  but  his  right  arm  seems  to  be  bent  
backwards  at  an  impossible  angle.  The  objects  he  carries  over  his  shoulders  are  also  
perplexing:  He  is  wearing  a  pack  of  some  kind,  from  which  an  upturned  face  seems  to  
emerge  -­‐  could  he  be  carrying  a  fellow  soldier?  This  does  not  seem  likely,  as  no  second  
figure  is  visible  amongst  the  confusion  of  faded  lines.  This  particular  motif  perhaps  
makes  more  sense  when  compared  with  a  reversed  image  of  the  Lyonnaise  tattooer's  
sketch  (Figure  108).  It  is  possible  that  this  tattoo  may  have  been  executed  as  a  reverse  
image  of  the  sketch,  should  the  tattooer  have  employed  two  stages  in  the  transfer  of  the  
design;  perhaps  tracing  it  directly  from  the  pages  of  a  design  book,  before  applying  the  
transfer  face  down  on  the  skin  surface  to  leave  an  impression,  or  lightly  prick  out  the  
image  through  the  sheet.  The  most  striking  similarities  between  the  tattoo  and  the  
sketch  are  the  angle  of  the  figure's  head  and  the  képi  that  both  soldiers  wear  -­‐  a  style  of  
cap  common  amongst  the  French  Foreign  Legion,  the  army  and  the  Gendarmerie  alike.  
The  attitude  of  the  tattooed  figure  becomes  clearer  when  compared  with  the  running  
stance  of  the  sketched  soldier;  two  boots  are  visible  in  both  images,  one  leg  raised,  with  
the  sharp  point  of  his  bayonet  pointing  towards  the  ground  in  front  of  his  feet.  Whilst  
this  tattoo  was  undoubtedly  executed  by  a  tattooer  of  inferior  draftsmanship  to  the  
Lyonnaise  tattooer  to  whom  the  sketch  belonged,  it  is  possible  that  this  remarkable  

                                                                                                               
343  See  Delarue  and  Giraud,  plate  41,  p.  119.  Photograph  credited  to  H.  Tracol.  Collection  Musée  de  

l'Homme.  
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piece  of  tattoo  'flash'  was  a  popular  design  copied  by  other  amateurs  and  semi-­‐
professionals  in  the  army.  The  design  may  have  been  adapted  and  altered  to  the  
preference  of  the  client  -­‐  in  this  case,  the  flag  may  have  been  omitted  from  the  tattoo  
because  this  particular  individual  was  not  the  standard  bearer  of  his  regiment.  
Whatever  the  case  may  be,  the  similarities  between  these  two  archival  documents  are  
intriguing.    
  Perhaps  the  most  striking  comparative  example  of  a  tattoo  from  the  pages  of  the  
Lyonnaise  design  book,  is  a  small  motif  depicting  a  woman  riding  a  bicycle.  This  
carefully  drawn  sketch  is  presented  as  one  discrete  design  amongst  a  cluster  of  eight  
individual  tattoos  distributed  over  the  surface  of  a  male  torso,  from  just  beneath  the  
collarbones  to  just  above  the  navel  (Figure  105).  The  woman  on  a  bicycle  (which  may  
be  a  Penny  Farthing,  judging  by  the  relative  scale  of  the  front  and  rear  wheels),  is  
positioned  on  the  lower  right  side  of  the  chest,  over  the  ribs.  The  image  has  a  number  of  
distinctive  features:  The  turn  of  her  head  and  the  hat  that  she  wears;  two  large  ribbons,  
which  are  part  of  the  sash  of  her  dress,  flying  out  behind  her;  her  left  knee  is  raised  and  
her  right  leg  outstretched  in  a  peddling  motion;  and  the  positioning  of  her  hands,  the  
left  gripping  the  handlebars,  and  the  right  resting  on  her  knee  (Figure  109).  When  
compared  with  one  of  the  tattoos  in  specimen  number  A579  (shown  in  Figure  110),  we  
see  all  seven  of  these  features  listed  above  reproduced  more  or  less  accurately,  despite  
the  extremely  crude  execution  of  the  tattoo.  The  outline  of  the  design  consists  of  a  series  
of  faded  dots  vaguely  strung  together,  such  that  the  tattoo  appears  incomplete;  the  front  
wheel  of  the  bicycle  is  without  spokes,  and  the  facial  features  are  also  missing.  Despite  
these  omissions,  the  tattoo  includes  some  additional  flourishes,  such  as  boots  with  
buttons  extending  up  the  figure's  right  calf,  and  a  bow  at  the  collar  of  her  dress.  Given  
the  similarities  between  the  Lyonnaise  sketch  and  the  tattooed  skin  specimen,  it  is  
reasonable  to  conclude  that  this  tattoo  was  very  likely  derived  from  this  particular  
drawing,  or  one  very  like  it.  
  As  well  as  iconographic  parallels  with  early  examples  of  tattoo  design  books,  the  
Wellcome  Collection  tattoos  share  similarities  with  many  of  the  hand-­‐traced  tattoos  
collected  by  Lacassagne  and  others,  published  in  their  works  on  criminology  and  the  
tattoo.  That  many  of  these  tracings  have  comparative  equivalents  amongst  the  
preserved  specimens  further  suggests  that  the  Wellcome  Collection  was  originally  
assembled  in  line  with  the  research  interests  of  nineteenth-­‐century  criminologists.  
Examples  of  similar  iconography,  such  as  tradesmens'  tattoos  depicting  various  tools,  
often  presented  within  a  wreath  alongside  a  name,  initials  or  date  are  commonplace:  
Compare,  for  example  Lacassagne's  tracing  of  a  tinsmith's  insignia,  with  compass,  

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hammer  and  shears344  (shown  in  Figure  111),  with  the  tattooed  anvil,  hammer,  
compass  and  set  square  in  specimen  number  A669  (Figure  112).  Other  examples  of  
insignia  incorporating  tools  may  not  represent  tradesmens'  tattoos,  but  refer  to  
membership  of  specific  military  corps.  Specimen  number  A696,  (Figure  113)  for  
example,  includes  the  tattooed  name  'H  HEYNAUT'  and  the  year  1856,  tattooed  beneath  
a  crossed  shovel  and  pickaxe  -­‐  the  traditional  trade  tools  of  miners,  as  well  as  the  
insignia  of  engineer  battalions.345  Another  interesting  example  from  Lacassagne's  
collections  of  drawings,  includes  the  professional  emblem  of  a  Master  of  Arms,  
consisting  of  two  crossed  fencing  foils,  combat  mask  and  glove,  chaussons,  a  sabre  and  a  
plastron346  which  is  itself  'tattooed'  over  the  chest  with  the  phrase  Honneur  Aux  Armes  
(Honour  Of  Arms),  (see  Figure  114).347  A  very  similar  example  of  this  professional  
motif,  bearing  the  same  phrase,  two  crossed  foils,  a  pair  of  gloves,  fencing  boots  and  a  
mask,  is  preserved  in  specimen  number  A650  (Figure  115).  It  is  particularly  interesting  
to  note  Lacassagne's  interpretation  of  some  of  the  tattooed  emblems  he  encountered:  
Recalling  my  discussion  of  the  'grappe  de  raisin'  (bunch  of  grapes)  motif  in  chapter  two,  
Lacassagne  also  reproduces  tracings  of  this  tattoo,  with  the  addition  of  two  crossed  
tools,  identified  as  the  trade  tools  of  a  winegrower  (see  Figure  116).348  Whilst  the  
inclusion  of  the  tools  would  seem  to  suggest  that  this  tattoo  was  a  trade  emblem,  it  also  
calls  into  question  Graven  and  Delarue's  unproblematic  reading  of  the  grappe  de  raisin  
motif  as  indicative  of  time  served  in  a  specific  prison.  Although  these  diverging  
interpretations  may  be  correct  in  both  cases,  this  example  underlines  a  fundamental  
problem  in  the  attempt  to  construct  reliable  taxonomies  of  the  iconographic  
signification  of  tattoos  -­‐  a  bunch  of  grapes  may,  in  fact,  signify  nothing  more  than  a  
bunch  of  grapes.      
  Perhaps  the  most  striking  example  of  iconographic  similitude  between  
Lacassagne's  collection  of  tattoo  design  tracings  and  the  Wellcome  preserved  skins  is  
the  tattoo  of  a  circus  strongman,  or  wrestler.  In  Lacassagne's  text,  this  motif  is  
described  as  the  professional  emblem  of  a  lutteur  -­‐  a  fighter,  or  wrestler  -­‐  and  may  take  
several  forms,  including  a  wrestler  with  weights  or  dumbbells;  two  wrestlers  in  combat;  
                                                                                                               
344  Lacassagne  and  Magitot,  Du  Tatouage,  p.  32.    
345  In  particular,  the  317th  Engineer  Combat  Battalion  officially  used  this  insignia  from  1943.  It  usually  

appeared  with  the  Lorraine  Cross  and  oak  tree  representing  the  Argonne  Forest,  with  the  motto  'By  
Industry  and  Honor'.  Although  this  example  is  specific  to  the  US  troops  during  the  Second  World  War,  many  
regimental  symbols  and  insignia  were  used  informally  by  servicemen,  going  through  many  stylistic  changes  
over  a  long  period  of  time  prior  to  their  official  adoption  by  military  authorities.  This  particular  example  
has  its  origins  in  US-­‐French  Allied  operations  in  France  during  World  War  I,  but  the  crossed  pickaxe  and  
shovel  predates  this  period,  possibly  deriving  from  nineteenth  century  penal  battalions.  
346  A  plastron  is  the  name  for  the  large  protective  pad  worn  by  a  fencer  to  protect  the  chest,  or  a  lancer's  

protective  breastplate.    
347  Lacassagne  and  Magitot,  Du  Tatouage,  p.  35.  
348  Lacassagne,  Les  Tatouages,  p.  47.  

139  
 
  

or  weights,  dumbbells,  or  cannonballs.349  The  figure  accompanying  Lacassagne's  text  

shows  the  figure  of  a  man  in  a  close-­‐fitting  long-­‐sleeved  shirt,  through  which  his  
pectoral  muscles  have  been  crudely  defined,  shorts  and  what  may  be  stockings.  He  
stands  with  his  left  hand  on  his  hip  and  the  left  arm  is  raised,  a  block  weight  gripped  in  
the  left  hand  (see  Figure  117).  The  attire  of  this  figure  is  reminiscent  of  the  classic  
stage  costume  of  French  strongmen  performing  in  carnivals  and  circuses  during  the  late  
nineteenth-­‐century.  The  typical  costume  of  a  close-­‐fitting  bodystocking  or  leotard,  
shorts,  and  boots  can  be  seen,  for  example,  in  the  1876  carnival  poster  advertising  the  
extraordinary  feats  of  strength  performed  by  "Bazin,  L'Hercule  du  Canon",  who  is  
depicted  firing  a  cannon  from  his  shoulder,  whilst  walking  with  block  weights  strapped  
to  his  feet  (see  Figure  118).    A  very  similar  tattooed  figure  is  preserved  in  specimen  
number  A593;  in  this  example,  the  strongman  is  wearing  a  very  distinctive  costume,  
much  like  Bazin's,  with  the  addition  of  stars  decorating  his  shorts.  The  tattooer,  though  
unskilled  in  shading  techniques,  nevertheless  attempts  to  define  the  musculature  of  the  
figure,  defining  the  pectorals  and  biceps  with  crudely  dotted  lines  and  heavy  areas  of  
solid  shading,  as  well  as  the  muscles  of  the  thighs  (Figure  119).  The  figure's  pose  is  
identical  to  the  tracing  reproduced  in  Lacassange's  text.  Tattoos  depicting  circus  and  
other  performers  make  up  a  small  proportion  of  the  Wellcome  Collection  -­‐  a  mere  
nine350  individual  motifs,  or  three  per  cent  of  the  whole  collection.  Nevertheless,  if  
Lacassagne's  interpretation  of  these  kinds  of  motif  as  'professional  emblems'  is  correct,  
it  is  intriguing  that  this  rather  marginal  of  professional  groups  are  represented  in  tattoo  
collections  at  all.351    
  Lacassagne  assembled  his  first  collection  of  tattoo  tracings  during  a  year  spent  
in  Algiers  in  Medea  province,  where  he  gathered  tattoo  imagery  from  the  bodies  of  men  
enlisted  in  the  2nd  African  Batallion  (known  as  the  Bats  d'Af),  as  well  as  men  serving  
time  in  military  prisons.  During  the  late  nineteenth  century,  there  were  four  single  
penal  battalions  of  Infanterie  Lègére  d'Afrique  (Africa  Light  Infantry),  which  was  
composed  of  French  civilian  or  military  criminals,  as  well  as  the  all-­‐volunteer  Légion  
Étrangère  (Foreign  Legion).  Lacassagne  collected  his  data  on  the  tattoos  of  360  soldiers  

                                                                                                               
349  Ibid.,  p.  42.  
350  See  my  note  in  chapter  two,  p.  93  on  the  interpretation  of  these  designs.  
351  Daguillon  also  records  a  'fairground  athlete',  a  'dramatic  artist'  and  a  body  builder  amongst  the  tattooed  

patients  he  studied  at  Ville-­‐Evrard  asylum.  Daguillon,  'Tatouage  chez  les  aliénés',  pp.  177-­‐178.  One  might  
speculate  that  tattooing  may  have  been  more  common  among  those  who  made  their  living  through  
displaying  their  bodies  or  performing  physical  feats  for  a  public  audience,  since  the  presentational  
aesthetics  of  the  body  would  have  been  a  significant  professional  concern.  Similar  observations  may  be  
drawn  with  contemporary  athletes  and  sports  men  and  women,  whose  'body  work'  often  extends  from  the  
gym  or  sports  field  to  the  tattoo  studio.  The  tattooing  of  the  Olympic  rings  symbol,  for  example,  was  
extremely  popular  among  athletes  during  the  London  2012  games,  functioning  as  both  a  symbol  of  elite  
group  membership,  a  souvenir  of  participation  in  the  event,  and  a  badge  of  physical  prowess.    
140  
 
  

from  the  2eme  Bats  d'Af,  who  had  been  enlisted  in  the  penal  battalions  for  offenses  such  
as  desertion,  selling  their  military-­‐issue  effects,  or  stealing  from  their  comrades.352  The  
remainder  he  gathered  from  the  military  prisons.  Lacassagne  writes:  
 
I  gathered  about  sixteen  hundred  tattoos.  This  collection,  which  I  believe  to  be  
unique,   is   of   great   importance,   since   it   represents   absolutely   accurate   drawings,  
inscriptions  or  emblematic  statements  on  the  skin  of  four  hundred  people.353  
 
In  his  first  published  study,  Lacassagne  did  not  reproduce  any  illustrations  of  
regimental  motifs,  focusing  instead  on  trade  emblems  and  inscriptions.  In  fact,  he  
considered  the  influence  of  military  life  to  be  a  weak  factor  in  the  acquisition  of  tattoos,  
not  at  all  comparable  with  the  naval  milieu,  where  tattooing  was  a  way  of  life.  Rather,  he  
identified  time  spent  in  prison  to  be  the  major  factor  in  the  acquisition  of  tattoos  
amongst  the  battalions  he  studied,354  concluding  that:  
 
[...]   the   large   number   of   tattoos   almost   always   gives   the   measure   of   the  
criminality   of   the   tattooed   or   at   least   an   appreciation   of   the   number   of   his  
convictions;  and  his  stay  in  prison.355  
 
  The  correspondence  between  Lacassagne's  study  of  French  colonial  regiments  
in  North  Africa,  and  the  range  of  military  tattoos  from  this  region  represented  in  the  
Wellcome  Collection  is  striking.  There  are  a  considerable  number  of  tattoos  whose  
inscriptions  refer  to  specific  regiments  of  the  African  Infantry  regiments;  the  most  
frequent  of  these  being  the  zouaves,  who  were  largely  raised  by  short-­‐service  
conscription  from  the  French  settler  population.  Specimen  number  A775,  for  example,  
bears  the  shorthand  regimental  inscription  of  the  2eme  zouaves:  "2.Z"  (Figure  120);  
other  regiments  which  crop  up  in  emblems  and  inscriptions  include  the  1st  and  3rd  
zouaves,  the  12th  Hussards,  6th  Chass  d'Af  (Chasseurs  d'Afrique  -­‐  a  light  cavalry  corps  of  
the  French  Armée  d'Afrique),  as  well  as  numerous  ligne  regiments.  Although  the  
geographical  parallels  with  Lacassagne's  collection  of  images  are  certainly  significant,  
none  of  the  regiments  mentioned  above  in  the  Wellcome  Collection  were  penal  

                                                                                                               
352  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  'Recherches  sur  les  Tatouages  et  principalement  du  tatouage  chez  les  criminels',  

in  Annales  d'Hygiene  et  de  medicine  legale,  Vol.  5,  No.  4  (1881),  p.  290.  
353  Lacassagne,  'Recherches  sur  les  Tatouages',  p.  289.  Translated  from  the  French:  

‘J'ai  réuni  à  peu  près  seize  cents  tatouages.  Cette  collection,  que  je  crois  unique,  a  une  grande  importance,  
puisqu'elle  représente  d'une  manière    absolue  les  dessins,  inscriptions  ou  emblèmes  relevés  sur  la  peau  de  
quatre  cent  individus.’  
354  Ibid.,  p.  291.  
355  Ibid.  Translated  from  the  French:  

[...]  le  grand  nombre  de  tatouages  donne  presque  toujours  la  mesure  de  la  criminalité  du  tatoué  ou  tout  au  
moins  l'appréciation  du  nombre  de  ses  condemnations  et  de  son  séjour  dans  les  prisons.  
 
141  
 
  

battalions;  historically,  it  is  these  groups  of  men  whose  tattoos  were  the  subject  of  
criminological  interest.    
  Significant  collections  of  photographs  of  tattooed  soldiers  from  the  North  
African  penal  battalions  were  also  gathered  during  the  late  nineteenth  century.  Many  of  
these  images  have  been  reproduced  in  recent  popular  publications  on  the  theme  of  
criminal  tattoos;  the  majority  of  these  photographs  are  held  in  private  collections  and  
little  is  known  of  their  provenance.  Jérôme  Pierrat  and  Éric  Guillon's  2004  book  Le  
Tatouage  à  Biribi,  for  example,  contains  seventy-­‐five  black  and  white  photographs  of  
tattooed  men  from  the  disciplinary  battalions  in  Algeria,  known  colloquially  as  
'Biribi'.356  The  photographs  in  this  collection  of  portraits  are  typically  taken  against  a  
black  background,  and  are  cropped  to  frame  the  naked  bodies  of  the  tattooed  men  from  
the  waist  up  (Figure  121).  In  most  cases  the  entire  head  and  neck  is  included  in  the  
image;  but  it  is  the  tattoos  that  are  the  real  subjects  of  these  portraits.  Amongst  this  
collection,  there  are  a  great  many  motifs  in  common  with  those  preserved  in  the  
Wellcome  Collection  including  phrases  such  as  Enfant  du  Malheur  (Child  of  Misfortune),  
Pas  de  Chance  (No  Chance),  Robinet  d'Amour  (Love  Tap),  and  Sans  Pitie  (Without  Pity);  
mementos  and  references  to  place  such  as  Souvenir  D'Afrique,  Maroc  and  Tunisie;  as  
well  as  numerous  female  portraits,  military  busts,  wreaths,  lions,  leopards,  flowers  and  
daggers,  etc.  Despite  the  close  similarities  between  the  repertoires  of  motifs,  I  have  
been  unable  to  make  any  unequivocal  matches  between  this  collection  of  images  and  
the  preserved  tattoos.  Thus  whilst  these  photographs  provide  an  important  collection  
for  the  purposes  of  comparison  of  iconography  and  milieu,  it  has  not  been  possible  to  
conclusively  determine  whether  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattoos  were  collected  from  
the  bodies  of  North  African  military  soldiers  in  these  locales.    
  The  photographic  documentation  of  tattooed  criminals  during  the  late  
nineteenth  and  early  twentieth  centuries  also  took  place  in  French  police  departments;  
although  this  does  not  seem  to  have  been  systematic,  judging  by  the  extant  material  
available  in  public  archives.  I  found  these  to  be  limited  and  disparate  in  general.  In  the  
Préfecture  de  police  archives  in  Paris,  for  example,  only  twenty-­‐four  glass  plate  
photographs  of  tattooed  criminals  survive.  The  photographs  in  this  archive  are  of  
particular  interest,  however:  both  because  the  photograph  of  the  tattooed  individual  
Fromain  is  part  of  this  collection;  and  because  the  context  and  content  of  these  images  
demonstrates  a  process  of  technological  surveillance  of  the  body  which  is  quite  
different  to  the  photographs  in  Pierrat  and  Guillon's  book.  Most  of  the  Biribi  
                                                                                                               
356  Biribi  was  a  French  game  of  chance  that  was  made  illegal  in  1837,  which  was  known  as  a  'cheat's  game'.  

In  the  French  army,  'to  be  sent  to  Biribi'  was  a  slang  expression  for  being  sent  to  the  disciplinary  battalions  
in  the  North  African  colonies.  
142  
 
  

photographs  are  close  cropped  to  focus  on  the  tattoos  over  the  chest,  abdomen  and  
arms,  suggesting  that  these  photographs  were  made  in  order  to  document  the  tattooed  
images  and  phrases  themselves,  much  like  Lacassagne's  tattoo  tracings.  The  Paris  police  
collection  of  photographs  on  the  other  hand,  display  the  body  within  a  broader  context  
of  measurement  and  data  gathering,  of  which  the  recording  of  the  tattoo  appears  to  be  
just  one  aspect.  For  example,  two  photographs  of  a  criminal  named  'Bourgerie'  show  a  
naked  and  heavily  tattooed  man,  standing  in  front  and  back  views  against  a  grid  
backdrop,  in  order  to  facilitate  the  accurate  measurement  of  his  physical  proportions  
from  the  two-­‐dimensional  image  (Figures  122  and  123).  Thus  these  images  were  
intended  to  record  of  a  broader  set  of  anthropometric  data,  as  well  as  document  his  
tattoos.  In  another  photograph  that  focuses  on  the  body  part,  in  this  case  a  tattooed  
forearm,  we  see  the  limb  extended  out  over  a  white  plate  and  photographed  from  above  
(Figure  124).  The  isolation  of  the  limb  in  this  image  affords  greater  specificity  to  the  
tattoos,  but  the  positioning  of  the  arm  and  the  perspective  of  the  camera  also  suggests  a  
procedure  of  systematic  measurement  designed  to  identify  specific  criminal  bodies.  The  
science  of  anthropometrics,  developed  into  the  first  effective  modern  system  of  criminal  
identification  by  Parisian  police  official  Alphonse  Bertillon  in  the  late  nineteenth  
century,  was  directed  primarily  towards  the  practical  purpose  of  identifying  individual  
criminals,  through  a  combination  of  statistical  and  photographic  methods.357  Bertillon's  
system  of  'signalment,  or  'Bertillonage'  as  it  became  known,  involved  two  key  elements:  
 
First,   he   combined   photographic   portraiture,   anthropometric   description,   and  
highly   standardized   and   abbreviated   written   notes   on   a   single   fiche,   or   card.  
Second,   he   organzied   these   cards   within   a   comprehensive,   statistically   based  
filing  system.358    
 
The  purpose  of  this  system  was  primarily  technical  in  its  aims,  directed  towards  the  
rapid  recognition  and  retrieval  of  information  that  could  be  used  to  identify  repeat  
offenders.  Through  this  system,  'technicians'  of  crime  such  as  the  police  could  gain  
knowledge  and  mastery  over  individual  criminals  in  their  fight  against  crime;  
criminologists  on  the  other  hand  sought  knowledge  and  mastery  over  a  far  more  elusive  
subject:  the  criminal  'type.'  As  Allan  Sekula  succinctly  puts  it:  
 
Herein   lies   a   terminological   distinction,   and   a   division   of   labor,   between  
"criminology"   and   "criminalistics."   Criminology   hunted   "the"   criminal   body.  
Criminalistics  hunted  "this"  or  "that"  criminal  body.359  
                                                                                                               
357  Allan  Sekula,  'The  Body  and  the  Archive',  in  October,  Vol.  39  (Winter  1986),  p.  18.  
358  Ibid.  
359  Ibid.  

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This  distinction  is  reflected  in  the  inscription  processes  employed  by  criminologists  and  
police  technicians  such  as  Bertillon,  and  in  their  visual  data  gathered.  Whilst  Lacassagne  
collected  hundreds  of  tattoo  images  in  order  to  construct  a  taxonomy  of  criminal  
tattoos,  the  police  technician  photographed  the  tattoos  of  individual  criminals  as  part  of  
a  cataloguing  process  which  involved  the  exhaustive  recording  of  numerous  other  
physical  measurements.  Thus  the  photographs  of  tattooed  men  in  the  Paris  police  
archives  seem  to  visually  operate  within  a  broader  system  of  measurement,  
surveillance,  and  identification,  despite  their  fragmentation  within  the  archive,  an  
element  to  which  I  will  return  in  chapter  five.  The  documentation  of  criminal  tattoos  
within  the  context  of  the  police  department  then,  served  a  primarily  practical  function  -­‐  
identifying  recidivism  in  the  course  of  ordinary  police  work.  What  then,  are  we  to  make  
of  post-­‐mortem  photographs  of  the  tattooed  criminal  body?  The  post-­‐mortem  
photograph  of  a  heavily  tattooed  man  named  'Claude  Heitzmann'  seems  to  lay  at  the  
interstices  of  tattoo  collecting  practices:  The  photographic  documentation  of  his  tattoos  
for  the  purpose  of  detecting  recidivism  is  redundant;  the  body  laid  out  on  the  mortuary  
table  is  intact,  yet  one  could  easily  imagine  that  his  tattooed  skin  is  about  to  be  stripped  
away  and  preserved  by  the  doctor  performing  an  autopsy.  I  am  reminded  of  the  
peculiar  relationship  between  the  photograph  of  Fromain  and  his  preserved  skin;  
fragmented  and  dispersed  in  separate  archives,  registering  different  traces  of  his  
tattooed  body  perhaps  for  entirely  different  purposes.  
  The  criminological  and  medical  interest  in  the  tattoo  during  the  last  two  
decades  of  the  nineteenth  century,  to  which  Lacassagne's  work  formed  a  major  
contribution,  emerged  in  part  from  a  wider  context  in  which  theories  of  dégénéresence  
and  atavism  became  popular  in  the  French  and  Italian  schools  of  criminology  
respectively.360  Tattooing  as  practiced  amongst  particular  groups  and  classes  of  
European  society  was  considered  by  many  scholars  to  represent  a  worrying  sign  of  
decline  in  the  collective  moral  character  of  the  populace.  Already  associated  with  
‘primitive’  peoples  in  Polynesia  and  overseas  colonies,  it  was  easy  to  transpose  the  
‘primitive  morals’  of  one  group  onto  another.  Writing  in  1908,  Austrian  architect  and  
critic  Adolf  Loos  explictly  connected  the  amorality  and  body  marking  practices  of  
Papuan  peoples  (whom  he  likened  to  two-­‐year-­‐old  children)  with  the  European  
criminal  or  'degenerate':  
 
A  child  is  amoral.  A  Papuan  too,  for  us.  The  Papuan  slaughters  his  enemies  and  
devours  them.  He  is  not  a  criminal.  But  if  a  modern  person  slaughters  someone  

                                                                                                               
360  Caplan,  '"National  Tattooing"',  p.  156.  

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and  devours  him,  he  is  a  criminal  or  a  degenerate.  The  Paupuan  covers  his  skin  
with  tattoos,  his  boat,  his  oars,  in  short  anything  he  can  lay  his  hands  on.  He  is  
no   criminal.   The   modern   person   who   tattoos   himself   is   either   a   criminal   or   a  
degenerate.   There   are   prisons   in   which   eighty   percent   of   the   inmates   have  
tattoos.   People   with   tattoos   not   in   prison   are   either   latent   criminals   or  
degenerate  aristocrats.361    
 
  Though  not  all  commentators  held  quite  such  extreme  views  as  Loos,  the  
association  between  tattoos  and  primitivism  was  widespread  amongst  intellectuals  in  
the  medico-­‐legal  field.  Re-­‐coded  and  re-­‐inscribed,  the  tattoo  in  the  European  context  
came  to  be  associated  with  criminality  towards  the  end  of  the  century.  Jane  Caplan  
writes  that  'visibility  [of  the  tattoo]  and  pathology  arrived  more  or  less  simultaneously,  
engulfing  a  practice  which  had  previously  been  defined  by  latency  and  marginality.'362  
Whereas  the  tattoo  had  attracted  attention  from  French  pathologists  and  police  
scientists  who  were  primarily  interested  in  the  permanence  of  the  mark  and  its  
potential  for  individual  identification  earlier  in  the  century,  a  shift  occurred  around  the  
1880s  which  re-­‐defined  the  tattoo  as  a  stigmata  for  an  imagined  collective  criminal  
underclass.  However,  unlike  other  physical  features  which  could  be  scrutinized  for  
abnormality,  the  tattoo  presented  a  unique  challenge,  since  it  was  not  an  inherited  but  a  
socially  acquired  characteristic.  The  ambiguity  of  the  mark,  and  its  inherently  cultural  
nature  did  not  escape  Lacassagne,  whose  theories  placed  emphasis  on  the  social  
etiology  of  crime:  
 
The   social   milieu   is   the   breeding   ground   of   criminality;   the   germ   is   the   criminal,  
an   element   which   has   no   importance   until   the   day   where   it   finds   the   broth  
which  makes  it  ferment.363    
 
  The  tattoo  is  a  kind  of  boundary  phenomenon,  both  physiologically  and  socio-­‐
culturally;  it  appears  at  the  body  surface,  but  is  suspended  indelibly  within  the  flesh.  
Thus,  it  may  be  argued  that  it  was  the  liminality  of  the  tattoo  which  made  it  such  an  
irresistible  subject  of  medico-­‐legal  research.  Moreover,  tattoos  were  a  highly  visible  
sign,  and  viewed  as  such,  they  were  invested  with  a  kind  of  loquaciousness  which  
seemed  to  invite  interpretation;  prompting  Lacassagne’s  elegant  characterisation  of  

                                                                                                               
361  Adolf  Loos,  Ornament  and  Crime:  Selected  Essays  (Riverside,  California:  Ariadne  Press,  1998),  p.  167.  
362  Jane  Caplan,  '“One  of  the  Strangest  Relics  of  a  Former  State",  Tattoos  and  the  Discourses  of  Criminality  in  

Europe,  1880-­‐1920',  in  Criminals  and  Their  Scientists  (Cambridge:  Cambridge  University  Press,  2006),  p.  
344.  
363  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  'Les  transformations  du  droit  pénal  et  les  progrès  de  la  médecine  légale,  de  1810  

à  1912',  in  Archives  d’anthropologie  criminelle  (1913),  p.  364.  Translated  from  the  French:  
‘Le  milieu  social  est  le  bouillon  de  culture  de  la  criminalité;  le  microbe,  c’est  le  criminel,  un  élément  qui  n’a  
d’importance  que  le  jour  où  il  trouve  le  bouillon  qui  le  fait  fermenter.’    
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tattoos  as  ‘speaking  scars’.364  This  pithy  phrase  indicates  a  conception  of  tattoo-­‐as-­‐
writing  in  the  work  of  Lacassagne,  a  view  shared  by  many  of  his  contemporaries  in  the  
field.  The  first  step  in  this  classificatory  project  was  to  reify  the  mark  into  sign,  by  
placing  the  tattoo  into  a  schema  alongside  other  ‘primitive’  forms  of  writing  such  as  
hieroglyphs,  pictograms,  professional  emblems,  graffiti  etc.365  However,  whilst  tattoos  
at  first  appeared  to  present  a  legible  message  to  the  outside  world,  their  cryptic  
‘criminal’  code  proved  frustratingly  opaque.  The  visual  data  gathered  did  not  ‘speak  for  
itself’,  but  required  further  rationalisation  through,  for  example,  the  re-­‐presentation  of  
images  as  part  of  schematic  diagrams  indicating  the  incidence  and  location  of  tattoos  on  
the  body,  accompanied  by  annotations,  charts  and  tables,  as  well  as  descriptive  and  
analytical  texts.  As  Caplan  has  pointed  out,  the  raw  data  itself  often  revealed  little  more  
than  the  fact  that  tattooing  was  commonly  practiced  amongst  the  male  working  classes  
in  general.366  
  The  bringing  into  being  of  the  tattooed  criminal  ‘other’  in  the  nineteenth  
century  was  accomplished  by  means  of  these  processes  of  inscription.  Through  the  
amassing  of  visual  material  and  theoretical  speculation  in  accompanying  texts,  a  
‘criminal  class’,  whose  physical  and  behavioural  characteristics  could  be  mapped  and  
catalogued  by  criminologists,  gradually  emerged  from  the  effusion  of  data  in  a  new  
‘archetypal’  form.  Writing  on  inscription  processes  and  power,  Bruno  Latour  argues  
that,  

 [...]   a   ‘state’,   a   ‘corporation’,   a   ‘culture’,   an   ‘economy’   are   the   result   of   a  

punctualization   process   that   obtains   a   few   indicators   out   of   many   traces.   In  
order  to  exist  these  entities  have  to  be  summed  up  somewhere.”367    
 
  Similarly,  the  criminal  is  ‘summed  up’  in  the  work  of  criminologists  by  a  few  
physical  indicators,  of  which  the  tattoo  seemed  to  be  one  of  the  most  compelling.  Thus  
the  complex,  unpredictable,  ‘deviant’  human  being  is  re-­‐shaped  into  a  more  manageable  
object  of  knowledge  in  a  transformative  process  which  operates  to  distil  whole  entities  
into  two-­‐dimensional  inscriptions;  in  this  case  preserving  only  the  trace,  the  tattoo  
itself.  
  Whilst  the  tattoo  may  be  an  ‘inalienable  and  unambiguous’  part  of  an  individual  
human  being  during  life,  this  ceases  to  be  the  case  in  death.  Regarded  as  a  text,  it  can  be  
removed  from  the  body  upon  death  and  preserved  in  the  manner  of  pages  in  a  book.  In  

                                                                                                               
364  Cited  in  Caplan,  '"Speaking  Scars":  The  Tattoo  in  Popular  Practice  and  Medico-­‐Legal  Debate  in  

Nineteenth-­‐Century  Europe',  in:  History  Workshop  Journal,  No.  44  (Autumn,  1997),  p.  129.  
365  Lacassange,  cited  in  Caplan,  '"National  Tattooing"',  p.  161.  
366  Caplan,  '"National  Tattooing"',  p.  158.  
367  Latour,  ‘Visualisation  and  Cognition’,  p.  26  

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the  case  of  the  Wellcome  Collection  we  are  confronted  with  just  that:  the  assemblage  of  
tattoos  into  skin-­‐texts  post-­‐mortem,  some  of  which  are  carefully  trimmed  to  present  
neat  human  parchments.  Extracted  from  the  context  of  the  life  that  gave  it  meaning,  the  
tattoo  may  be  preserved,  sold,  re-­‐coded  and  re-­‐mobilised  to  the  ends  of  others.  
According  to  Latour,  the  process  of  mobilization  often  begins  with  the  gathering  
together  of  objects:  'collections  of  rocks,  stuffed  animals,  samples,  fossils,  artefacts,  gene  
banks,  are  the  first  to  moved  around.'368  The  collection  is  then  the  first  ‘essential’  
inscription369,  and  in  the  case  of  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattooed  skins,  it  is  also  their  
final  resting  place.    
  As  museum  objects,  the  tattooed  skins  are  a  particularly  intriguing  case,  since  
they  already  materially  embody  many  of  the  defining  characteristics  of  the  immutable  
mobile,  as  well  as  constituting  an  inscription  of  the  knowledge-­‐gathering  practices  of  
the  museum  in-­‐itself.  The  skin  has  been  rendered  immutable  through  chemical  
treatment  and  dry-­‐preservation  processes,  thereby  endowing  the  tattooed  sign  with  
permanence  beyond  death;  the  specimens,  though  not  entirely  flat,  have  been  
transformed  into  two-­‐dimensional  surfaces,  thus  modifying  their  scale  in  removing  
them  from  the  body  and  facilitating  their  portability;  they  can  be  continually  ‘reshuffled  
and  recombined’  through  exhibition  display;  and  they  can  be  reproduced  at  little  cost  
through  photography,  creating  new  inscriptions  which  can  be  made  part  of  a  written  
text  (of  which  this  thesis  is  an  example).  Finally,  and  perhaps  most  significantly  in  the  
period  and  site  of  enactment  in  the  historical  context  with  which  we  deal,  they  can  be  
made  to  ‘re-­‐merge  with  geometry’370;  that  is,  with  the  three-­‐dimensional  world  of  real  
bodies,  real  criminal  acts,  real  prison  milieu  -­‐  the  knowledge  sought  by  criminologists  
through  the  collection  of  tattoos  made  disciplinary  power-­‐knowledge  of  the  criminal  
and  their  subsequent  manipulation  possible.  Thus,  'all  these  inscriptions  can  be  

                                                                                                               
368  Ibid.,  p.  16.  
369  This  is  complicated  with  regard  to  the  Wellcome  preserved  tattooed  skins,  since  they  embody  at  least  

two  prior  inscriptions:  the  tattoo  itself  acquired  during  life,  and  its  subsequent  preservation  post-­‐mortem,  
presumably  for  inclusion  in  a  private  collection.  It  is  unknown  how  many  times  these  particular  objects  
may  have  changed  hands  before  finding  their  way  into  the  Wellcome  Collection,  but  in  each  new  
permutation  new  meanings  may  be  inscribed.  
370  Indeed,  this  concept  is  something  that  I  have  explored  first  hand  in  my  own  archival  work  on  the  

Wellcome  tattoos.  Whilst  they  may  be  productively  considered  as  'immutable  mobiles'  within  the  context  of  
processes  of  institutional  collection  and  inscription,  the  skins  nevertheless  resist  this  'flattening  out',  since  
they  are  multi-­‐textured,  three-­‐dimensional  body  parts,  and  not  simply  text  on  parchment.  The  tension  
between  their  status  as  both  immutable  mobiles  and  hybrid  entities  may  be  most  clearly  demonstrated  by  
my  discussion  of  specimen  numbers  A754  and  A747  (Figure  65)  in  chapter  two:  These  two  specimens  
appear  within  the  archive  as  separate  inscriptions,  however  on  closer  examination  of  their  material  
qualities  and  related  archival  documents,  these  two  tattoos  simultaneously  remerge  with  the  geometry  of  
the  whole  body  of  the  deceased,  and  other  documentary  inscriptions  which  make  sense  of  the  iconography  
of  the  tattoos.  Thus,  the  uneasy  relationship  between  their  status  as  archive  'documents'  and  human  
remains  is  the  very  source  of  their  loquaciousness;  it  is  in  the  interstices  of  this  conceptual  space  that  they  
reveal  their  origins.  
147  
 
  

superimposed,  reshuffled,  recombined,  and  summarized',  with  the  result  that;  'totally  
new  phenomena  emerge,  hidden  from  the  other  people  from  whom  all  these  
inscriptions  have  been  exacted.'371  The  archetypal,  ‘obscenely’  and  ‘heavily’  tattooed  
criminal  emerges,  but  this  distilled  knowledge  is  not  accessible  to  the  tattooed  
population  from  whom  it  was  extracted.  
  The  nineteenth-­‐century  criminological  project  which  devoted  such  energy  to  the  
collection  and  analysis  of  data  on  European  tattooing  ultimately  failed  to  (entirely)  re-­‐
code  the  tattooed  individual  as  deviant,  precisely  because  the  polysemous  nature  of  the  
images  themselves.  Tattoos,  once  removed  from  the  body,  turned  out  to  be  no  more  
than  'fragile  inscriptions  which  are  immensely  less  than  the  things  from  which  they  are  
extracted.'372  Through  their  determined  study  of  the  ‘criminality’  behind  the  tattoo,  
criminologists  of  the  period  left  a  lingering  impression  of  the  disreputability  of  the  
practice  within  Western  popular  culture,  leaving  us  with  an  incomplete  picture.  Thus  
the  knowledge  practices  of  the  nineteenth  century  continue  to  shape  our  understanding  
of  the  Western  tattoo;  'By  purifying  the  world  we  contribute  to  shaping  it  in  a  certain  
way,  making  some  things  present  and  others  absent,  enacting  some  possibilities  whilst  
rendering  others  invisible.'373  Caplan  argues  that  it  is  difficult  to  determine  to  what  
extent  Western  tattooing  had  it’s  own  indigenous  European  roots,  since  we  owe  a  large  
part  of  our  knowledge  of  the  tattoo  during  this  period  almost  entirely  to  the  efforts  of  
criminologists  and  prison  doctors  -­‐  few  other  voices  enter  into  the  historical  record,  and  
thus  cannot  be  heard.  However,  there  seems  to  be  strong  historical  support  for  a  long-­‐
standing  tradition  of  medieval  and  early  modern  Christian  pilgrimage  tattooing,  which  
continued  to  inform  the  European  pattern  of  tattoo  acquisition  associated  with  travel  
throughout  the  eighteenth  century.  
  For  the  tattooee  and  the  collector  of  tattooed  skins  alike,  the  trace  -­‐  whether  a  
remembered  experience  or  hand-­‐traced  drawing  -­‐  was  simply  not  enough;  compulsion  
seems  to  have  dictated  that  experience  and  knowledge  must  be  etched  into  flesh  and  
reified  into  material  object  respectively.  Thus  the  tattooed  and  the  collector  are  
ironically  bound  by  their  mutual  engagement  with  the  inscription  itself.  Yet  the  
question  remains  -­‐  who  exactly  were  the  collectors  of  tattooed  human  skin  in  the  late  
nineteenth-­‐century?  The  collecting  methods  of  criminologists  (which  will  be  elaborated  
in  chapter  five),  consisted  mainly  of  drawings  and  photographs,  far  as  archive  records  
indicate  -­‐  and  if  these  forms  of  collecting  were  sufficient  for  the  gathering  of  research  
data,  then  why  collect  human  remains  at  all?    
                                                                                                               
371  Latour,  'Visualisation  and  Cognition',  p.  29.  
372  Ibid.  
373  Ibid.  

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 From  Immutable  Mobiles  to  Hybrid  Entities    

 
Annemarie  Mol  defines  ontological  politics  as  'a  politics  that  has  to  do  with  the  way  in  
which  problems  are  framed,  bodies  are  shaped,  and  lives  are  pushed  and  pulled  into  
one  shape  or  another.'374  This  pragmatic  yet  elegant  description  has  clear  affinities  with  
processes  of  inscription  and  the  production  of  standardised  knowledge  objects  
analysed  by  Latour  as  immutable  mobiles.  Yet  the  entities  which  emerge  from  these  
practices  of  framing,  shaping  and  manipulation  only  appear  to  be  stable,  discrete  and  
straightforward  on  paper.  Scratching  beneath  the  surface  reveals  a  web  of  complexities  
and  contradictions-­‐in-­‐tension.  It  reveals  hybrid  entities.  The  Wellcome  tattooed  skins  
may  profitably  be  conceptualised  as  immutable  mobiles  when  considering  the  socio-­‐
material  practices  in  which  they  have  been  historically  embedded;  however,  their  
material  ambiguity  and  hybridity  nevertheless  disrupts  and  resists  their  flattening  out  
and  compartmentalisation.    
  One  especially  questions  the  status  of  the  tattoos  as  'documents'  in  the  sense  of  
images  and  words  recorded  on  paper  or  parchment  when  confronted  with  specimens  
such  as  A527  and  A670.  Unlike  the  small,  trimmed  fragment  of  skin  tattooed  with  the  
inscription  Je  Jure  D'aimer  Henri  Faure  J'usq'ua  La  Mort  (specimen  number  A795,  
Figure  69),  these  two  examples  bear  none  of  the  aesthetic  manipulations  that  
effectively  transform  the  tattooed  dedication  to  Henri  Faure  into  a  neat  parchment  
page,  reminiscent  of  a  love  note.  Rather,  both  specimens  retain  a  strong  sense  of  
corporeality,  which  emerges  from  their  'unflattened',  multidimensional  surface  and  the  
presence  of  adnexa  such  as  hair  and  nipples,  which  facilitate  identification  of  body  
location.  Specimen  number  A527  is  particularly  intriguing:  Measuring  approximately  
490mm  x  237mm,  it  is  one  of  the  largest  skin  fragments  in  the  collection  -­‐  a  fact  which  is  
somewhat  curious  considering  the  relatively  small  size  of  the  two  tattoos  that  this  piece  
carries  (see  Figure  126).  Moreover,  the  tattoos  are  located  at  the  outermost  edge  of  the  
skin  fragment,  over  what  would  have  been  the  left  shoulder  blade  and  mid-­‐back.  To  the  
left  of  the  tattoos  of  a  nautical  star  and  a  male  portrait  in  Arab  dress,  is  a  large  area  of  
unmarked  skin,  making  up  more  than  half  of  the  surface  area  of  the  entire  specimen.  
The  upper  portion  of  this  section  of  skin  is  marked  with  deep  creases  and  folds,  with  a  
distinctive  pattern  of  skin  wrinkling  where  the  arm  joins  the  body  at  the  glenohumeral  
joint.  This  wrinkling  identifies  the  area  where  the  skin  wraps  around  the  side  of  the  
body  under  the  arm,  confirmed  by  a  clump  of  wiry  underarm  hair;  a  narrow  strip  of  
skin  from  the  inside  of  the  upper  left  arm  protrudes  from  the  left  edge  of  the  patch  of  
                                                                                                               
374  Latour,  ‘Visualisation  and  Cognition’,  p.  viii.  

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hair.  It  seems  odd  that  this  large  area  of  skin,  including  the  armpit,  should  have  been  
preserved  along  with  the  tattooed  skin  from  the  back  -­‐  presuming  that  the  collector  was  
primarily  interested  in  the  tattoos,  of  course.  One  possible  reason  for  this  may  be  that  
the  strip  of  armpit  hair  orientates  the  location  of  the  tattoos  on  the  body.  However,  this  
is  a  highly  unusual  example  within  the  collection;  the  majority  of  specimens  from  which  
one  is  able  to  identify  specific  body  parts  are  more  or  less  heavily  tattooed  (such  as  the  
left  forearm  discussed  in  chapter  two,  Figure  38),  or  carry  tattoos  that  are  
coincidentally  adjacent  to  nipples  or  belly  buttons.  The  skin  from  this  part  of  the  body  -­‐  
wrapping  around  the  side  of  the  torso  from  back  to  front,  and  including  part  of  the  arm  -­‐  
cannot  be  perfectly  flattened  out  in  the  way  that  skin  from  the  chest,  thighs,  arms  or  
back  can;  the  skin  retains  the  curvature  and  contours  of  this  part  of  the  body  and  
therefore  maintains  a  sense  of  three-­‐dimensionality.  Specimen  A527  does  not  seem  to  
fit  the  criminological  collecting  rationale,  which  isolated  the  tattooed  image  from  the  
body,  flattening  it  out  and  rendering  it  immutable,  in  order  that  it  might  be  better  
assimilated  into  iconographic  taxonomies.    
  Specimen  number  A670  is  also  somewhat  anomalous  in  this  regard.  The  skin  in  
this  case  has  been  excised  much  more  economically,  cut  in  an  irregular  shape  which  
amply  frames  the  tattoo,  measuring  258mm  x  123mm.  It  has  been  preserved  with  care  
and  is  very  thin,  with  a  brittle  non-­‐pliable,  parchment-­‐like  texture  and  an  undulating  
surface.  The  tattoo,  a  faded  dagger  outlined  in  black,  appears  to  pierce  through  the  
nipple  (Figure  128).  A  number  of  skin  fragments  within  the  collection  possess  visible  
nipples;  however  in  this  case,  the  nipple  forms  a  prominent  protrusion,  standing  7mm  
above  the  skin  surface  in  a  perfectly  rounded  convex  'bubble'  (see  Figure  129).  It  
seems  unlikely  that  the  skin  would  have  dried  in  this  shape  without  deliberate  
manipulation  -­‐  rather,  it  appears  that  although  this  skin  was  well  stretched  during  the  
drying  process,  the  preparator  carefully  'pushed  out'  and  stuffed  the  nipple,  successfully  
retaining  a  convex  shape  once  the  skin  had  fully  dried,  at  the  expense  of  an  otherwise  
flat  specimen  surface.  This  remarkable  manipulation  has  fetishistic  overtones  
reminiscent  of  the  collecting  practices  of  some  bibliophiles  discussed  in  the  previous  
chapter.  Indeed,  this  particular  specimen  may  be  compared  with  the  example  of  an  
anthropodermic  bookbinding  prepared  by  René  Kieffer,  reproduced  in  de  Crauzat,  
which  features  a  cover  inlaid  with  the  tanned  nipple  and  areola  of  a  woman375  (see  top  
left  cover, Éloge  de  seins,  Figure  94).  
  Through  some  of  the  examples  outlined  above,  and  the  discussion  of  the  
affective  presence  of,  and  visceral  response  to,  human  remains  in  chapter  one,  it  is  
                                                                                                               
375  De  Crauzat,  La  Reliure  Française,  p.  144-­‐145,  plate  CXL.  

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possible  to  see  how  the  messy,  problematic  fleshiness  of  the  tattooed  skin  continues  to  
reassert  itself.  Whilst  the  tattoos  may  be  considered  variously  as  icons,  images  or  texts,  
the  skin  surface  itself  is  not  two-­‐dimensional,  but  rather  is  a  multidimensional  ground  -­‐  
far  from  being  flat,  it  may  have  protrusions  or  be  warped  and  undulating,  or  else  
cracked,  folded  and  creased;  it  may  be  translucent,  pliable  and  parchment-­‐like,  or  
indurated,  callous,  and  inflexible;  its  surface  may  be  reticulated,  milky,  friable,  
ferruginous,  veined  or  vitrified.  Hallam  refers  to  the  anatomical  way  of  knowing  bone  as  
having  ‘architecture,  texture  and  pattern’.376  So  too  does  skin.  Thus  the  materiality  of  
the  preserved  tattoos  continually  resists  their  reduction  into  visual  or  textual  
'documents'  in  the  archive.    
 
Hybrid  Entities  and  Sites  of  Enactment  
 
The  specific  kinds  of  entities  that  the  post-­‐mortem  tattoo  may  become  is  contingent  
upon  the  sites  and  practices  in  which  they  are  discussed,  collected,  framed,  assembled,  
and  enacted.  So  far  I  have  discussed  comparative  collections  of  drawings  and  
photographs  of  tattoos,  as  well  as  a  few  examples  of  preserved  tattooed  skins  held  in  
other  museum  collections,  drawing  out  some  of  the  similarities  in  iconography  between  
these  various  documents  and  entities,  in  an  attempt  to  historically  situate  the  Wellcome  
Collection  within  broader  collecting  practices.  However,  I  am  also  interested  in  the  
ways  in  which  these  documents  were  mobilised  in  the  production  of  medical  and  
criminological  knowledge,  and  the  multiple  possible  enactments  of  the  tattoo  brought  
about  through  these  discourses.  
  If  the  kind  of  entity  the  tattoo  may  become  is  in  a  large  part  determined  by  
where  it  is  encountered,  then  the  different  sites  of  enactment  of  the  tattoo  must  be  
examined  further.  We  have  already  seen  how  the  body  of  the  criminal  was  'collected',  
systemised  and  filed  away  in  police  and  criminological  archives  during  the  nineteenth  
century,  and  touched  upon  the  role  that  photographs  and  drawings  of  tattoos  played  in  
these  processes  of  inscription  and  punctualization.  The  tattoo  was  not  only  an  object  of  
study  for  police  and  forensic  specialists,  however;  discussions  of  tattoos  also  appear  in  
medical  reports  and  collections  from  the  period.  In  the  context  of  the  hospital  or  clinic,  
the  tattoo  was  frequently  encountered  as  a  risk  to  health  by  medical  professionals,  
whose  work  on  the  anatomy  of  the  tattoo  and  the  etiology  of  disease  interpreted  the  
tattoo  as  a  potentially  harmful  foreign  body.  Tattoo  ink,  inserted  beneath  the  upper  
layers  of  the  skin  during  tattooing,  was  in  itself  a  foreign  substance  of  unknown  
                                                                                                               
376  Elizabeth  Hallam,  'Articulating  Bones',  p.  465.  

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composition,  which  could  be  harmful  to  health.377  The  possibility  of  introducing  other  
foreign  bodies  such  as  the  bacterium  Treponema  pallidum,  responsible  for  syphilis  
infection,  or  Clostridium  perfringens,  the  bacterium  commonly  associated  with  
gangrene,  through  unsanitary  tattooing  practices  and  equipment,  was  a  concern  
amongst  many  doctors.378  The  tattoo  is  thus  encountered  in  the  clinic  as  a  potential  
vector  of  disease  and  carrier  of  multiple  foreign  bodies,  enacting  a  conception  of  the  
tattoo  as  a  multiple  entity  comprising  of  ink,  bacteria,  inflammation,  granulomas,  etc.    
  A  number  of  medical  collections  contain  images  of  tattoos  which  are  the  site  of  
skin  disease;  typically,  these  represent  syphilis  infections.379  The  Mütter  Museum  at  the  
College  of  Physicians  of  Philadelphia  in  the  US,  for  example,  hold  within  their  collections  
an  1877  watercolour  sketch  of  a  tattoo  infected  with  several  syphilis  lesions  (see  
Figure  130).  The  sketch  shows  the  ventral  surface  of  the  forearm  tattooed  with  the  
figure  of  woman  in  black  and  red.  Several  large  rupial  sores  erupt  from  the  tattooed  
lines,  engulfing  portions  of  the  design;  the  lesions  are  coloured  bright  red  to  depict  
inflammation  at  the  site  of  infection,  matching  the  red  tones  of  the  tattooed  sash,  hem  
and  spotted  pattern  on  the  female  figure's  dress.  The  sores  in  the  upper  portion  of  the  
tattoo  seem  to  merge  with  the  design,  contributing  an  almost  aesthetic  addition  to  her  
dress;  they  appear  like  puff  sleeves.  Coloured  drawings  of  infected  tattoos  such  as  this  
one  are  rare  within  nineteenth-­‐century  medical  collections;  indeed,  examples  of  the  
tattoo  as  the  site  of  skin  pathology  are  uncommon  in  general,  suggesting  that  whilst  
there  were  concerns  about  the  health  risks  of  tattooing,  actual  cases  of  infection  
requiring  hospitalisation  were  infrequent.  Within  the  famous  collection  of  
dermatological  waxes  in  the  Musée  des  Moulages  at  the  Hôpital  Saint-­‐Louis  in  Paris,  for  
example,  there  is  only  one  example  of  a  tattoo  infected  with  syphilis  (see  Figure  131).  
In  this  case,  three  tattoos  are  depicted  over  an  arm,  extending  from  the  bicep  down  to  
the  wrist.  The  uppermost  of  these,  a  portrait  in  profile,  is  partially  obscured  by  the  
syphilitic  skin  eruption,  which  appears  to  eat  into  the  flesh,  presenting  a  far  greater  
visceral  quality  than  that  of  the  sketch  in  the  Mütter  Museum.    
                                                                                                               
377  This  seems  to  have  become  more  of  a  health  concern  during  the  middle  decades  of  the  twentieth  

century,  when  medical  journals  began  to  report  cases  of  mercurial  sensitivity  in  the  red  portions  of  old  
tattoos.  As  we  have  seen  in  chapter  two,  cinnabar  and  vermilion  pigments  were  used  in  tattooing,  despite  
their  high  mercury  content.  For  reports  on  adverse  skin  reactions  to  mercury-­‐based  tattoo  pigments  see  
Frederick  G.  Novy  Jr.,  'A  Generalized  Mercurial  (Cinnabar)  Reaction  Following  Tattooing',  in  Archives  of  
Dermatology  and  Syphilology, Vol.  49,  No.  3  (Mar.  1944),  pp.  172-­‐173;  also,  F.  E.  S.  Keiller,  'Mercury  
Dermatitis  in  a  Tattoo:  Treated  with  Dimercaprol',  in  British  Medical  Journal  (Mar.  23,  1957),  p.  678.  
378  In  France,  Ernest  Berchon,  René  Primevère  Lesson  and  Mathurin  Félix  Hutin  all  wrote  on  the  serious  

dangers  tattooing  posed  to  health.  

379  Cases  of  tattoos  infected  with  tuberculosis  were  also  reported  in  the  medical  literature  of  the  late  

nineteenth  century.  See,  for  example  D.  W.  Collings  and  W.  Murray,  'Three  Cases  of  Inoculation  of  
Tuberculosis  From  Tattooing',  in  The  British  Medical  Journal,  Vol.1,  No.  1796  (June  1,  1895),  p.  1200.  This  
particular  article  also  contains  two  very  interesting  images  of  tattoos  infected  with  tuberculosis,  which  will  
be  discussed  at  greater  length  in  chapter  five.  
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  Despite  medical  concerns  about  the  tattoo  as  a  source  of  contagion,  there  are  
relatively  few  documented  cases  in  the  medical  literature  of  diseases  communicated  by  
tattooing.  However,  the  images  and  artefacts  discussed  above  are  nevertheless  of  
historical  significance,  both  for  the  study  of  the  material  culture  of  medicine,  and  in  
reconstructing  the  sites  of  enactment  of  the  European  tattoo.  Whilst  medical  drawings  
made  in  the  clinic  and  wax  moulages  cast  in  the  hospital  provide  useful  comparative  
examples  of  iconographic  collections,  like  photographs,  these  documents  usually  record  
traces  of  the  living  body  and  tattoo.  A  survey  of  extant  preserved  tattoo  collections  in  
the  UK  and  France  has  uncovered  no  examples  of  tattoos  showing  signs  of  infection.      
  Another  significant  context  of  enactment  of  the  post-­‐mortem  tattoo  is  the  
pathology  laboratory.  In  the  course  of  this  research,  I  have  encountered  several  small  
collections  of  preserved  tattoos  in  a  number  of  London  university  and  medical  museum  
collections;  almost  all  of  these  differ  significantly  from  the  Wellcome  Collection  in  that  
they  are  wet-­‐preserved  specimens.  Notable  examples  include  a  number  of  tattooed  skin  
fragments  in  the  Hunterian  Museum's  anatomy  collections;  three  specimens  in  the  
forensic  collection  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Pathology  Museum;  five  pieces  in  the  Gordon  
Museum  of  Pathology  at  Kings  College;380  one  at  Imperial  College  London;  and  two  
pieces  in  University  College  London's  own  pathology  collections.  It  is  not  uncommon  to  
find  at  least  one  example  of  preserved  tattooed  human  skin  in  many  historic  university  
anatomy  and  pathology  collections.  Most  of  these  tattoo  specimens  are  wet-­‐preserved  
and  date  more  recently  than  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattoos  -­‐  usually  from  the  early  
decades  of  the  twentieth  century  anywhere  up  to  around  the  1980s.381  It  might  seem  
somewhat  unusual  that  university  anatomy  and  pathology  departments  would  preserve  
these  specimens  at  all;  particularly  post-­‐World  War  II,  after  alleged  Nazi  tattoo  
collecting  practices  had  come  to  light  in  eye-­‐witness  accounts,  biographies  and  the  
                                                                                                               
380  I  refer  specifically  to  five  historical  skin  pieces,  which  have  been  preserved  for  the  sole  interest  of  the  

tattoos  -­‐  only  one  of  these  pieces  is  dry-­‐prepared  in  a  manner  similar  to  those  in  the  Wellcome  Collection.  
There  are  further  examples  of  specimens  bearing  tattoos  in  the  Gordon  Museum  forensic  collections.  With  
the  exception  of  one  small  black  and  yellow  devil  tattoo,  which  was  removed  at  the  behest  of  the  patient,  all  
of  these  are  larger  body  parts  with  specific  forensic  interest;  the  preservation  of  the  tattoos  in  these  cases  is  
entirely  incidental.    
381  Patient  case  histories  and  provenance  records  for  these  specimens  are  often  absent,  brief  or  difficult  to  

verify.  In  the  wake  of  the  Alder  Hey  scandal,  many  university  anatomy  and  pathology  teaching  collections  
were  hastily  thrown  away.  Many  of  these  specimens  were  long-­‐neglected,  having  not  been  used  in  teaching  
for  decades,  and  the  lack  of  provenance  records  became  a  cause  for  concern  amongst  many  curators  and  
heads  of  departments,  in  the  wake  of  media  backlash  against  the  medical  profession  following  public  
inquiries  into  organ  retention  practices  at  Alder  Hey  Children's  Hospital  and  Bristol  Royal  Infirmary.  Whilst  
many  institutions  were  throwing  out  their  historical  collections  of  human  remains,  curators  and  
technicians  at  University  College  London,  who  recognised  the  historical  importance  of  these  specimens,  
were  absorbing  them  into  their  own  collections.  The  UCL  Pathology  Museum  at  the  Royal  Free  Hospital  in  
Hampstead  is  now  home  to  many  of  these  discarded  specimens,  which  are  currently  undergoing  
restoration.  Many  arrived  without  paperwork,  however  -­‐  thus  it  is  often  impossible  to  determine  their  
provenance.  In  these  cases,  the  only  way  to  estimate  the  date  of  a  specimen  is  through  the  construction  and  
type  of  container  in  which  it  is  preserved.    
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popular  press,  and  the  tattoo  had  long  ceased  to  be  a  serious  object  of  criminological  
study.  As  we  have  seen  in  the  Mütter  Museum  example,  the  tattoo  may  be  of  
pathological  interest  to  the  medical  professional  in  such  cases  were  the  tattoo  has  
become  infected  or  is  the  site  of  inoculation  of  disease.  But  there  is  nothing  inherently  
pathological  about  tattooed  skin  in  itself;  and  whilst  medical  collections  may  contain  a  
small  number  of  images  of  tattoos  that  have  both  iconographic  value  and  pathological  
interest,  I  have  not  encountered  a  single  preserved  tattooed  specimen  that  bears  signs  
of  infectious  disease.  And  yet,  in  many  contemporary  pathology  collections,  specimens  
such  as  a  remarkable  collection  of  tattooed  butterflies  (Figure  132)  are  displayed  
alongside  other  pathological  skin  specimens  such  as  cutaneous  anthrax,  fibromas,  
keloids  and  glanders.  The  framing  of  these  entities  within  a  pathological  context  is  
curious  -­‐  what,  if  anything,  can  be  learned  from  these  tattoos  in  medical  terms?  Or  are  
these  striking  collections  of  decorated  human  skin  merely  objects  of  medical  curiosity?    
  The  collection  of  butterfly  tattoos  are  a  case  in  point  (Figures  132  and  133).  
These  particular  tattoos  belonged  to  one  individual,  whose  very  brief  case  notes  have  
been  recorded  and  retained  along  with  the  specimen  in  UCL  Pathology  Collections.  The  
notes  provide  an  intriguing  glimpse  into  the  life  of  the  individual  to  whom  the  tattoos  
belonged,  as  well  as  revealing  something  of  the  clinical  interests  and  collecting  practices  
of  the  doctor  who  preserved  them:  
 
From   a   man   aged   79   years   who   had   earned   his   living   for   many   years   as   the  
Tattooed  Man  in  a  circus.  382  His  entire  body,  except  for  the  head  and  neck,  hands  
and   soles   of   his   feet,   was   covered   with   elaborate   tattoo   designs.   He   died   of  
peritonitis   due   to   a   perforation   of   an   anastomatic   ulcer   ...   In   tattooing,   fine  
particles   of   pigment   are   introduced   through   the   skin,   taken   up   by   histiocytes  
and  become  lodged  in  the  tissue  spaces  of  the  dermis.  Pigment  also  passes  to  the  
regional  lymph  glands  via  the  lymphatics.  In  this  case,  all  the  superficial  lymph  
nodes  were  heavily  pigmented.  
 
  It  is  clear  from  these  brief  comments  that  the  nature  and  extent  of  this  man's  
tattoos  were  indeed  of  anatomical  interest  to  the  medical  practitioner:  The  tattooed  
man  had  been  so  extensively  tattooed  that  gradual  migration  of  ink  particles  resulted  in  
the  collection  of  pigment  in  the  lymph  glands.  This  demonstrates  that  although  tattoo  
ink  is  trapped  permanently  under  the  skin  following  healing,  it  nevertheless  travels  
within  the  body  over  time,  filtering  into  the  body's  tissue  drainage  system,  and  
collecting  in  the  lymph  glands.  Whilst  this  is  certainly  an  interesting  anatomical  

                                                                                                               
382  I  have  been  able  to  establish  the  year  of  death  of  this  individual  as  1954,  based  upon  the  post-­‐mortem  

record  code  in  the  case  notes.  That  would  mean  that  the  Tattooed  Man  was  born  in  1875;  his  tattoos  are  
therefore  contemporary  with  some  of  those  in  the  Wellcome  Collection,  assuming  that  he  was  tattooed  in  
his  early  twenties.  
154  
 
  

observation,  it  is  not  the  pigmented  lymph  glands  that  the  doctor  has  chosen  to  
preserve,  but  rather  the  tattooed  skin  itself.  Thus  these  tattoos  are  involved  in  
processes  of  inscription  which  involve  dissection,  an  autopsy,  the  recording  of  case  
notes  and  the  selection  and  preservation  of  fragments  of  tattooed  skin.  These  processes  
enact  the  tattoo  as  an  entity  not  fixed  indelibly  in  the  skin,  but  as  migrating  ink  particles  
within  the  lymphatic  system.  In  the  context  of  the  pathology  lab,  the  tattoo  is  not  only  
encountered  as  ink  particles  in  skin,  but  also  as  ink  particles  in  the  lymph  glands,  as  an  
entity  with  deeper,  hidden  interiority.  The  tattoo  appears  in  the  adjacent  body  tissues  
as  a  foreign  body.  Yet  without  the  accompanying  case  notes,  we  would  never  have  
known  that  this  man's  tattoos  had  exerted  any  effect  on  another  of  the  body's  organs  
and  systems  at  all.  
  It  would  be  equally  impossible  to  know  if  these  were  the  only  tattoos  he  
possessed  -­‐  or  indeed,  whether  they  all  necessarily  belonged  to  the  same  person.  There  
are  strong  stylistic  similarities  between  the  butterfly  motifs,  suggesting  the  work  of  a  
single  tattooist,  or  perhaps  that  the  individual  motifs  were  part  of  a  larger  design.  But  
just  how  large  or  complex  the  design  may  have  been,  we  certainly  cannot  tell  just  by  
looking  at  these  five  small  tattoos.  We  know  that  they  belonged  to  a  seventy-­‐nine-­‐year-­‐
old  man,  who  made  his  living  as  a  Tattooed  Man,  only  because  the  doctor  tells  us  so.  He  
or  she  also  tells  us  that  his  body  was  covered  in  tattoos  -­‐  yet  only  five  small  pieces  have  
been  preserved.  Five  carefully  selected  motifs,  chosen  by  the  doctor  from  an  already  
complete  collection,  which  provided  the  livelihood  and  told  the  life  story  of  one  
unnamed  man.  What  selection  criteria  did  the  pathologist  adopt  when  deciding  which  
tattoos  to  preserve,  and  which  to  consign  to  the  grave?  The  manner  in  which  the  
specimens  have  been  excised  and  mounted  are  strikingly  reminiscent  of  a  
lepidopterist's  collection  of  butterflies  -­‐  could  this  reflect  the  personal  collecting  
interests  of  the  pathologist,  or  perhaps  even  the  Tattooed  Man  himself?  Both  the  
pathologist  and  Tattooed  Man  alike  chose  these  butterflies  -­‐  did  they  also  share  a  
passion  for  lepidoptery?  Many  people  will  be  familiar  with  the  kind  of  insect  specimen  
displays  that  are  a  staple  of  natural  history  collections  -­‐  the  old  nineteenth-­‐century  
museum  cases  containing  neat  rows  of  pinned  and  mounted  moths  and  butterflies,  
neatly  organised  according  to  subspecies  and  visual  characteristics.  
  The  tattooed  butterflies  share  some  remarkable  similarities  with  these  
entomology  collections;  they  are  arranged  one  above  another,  and  'pinned'  to  a  support  
with  small  surgical  stitches.  Unusually  for  specimens  found  in  pathology  collections,  this  
support  is  a  slightly  translucent  black.  This  appears  to  be  a  deliberate  choice  on  the  part  
of  the  pathologist  -­‐  the  black  perspex  provides  a  contrasting  ground  for  the  display  of  

155  
 
  

tattoos  on  opposite  sides  of  the  vitrine,  such  that  they  do  not  visually  detract  from  one  
another.  These  aesthetic  choices  suggest  a  nuanced  interest  in  the  collection  and  display  
of  these  specimens,  which  goes  far  beyond  a  straightforward  medical  interest  in  the  
anatomy  of  the  tattoo.  Thus  a  further  enactment  of  the  tattoo  emerges  from  the  
assemblage  of  tattooed  skin,  perspex  vitrine,  surgical  stitches,  formalin,  and  glycerin;  as  
a  multi-­‐layered  aesthetic  object,  which  is  both  artifice  and  natural  history  specimen.  
From  the  limited  case  notes  and  analysis  of  the  specimen  itself,  we  can  learn  something  
about  the  pathologist's  interest  in  the  tattoo,  but  the  purpose  of  the  preserved  tattoo  -­‐  
perhaps  as  a  pedagogical  tool,  perhaps  a  more  idiosyncratic  collectors  item  -­‐  remains  
obscure.    
 
A  Note  on  Tertiary  Collectors:  The  Contemporary  Museum    
 
What  was  Henry  Wellcome's  purpose  in  purchasing  Lavalette's  collection  of  tattoos?  
Although  he  never  gave  any  indication  of  what  place  they  would  take  in  his  unrealised  
'Historical  Medical  Museum',  he  nevertheless  regarded  them  as  significant.  His  
handwritten  comment  in  the  margin  of  Johnston-­‐Saint's  purchase  report  dated  1929  
indicates  that  he  had  a  'certain  section'  of  his  museum  in  mind  for  the  tattoos  (see  
Figure  1);  thus  it  seems  clear  that  Wellcome  considered  them  of  value  to  medical  
history.  Though  we  will  never  know  what  purpose  they  may  have  served  in  Henry  
Wellcome's  museum,  the  meaning  of  the  tattoos  has  not  remained  static  since  their  
accession  into  his  collection,  but  rather  continues  to  be  reinterpreted  and  re-­‐enacted  
within  the  museum  context.  One  of  the  most  significant  ways  in  which  collections  are  
enacted  within  the  museum  is  through  exhibition  and  display.  I  have  contributed  to  this  
process  myself,  through  my  involvement  in  the  recording  of  audio-­‐guide  commentary  
for  two  of  the  preserved  tattoos  that  are  on  permanent  display  in  the  Medicine  Man  
exhibition  at  the  Wellcome  Collection  galleries  on  Euston  Road  in  London  (see  Figure  
134).  A  number  of  other  tattoos  in  the  collection  have  been  displayed  in  temporary  
exhibitions  on  different  themes  in  recent  years,  recalling  the  immutable  mobile  through  
their  'reshuffling  and  recombination.'  
  The  most  recent  example  of  this  'reshuffling'  through  display  and  curatorial  
interpretation  was  the  Science  Museum  exhibition  Psychoanalysis:  the  Unconscious  in  
Everyday  Life  (13th  October  2010  -­‐  15th  April  2011).  The  two  tattooed  skins  chosen  for  
display  were  specimen  numbers  A542  (Figure  2,  right)  and  A543  (Figure  135),  two  of  
the  largest  skin  fragments.  Although  they  possess  some  similarities  in  terms  of  their  
shape  and  size,  both  pieces  having  been  removed  from  male  torsos,  the  iconography  of  

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the  tattoos  and  the  aesthetic  quality  of  the  designs  are  entirely  different.  One  is  the  left  
portion  of  the  chest  and  abdomen  belonging  to  Fromain,  showing  the  hand  clasping  the  
dagger,  wreathed  by  roses,  and  part  of  the  elaborate  scene  over  the  abdomen,  depicting  
the  table  set  with  a  meal,  bottle  and  wine  glasses.  As  previously  discussed  at  some  
length  in  chapter  one,  the  right  portion  of  this  design  is  preserved  on  a  separate  section  
of  skin  from  the  same  body,  and  depicts  a  woman  sat  at  the  table,  in  what  is  a  strikingly  
detailed  portrait.  This  is  a  well-­‐executed  tattoo,  and  shows  indication  of  skilled  hand  
application,  likely  the  work  of  an  early  professional.  The  other  tattoo  displayed  in  the  
Psychoanalysis  exhibition  consists  of  a  collection  of  classic  sailor  motifs,  as  well  as  
others  which  reference  the  foreign  legion  -­‐  busts,  wreaths  and  so  forth  -­‐  and  are  
executed  by  an  amateur  practitioner,  certainly  with  hand  needles.  These  tattoos  were  
displayed  in  the  'Cabinet  of  Wish-­‐fulfilment'  alongside  a  series  of  Roman  ceramic  votive  
offerings  depicting  feet,  eyes,  faces  and  phalloi.  The  votives  are  given  a  great  deal  of  
attention  in  the  accompanying  audio  script  and  wall  plaques.  The  tattooed  skins  
however,  are  not  contextualised  at  all;  in  fact,  their  relation  or  lack  of  it  to  the  other  
objects  in  the  vitrine  is  not  mentioned,  leading  viewers  to  make  their  own  associations  
as  to  what  it  might  mean  to  see  preserved  tattooed  human  skins  juxtaposed  with  
disembodied  clay  eyes,  penises,  and  hands.  In  some  respects,  this  particular  exhibition  
represents  a  departure  point  from  the  criminological  theories  about  the  tattoo  
advanced  during  the  nineteenth  century  -­‐  the  tattoo  is  no  longer  read  as  an  inherent  
sign  of  deviance  or  criminality.  However,  the  close  association  between  the  surface  and  
the  interior  persists;  framed  within  the  context  of  Freudian  psychoanalysis,  the  
exhibition  offers  the  suggestion  that  the  interiority  of  the  other  may  be  understood  
through  'reading'  the  symbols  inscribed  on  the  body  surface.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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CHAPTER  FIVE:    
The  Tattoo  in  Nineteenth-­‐Century  Criminological  and  Medical  Discourse  
 
In  my  previous  chapter,  I  have  explored  some  of  the  intersecting  collecting  practices  
and  contexts  within  which  the  Wellcome  Collection  tattoos  may  be  framed,  
demonstrating  how  the  tattoo  is  continually  reinterpreted  and  re-­‐enacted  within  these  
shifting  contexts.  The  most  significant  comparative  collections  are  historically  found  
within  the  context  of  medical  schools  and  forensic  science  laboratories,  in  which  
collections  of  drawings  and  photographs  of  tattoos,  as  well  as  samples  of  preserved  
tattooed  skin,  formed  the  'first  inscription'  in  complex  knowledge-­‐gathering  processes.  
These  iconographic  and  material  collections  were  crucial  to  -­‐  and  instrumental  in  -­‐  the  
development  of  the  medical  and  criminological  discourses  surrounding  the  tattoo  which  
emerged  in  continental  Europe  from  around  the  1880s  onwards.  This  chapter  deals  
with  these  discourses,  and  explores  the  combination  of  factors  that  compelled  
nineteenth  century  physicians  and  criminologists  to  collect  tattoos.  
  The  scholarly  interest  may  be  traced  to  two  discrete  yet  interconnected  areas  of  
research:  the  anatomy  of  the  tattoo;  and  the  tattoo  as  a  sign  of  social  deviance.  The  
former  field  of  scholarship  was  predominantly  pursued  during  the  middle  decades  of  
the  century  by  medical  practitioners,  whose  research  focussed  upon  determining  the  
permanency  of  the  tattoo  and  methods  for  their  removal  (although  these  were  later  
refined  by  physicians  in  the  final  decades  of  the  century),  as  well  as  concerns  for  public  
health  and  the  transmission  of  infectious  diseases  via  unhygienic  tattooing  methods.  
The  work  of  scientists,  doctors  and  military  surgeons  such  as  René-­‐Primevère  Lesson383  
(1794-­‐1849),  Jean  Mathurin  Félix  Hutin  (1804-­‐1892),  Auguste  Ambroise  Tardieu  
(1818-­‐1879),  and  Ernest  Berchon  (1825-­‐1894)  had  significant  implications  for  early  
nineteenth  century  criminologists  and  police  scientists,  who  were  primarily  concerned  
with  the  potential  of  the  tattoo  as  an  identifying  mark.  It  was  only  in  the  later  part  of  the  
century  that  the  tattoo  came  to  be  re-­‐coded  as  a  physiological  signifier  of  psychological  
deviance  and  latent  criminality,  through  the  systematic  work  of  prominent  
criminologists  such  as  Alexandre  Lacassagne  in  France,  and  his  professional  rival  
Cesare  Lombroso  in  Italy.  Their  work,  in  turn,  fostered  a  renewed  interest  in  the  tattoo  
amongst  medical  professionals  across  Europe,  who  primarily  concerned  themselves  
with  risk  factors  associated  with  disease  transmission,  as  well  as  practical  methods  of  

                                                                                                               
383  Lesson  was  a  naturalist  and  traveller,  who  also  commented  on  shipboard  tattooing  practices  he  

witnessed  amongst  sailors  whilst  at  sea.  He  is  listed  in  the  Biographical  Index  of  Members,  Associates  and  
Correspondents  of  the  Academy  of  Medicine  (1820-­‐1990),  (Paris,  1991).  
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removal.  These  doctors  were  also  in  a  position  to  collect  and  preserve  examples  of  
tattooed  skin  from  the  bodies  of  cadavers  that  routinely  passed  over  their  tables.  
  As  I  have  previously  touched  upon  in  chapter  four,  the  tattoo  in  Europe  has  a  
long  but  somewhat  ambiguous  history:  Whilst  early  textual  and  archaeological  evidence  
indicates  that  tattooing  was  widely  practiced  among  the  Scythians,  Celts,  Picts  and  
Germans  in  prehistoric  Europe,  the  historical  picture  is  far  less  clear  for  later  periods.  
The  sporadic  and  discontinuous  visibility  of  the  tattoo  in  European  cultural  history  has  
thus  led  Jane  Caplan  to  characterise  the  history  of  European  tattooing  by  its  tendency  
'to  resolve  itself  into  a  history  of  the  particular  episodes  of  its  emergence  into  view'.384  
The  tattoo  in  Western  civilization  has  received  sporadic  and  incomplete  scholarly  
attention  going  back  perhaps  as  far  as  A.D.  97,  according  to  some  sources.  Numerous  
historical  accounts  describe  tattooing  and  other  forms  of  branding  that  were  practiced  
in  ancient  Greece  and  Rome  to  mark  slaves  and  captured  prisoners  of  war.385  Some  
scholars  have  regarded  this  ancient  use  of  the  tattoo  as  a  mark  of  low  social  status  and  
stigma  to  be  a  powerful  contributing  factor  in  the  later  European  reception  of  the  tattoo  
as  an  inherently  aberrant  sign.386  Indeed,  historian  C.  P.  Jones  has  argued  that  the  very  
term  'stigma'  is  derived  from  ancient  Greek  and  Roman  tattooing  practices,387  and  many  
nineteenth-­‐century  criminologists  writing  on  tattooing  point  to  the  ancient  world  
almost  as  a  justification  for  relegating  the  practice  to  a  fundamentally  low-­‐class  and  
disreputable  status.  Writing  in  1869,  the  French  naval  surgeon  Ernest  Berchon  cited  a  
number  of  early  works  on  methods  of  tattoo  removal,  of  which  Archigene  (A.D.  97)  
appears  to  be  the  earliest.388  Perhaps  as  long  as  tattooing  has  existed,  and  certainly  
where  they  have  been  externally  imposed  on  the  tattooed  as  a  sign  of  low  status,  as  in  
the  marking  of  slaves,  prisoners  or  deserters,  tattoo  removal  methods  have  also  been  
sought.  In  ancient  Greece,  tattoo  removal  was  allegedly  carried  out  in  the  sanctuary  of  
Epidaurus;  according  to  Le  Goarant  de  Tromelin,  the  names  of  famous  doctors  who  
carried  out  these  procedures  include  Cinnamos,  Eros,  Tryphon,  and  Criton.389  Thus  the  
relationship  between  criminality,  the  attribution  of  low  social  status,  tattooing  and  the  
search  for  reliable  methods  by  which  to  obliterate  the  permanent  mark,  have  long  been  

                                                                                                               
384  Caplan,  'The  Tattoo  in  Popular  Practice',  p.  111.  
385  C.  P.  Jones,  'Stigma:  Tattooing  and  Branding  in  Graeco-­‐Roman  Antiquity',  in  The  Journal  of  Roman  

Studies,  Vol.  77,  (1987),  pp.  139-­‐140.  

386  See  for  example  Caplan  (ed.),  Written  on  the  Body.  
387  Jones,  'Stigma'  pp.  140-­‐141.  
388  Ernest  Berchon,  Histoire  Medicale  Du  Tatouage,  (Paris,  1869),  p.  96.  Some  of  these  early  tattoo  removal  

solutions  make  for  interesting  reading  -­‐  suggesting  everything  from  Archigene's  urinary  deposits  mixed  
with  vinegar,  to  breast  milk  mixed  with  honey  and  oil.  
389  Le  Goarant  de  Tromelin,  Le  tatouage,  Considérations  psychologiques  et  médico-­‐légales,  (Lyon:  BOSC  

Frères,  M.  &  L.  RIOU,  1933),  p.  27.    

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closely  connected.  These  themes  emerge  in  nineteenth  century  medico-­‐legal  discourses  
on  the  tattoo,  which  I  will  explore  here  in  some  detail.    
  Aside  from  the  Pacific  encounter  of  the  eighteenth  century  previously  discussed  
in  chapter  four,  one  of  the  best-­‐documented  traditions  of  European  tattooing  is  the  
Christian  pilgrimage  tattoo.  This  practice  was  widespread  in  medieval  Europe,  
suggesting  that  at  this  time  the  tattoo  was  invested  with  'honourable'  associations  
linked  to  Christian  devotional  practice;  Caplan  notes  that  these  tattoos  were  sometimes  
explicitly  described  by  their  bearers  'as  a  token  of  suffering  in  honour  of  Christ.'390  
Pilgrimage  tattooing  has  been  associated  with  numerous  holy  sites  in  Europe,  notably  
Loreto  in  Italy391  and  Jerusalem  in  present-­‐day  Israel.392  One  of  the  most  frequently  
cited  accounts  of  seventeenth-­‐century  pilgrimage  tattooing  comes  from  the  travel  
journals  of  William  Lithgow,  who  was  tattooed  in  Palestine  during  a  visit  in  1612:  
 
 Earley   on   the   morrow   there   came   a   fellow   to   us,   one   Elias   Areacheros,   a  
Christian  in  habitour  at  Bethleem,  and  purveier  for  the  Friers;  who  did  ingrave  
on  our  severall  Armes  upon  Christ's  Sepulcher  the  name  of  Jesus,  and  the  Holy  
Crosse;   being   our   owne   opinion,   and   desire:   here   is   the   Modell   thereof.   But   I  
decyphered,   and   subjoyned   below   mine,   the   four   incorporate   Crowns   of   King  
James,  with  this  inscription,  in  the  lower  circle  of  the  Crowne,  Vivat  Jacobus  Rex:  
returning  to  the  fellow  two  Pisaters  for  his  reward.393  
 
According  to  some  accounts,  Christian  pilgrimage  tattooing  in  Palestine  continued  
uninterrupted  from  at  least  as  far  back  as  Lithgow's  experience,  well  into  the  twentieth  
century.  During  a  visit  to  Jerusalem  in  1956,  John  Carswell  met  a  professional  tattooist,  
Jason  Razzouk,  who  was  apparently  still  using  the  traditional  tattoo  designs  carved  into  
woodblocks  that  had  been  passed  down  through  his  family  since  the  seventeenth  
century.394  The  persistence  of  such  traditions  within  Europe  did  not  dissuade  
criminologist  Cesare  Lombroso  from  his  estimation  of  tattooing  as  an  'atavistic'  
practice,  however.  In  Lombroso's  study  of  tattooing  in  the  Italian  army  during  the  
1860s,  he  compiled  accounts  of  tattooing  amongst  Italian  communities  of  peasants  and  
rural  workers  in  Lombardy,  Piedmont  and  the  Marches,  as  well  as  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  
of  Loreto,  where  tattoos  were  explicitly  linked  to  the  first  instance  of  crucifixion  

                                                                                                               
390  Caplan,  'The  Tattoo  in  Popular  Practice',  p.  115.  
391  Caplan,  'National  Tattooing',  p.  159.    
392  Scutt  and  Gotch,  Art,  Sex  and  Symbol,  p.  27;  pp.  65-­‐66;  see  also  Steve  Gilbert,  The  Tattoo  History  Source  

Book,  (New  York:  RE/Search  Publications,  2000),  pp.  150-­‐151.    

393  William  Lithgow,  The  Totall  discourse  of  the  rare  adventures  and  painefull  peregrinations  of  long  nineteen  

yeares  travayles  from  Scotland  to  the  most  famous  kingdomes  in  Europe,  Asia  and  Affrica,  (J.  MacLehose:  
Glasgow,  1906),  p.  253.  See  also  Figure  137  for  the  illustrations  of  Lithgow's  tattoos,  reproduced  from  the  
text  (p.  252).  
394  John  Carswell,  Coptic  Tattoo  Designs,  (Beirut:  The  American  University  of  Beirut,  1956).  Carswell  

reproduces  one  hundred  and  eighty-­‐four  prints  from  these  woodblocks  in  his  book.  
160  
 
  

stigmata  in  the  Christian  tradition,  that  of  Saint  Francis.395  Collectively  he  characterised  
this  group  of  ordinary  citizens  as  little  different  from  'primitive  peoples',  among  whom  
tattooing  represented  a  kind  of  'historical  atavism':  
 
The  first  and  most  primary  cause  of  the  diffusion  of  this  custom  among  us  is  in  
my  view  atavism,  and  that  species  of  historical  atavism  that  we  call  tradition,  for  
tattooing   is   one   of   the   special   characteristics   of   primitive   man   and   those   in   a  
state  of  savagery.396  
 
  Many  authors  explicitly  connected  the  traditional  tattoos  of  'primitive'  or  
'savage'  peoples  with  the  body  markings  of  European  criminals,  believing  tattooing  to  
be  the  mark  of  a  fundamentally  'uncivilised'  mind.  In  one  of  his  earliest  works  on  
tattooing,  co-­‐authored  with  the  vice-­‐president  of  the  Société  d'anthropologie  de  Paris,  
Dr.  Emile  Magitot  (1833-­‐1897),  Lacassagne  distinguishes  between  tatouage  ethnique  
and  a  medico-­‐legal  perspective  on  the  tattoo,  although  he  also  draws  parallels  between  
the  motivations  of  each  group:  
 
The  special  character  of  the  design  according  to  its  location,  and  especially  the  
number  of  tattoos,  are  the  manifestation  of  the  instinctive  vanity  and  the  need  to  
display,  which  are  a  characteristic  of  primitive  man  and  criminal  natures.397  
 
Most  accounts  of  tattooing  in  the  criminal-­‐anthropological  literature  of  the  period  
follow  a  similar  pattern:  At  the  outset,  an  historical  context  is  delineated  in  which  the  
tattoo  is  degraded,  either  through  reference  to  ancient  European  punitive  tattooing  
practices,  or  to  the  practices  of  tattooing  in  non-­‐European  cultures  labelled  ‘primitive’  
or  ‘savage’,  in  order  to  then  discuss  contemporary  examples  of  tattoos  on  prisoners,  
military  personnel  or  the  insane,  and  argue  that  they  were  chosen  voluntarily  for  
reasons  of  'vanity',  due  to  membership  of  the  'criminal  underclass',  and  even  
'perversity'.  In  this  way,  
     
Tattooing  was  commonly  represented  in  nineteenth-­‐century  European  cultural  
sciences   as   a   literal   marker   of   the   primitive:   lines   drawn   on   the   body   mapped  
the  boundary  between  the  savage  and  the  civilized,  and  potentially  endorsed  the  
cultural  superiority  of  the  Europeans.398  

                                                                                                               
395  Catherine  Pigorini-­‐Beri,  'Le  Tatouage  Religieux  et  Amoureux  au  Pelerinage  de  N.  D.  de  Lorette',  in  

Archives  d'anthropologie  criminelle,  16,  (1891),  p.  10.  

396  Cesare  Lomroso,  L'uomo  delinquente,  (Milan,  1876),  p.  54.  Cited  in  Caplan,  'National  Tattooing',  p.  159.  
397  Lacassagne  and  Magitot,  Du  Tatouage,  p.  37.  Translated  from  the  French:    

Le  caractère  spéciale  du  dessin  d'après  sa  localisation,  et  sourtout  le  nombre  des  tatouages,  sont  la  
manifestation  de  cette  vanité  instinctive  et  de  ce  besoin  d'étalage  qui  sont  une  des  caractéristiques  de  l'homme  
primitif  et  des  natures  criminelles.  
398  Caplan,  'The  Tattoo  in  Popular  Practice',  p.  112.  

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Thus  the  nineteenth-­‐century  historical  material  on  the  tattoo  presents  a  picture  in  
which  the  surface  of  the  body  emerges  as  a  primary  site  upon  which  the  identity  of  the  
criminal  could  be  verified  and  governed.  During  this  period,  intense  scrutiny  and  
documentation  of  the  tattoo  became  one  element  within  the  developing  repetoire  of  
anthropometric  techniques  that  were  designed  to  identify  and  classify  the  criminal  
body.  The  emergence  into  view  of  the  tattoo  during  this  period  was  largely  a  result  of  
efforts  to  police  the  'indistinct  and  shifting  borderline  between  'labouring  classes'  and  
'dangerous  classes,'  in  which  the  tattoo  played  a  highly  visible  part.399  Indeed,  if  it  were  
not  for  the  researches  of  medical  professionals  and  early  criminologists  from  the  mid-­‐
nineteenth  century  onwards,  the  history  of  tattooing  in  Europe  and  Northern  America  
during  this  period  would  be  considerably  more  opaque.400  The  sudden  effusion  of  small-­‐
scale  studies  and  research  articles  published  in  medical,  military  and  criminological  
journals  from  around  1850  through  to  the  first  few  decades  of  the  twentieth  century,  
reveals  the  emergence  of  a  strong  scholarly  interest  in  tattooing.  These  studies  focussed  
predominently  upon  typically  segregated  social  milieu  -­‐  the  hospital,  barracks  and  
prison  -­‐  contexts  which  provided  ample  opportunity  for  research  to  be  carried  out  
amongst  peculiarly  isolated  populations.  Occasionally,  the  tattoos  of  the  native  in  the  
colonial  context  were  the  subject  of  research;  but  for  the  most  part,  this  work  dealt  with  
the  tattoos  of  the  soldier  or  sailor,  or  else  the  'deviant'  element  within  the  population  -­‐  
prostitutes,  criminals,  or  those  whose  reckless  or  foolish  behaviour  led  them  to  the  
clinic  for  treatment.    
  The  nineteenth-­‐century  criminological  field  was  by  no  means  united  in  its  
interpretation  of  the  nature  or  significance  of  the  tattoo,  however.  Whilst  some  
theorists  -­‐  notably  Cesare  Lombroso  and  Enrico  Ferri  in  Italy;  Hans  Kurella401  and  
Neumann  in  Germany;  and  to  some  extent  Lacassagne  in  France  -­‐  saw  the  tattoo  as  
having  a  specific  significance,  others  such  as  Gustave  Gabriel  Tarde  (France),  Joest,  Baer  
and  Leppmann  (Germany)  and  Verwaek  (Belgium)  were  not  so  convinced.402  Thus,  
whilst  there  was  often  overlap  between  disciplinary  fields,  and  in  particular  within  the  
developing  disciplines  of  criminology  or  forensic  science,  and  medicine,  it  is  important  
to  note  the  distinctions  between  discourses  emerging  from  different  geographical  
locations.  For  instance,  Jane  Caplan  has  pointed  out  that  whilst  there  was  a  great  deal  of  
                                                                                                               
399  Ibid.,  p.  109.  
400  Caplan,  'National  Tattooing',  p.  156.  
401  Hans  Kurella,  for  example,  Lombroso’s  most  important  follower  in  Germany,    made  the  extraordinary  

claim  that  'tattoos  revealed  latent  criminality,  with  almost  total  accuracy  if  the  individuals  bearing  them  
also  have  a  receding  forehead,  a  powerful  jaw  and  protruding  ears'.  Naturgeschichte  des  Verbrechers,  
(Stuttgart,  1893);  cited  in  Graven,  'Le  Tatouage  et  son  Importance  en  Criminologie',  p.  96  
402  Graven,  'Le  Tatouage  et  son  Importance  en  Criminologie',  p.  84.  See  also  Caplan,  'National  Tattooing',  for  

an  overview  of  some  of  the  differences  in  opinion  among  criminologists  in  different  national  contexts.  
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interest  in  the  tattoo  in  continental  European  criminological  debate,  this  preoccupation  
did  not  extend  across  the  channel  to  Britain.  She  writes  that,  'not  only  was  British  
criminology  relatively  dissociated  from  the  continental  schools,  but  tattooing  was  
sufficiently  normalized  that  it  attracted  virtually  no  official  or  scholarly  attention.'403  It  
is  not  surprising,  then,  that  the  first  professional  tattooists  to  successfully  establish  
their  trade  (as  well  as  international  reputations  for  themselves),  during  the  later  part  of  
the  nineteenth  century  were  British  and  American.  Whether  their  success  was  enabled  
by  the  relative  lack  of  pathologizing  discourse  in  the  UK  and  USA,  or  vice  versa,  is  
difficult  to  establish.  However,  a  survey  of  the  British  and  American  medical  literature  
of  the  period  suggests  that  there  was  some  concern  for  the  public  health  risks  
associated  with  tattooing  -­‐  particularly  in  the  transmission  of  infectious  diseases  such  
as  Syphilis  and  Tuberculosis.    
  There  are  interesting  analogies  between  the  criminological  studies  of  tattooing  
and  the  medical  accounts,  which,  whilst  following  different  intellectual  trajectories  in  
differing  national  contexts,  can  provide  useful  narrative  linkages  in  tracing  the  history  
of  the  European  (and  to  some  extent  the  American)  tattoo.  In  particular,  an  analysis  of  
the  visual  material  gathered  by  criminologists  and  medical  researchers  alike  suggests  
an  intriguing  congruance  in  conceptual  formulations  centring  around  the  visual  nature  
of  their  objects  of  study  -­‐  tattooed  skin  and  skin  disease,  respectively.  In  what  follows  I  
will  consider  the  complex  relationship  between  criminological  and  medical  
understandings  of  the  tattoo  as  identifying  mark,  stigma  of  deviance,  and  health  risk,  as  
well  as  exploring  some  of  the  similarities  in  the  pictorial  strategies  employed  by  
criminologists  and  medical  researchers  alike.  
 
Criminological  Perspectives  on  Tattoos:  Identifying  Marks  and  Criminal  Natures  
 
In  1889,  Lacassagne  published  a  report  on  the  case  of  a  fatal  shooting  in  the  Archives  de  
l'anthropologie  criminelle.  During  the  course  of  the  autopsy,  he  noticed  that  three  
bullets  had  penetrated  the  body  at  different  points,  taking  different  trajectories  and  
lodging  in  different  body  tissues.  Despite  this,  each  bullet  bore  identical  markings  -­‐  
marks  that  would  be  referred  to  in  contemporary  forensic  science  terminology  as  
'striations':    
 
It  was,  indeed,  extraordinary,  that  the  bullet  found  in  the  larynx,  which  had  not  
collided   with   anything   hard,   was   creased   along   its   axis   with   the   same   kind   of  

                                                                                                               
403  Ibid.,  p.  158.  

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furrow  as  the  bullet  that  was  lodged  in  the  shoulder  [...]  It  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  
marking  or  sign  of  identity  of  the  revolver.404  
 
  This  incident,  although  dealing  with  forensic  phenomena  entirely  unconnected  
to  tattoos  or  tattooing,  is  very  telling.  The  language  Lacassagne  employs  in  relation  to  
the  surprising  correlation  between  bullet  and  gun  reveals  a  preoccupation  with  the  
signs  of  criminal  actions,  intent  and  identity.  Whilst  contemporary  understandings  of  
the  matching  of  bullet  striations  to  unique  firearms  is  commonplace,  this  forensic  
phenomenon  would  today  be  understood  in  terms  of  the  material  trace,  rather  than  as  a  
semiotic  indicator  of  the  'identity'  of  a  particular  gun.  The  difference,  though  subtle,  is  
significant;  it  points  to  a  tendency  within  the  wider  nineteenth-­‐century  criminological  
project,  which  viewed  and  categorised  material,  psychological  and  biological  factors  of  
crime  in  terms  of  material  signs  which,  with  the  appropriate  statistical  and  analytical  
tools,  could  be  read  in  terms  of  identity  -­‐  be  it  a  weapon  such  as  a  gun  or  a  blade,  the  
scene  of  a  crime,  or  a  tattoo.  As  a  distinctive  and  highly  visible  surface  sign,  the  tattoo  
seemed  to  offer  special  promise  to  the  forensic  sciences  as  a  means  of  individual  
identification.  Moreover,  the  commonly  held  belief  within  forensic  medicine  in  the  life-­‐
long  durability  of  the  mark  paradoxically  made  tattooed  subjects  potential  allies  of  the  
discipline.405  However,  this  durability  began  to  be  called  into  question  following  a  
number  of  high  profile  cases  during  the  mid-­‐nineteenth  century,  which  turned  on  the  
potential  of  the  tattoo  as  an  identifying  mark.  
  Perhaps  the  most  significant  of  these  episodes  took  place  in  Germany,  and  
involved  a  missing  tattoo  and  a  case  of  unsettled  identity.  The  Schall  Case,  as  it  became  
known,  began  with  the  grisly  discovery  of  a  decapitated  corpse  in  the  marches  of  the  
Spree  River  outside  Berlin  in  September  1849.  The  assailant  had  made  a  deliberate  
attempt  to  render  identification  of  the  victim  impossible  by  mutilating  the  face  and  
smashing  the  bones  of  the  skull.  The  police  who  searched  the  scene  and  the  pathologists  
who  conducted  the  autopsy  could  find  no  evidence  of  the  victim's  identity,  and  so  the  
unidentified  body  was  buried.406  Two  protagonists  emerged  from  the  continuing  
investigation:  Gottlied  Ebermann,  who  was  the  presumed  victim,  and  Franz  Schall,  the  

                                                                                                               
404  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  'De  la  déformation  des  balles  de  revolver,  soit  dans  l'arme,  soit  sur  le  squelette',  

Archives  de  l'anthropologie  criminelle,  (1889),  pp.  71-­‐72.  Translated  from  the  French:    
Il  était,  en  effet,  extraordinaire  que  la  balle  trouvée  dans  le  larynx  n'ayant  heurté  aucun  corps  dur  fût  creusée  
selon  son  axe  d'une  sorte  de  sillon  ou  de  gouttière  que  nous  retrouvions  aussi  sur  la  balle  logée  dans  l'épaule  
[...]  C'était,  en  quelque  sorte,  une  marque  ou  un  signe  d'identité  du  revolver.  
405  Mechthild  Fend,  'Emblems  of  Durability.  Tattoos,  preserves  and  photographs',  in  Performance  

Resesearch,  Volume  14,  No.  4,  (December  2009),  p.  46.  

406  Caplan,'"Speaking  Scars"',  p.  107;  see  also  Johann  Ludwig  Casper,  'Über  Tätowirungen.  Eine  neue  

gerichtlich-­‐medicinische  Frage',  in  Vierteljahrsschrift  für  gerichtliche  und  öffentliche  Medizin,  Vol.  1,  (1852),  
pp.  274-­‐292.  
164  
 
  

murderer  accused.  Doubts  about  the  victim's  identity  were  particularly  problematic,  
however,  as  the  body  had  yielded  no  clues,  and  witnesses  gave  conflicting  accounts  of  
his  appearance:    
 
Some,   including   two   surgeons   who   had   treated   him   several   years   earlier,  
testified  that  he  had  a  cupping-­‐scar  on  one  wrist  and  red  tattoos  of  a  heart  and  
his  initials  on  his  left  forearm.  His  wife  and  sisters,  on  the  other  hand,  claimed  
that  they  had  never  seen  any  tattoos  on  him,  nor  had  the  pathologists  observed  
any  marks  during  the  autopsy.407    
 
These  contradictory  descriptions  of  the  presence  or  absence  of  Ebermann's  tattoos  
were  to  become  a  central  issue  in  the  case.  The  prosecutor  decided  to  consult  an  expert  
on  the  matter  of  the  indelibility  of  tattoo,  appointing  Berlin  pathologist  Johann  Ludwig  
Casper  to  investigate  whether  it  was  physically  possible  for  a  tattoo  to  spontaneously  
disappear  or  to  be  removed  without  a  trace.  Casper  conducted  his  own  research  to  
establish  whether  or  not  tattooing  was  an  irreversible  and  permanent  operation:  From  
his  study  of  thirty-­‐six  army  veterans  resident  at  the  Berlin  Invalides,  all  of  whom  
reported  having  been  tattooed  between  1798  and  1845,  he  claimed  to  have  found  a  
number  of  cases  in  which  these  tattoos  had  spontaneously  disappeared.408  This  
'evidence'  was  enough  to  suggest  the  possibility  that  the  un-­‐tattooed  corpse  was  
Ebermann,  and  brought  about  the  successful  closure  of  the  case,  which  resulted  in  the  
conviction  and  execution  of  Schall.  In  this  episode,  the  medico-­‐legal  belief  in  the  
character  of  the  tattoo  as  a  sign  of  identity  endures  despite  the  doubts  raised  about  the  
permanency  of  the  mark  itself;  thus  the  tattoo  was  still  mobilised  as  authenticating  
evidence  of  identity,  even  in  its  absence.  In  accepting  the  possibility  of  the  erasure  of  the  
tattoo,  however,  the  reliability  of  the  mark  as  a  permanent  distinguishing  characteristic  
was  inevitably  called  into  question.  
  The  Schall  case  caused  something  of  a  stir  within  criminological  circles;  in  
France,  Mathurin  Félix  Hutin  carried  out  his  own  study  into  the  indelibility  of  tattoos  in  
order  to  test  the  veracity  of  Casper's  claim  of  'spontaneous  disappearance.'409  Hutin  
studied  three  hundred  and  twenty-­‐four  tattooed  patients  at  the  Paris  Invalides  in  1853,  
analysing  the  appearance  of  different  tattoo  pigments  within  the  skin  and  correlating  
his  observations  with  the  age  of  the  tattoos,  as  reported  by  the  patients.  He  found  that  
in  forty-­‐seven  cases,  the  tattoos  had  completely  disappeared  over  a  period  ranging  from  
between  twenty-­‐eight  to  sixty  years;  of  these  tattoos,  the  most  marked  fading  occurred  

                                                                                                               
407  Caplan,  '"Speaking  Scars"',  p.  107.  
408  Ibid.,  p.  108.  
409  Mathurin  Félix  Hutin,  Recherches  sur  les  tatouages,  (Paris:  Baillière,  1853).  

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in  red  tattoos.  Based  upon  these  observations,  Hutin  concluded  that  tattoos  could  not  be  
considered  indelible  in  all  cases,  since  very  old  tattoos  could  eventually  disappear  
entirely,  and  this  erasure  could  occur  over  an  unpredictable  period  of  time.  Auguste  
Ambroise  Tardieu  did  not  consider  the  age  of  the  tattoo  to  be  the  determining  factor  in  
the  'disappearance'  of  the  tattoo,  however;  instead  he  quite  accurately  attributed  a  
gradual  process  of  fading  to  a  combination  of  the  material  composition  of  pigments  and  
their  shallow  introduction  into  the  skin.410  
  By  the  1880s  the  permanency  of  the  tattoo,  and  therefore  its  stability  as  a  
durable  mark  of  individual  identity,  had  been  challenged  within  the  field  of  forensic  
science.  It  was  at  this  point  that  criminologists  began  making  new  claims  for  the  tattoo  
as  a  kind  of  'self-­‐selecting'  physiological  characteristic  of  the  criminal  in  general,  
thereby  re-­‐coding  the  identification  potential  of  the  tattoo  from  specific  criminal  bodies  
to  criminal  types.  Alexandre  Lacassagne  was  at  the  forefront  of  this  research  in  France.  
The  criminological  study  of  tattoos  produced  an  effusion  of  drawings  taken  directly  
from  the  skin  of  prison  inmates  as  well  as  soldiers  and  marines  in  barracks  -­‐  the  
conveniently  confined  populations  accessible  to  researchers.  In  the  1881  edition  of  the  
Dictionnaire  Encyclopedique  des  Sciences  Medicales,  Lacassagne's  collection  methods  are  
described  in  detail  under  the  entry  for  tatouage:  
 
The  transparent  fabric  is  applied  on  the  [tattooed]  part.  The  design  appears  very  
clearly,  and  it  is  easy  to  follow  the  contours  with  an  ordinary  pencil.  This  provides  
a  mathematical  reproduction  of  the  image  which  becomes  very  visible  when  the  
fabric  is  placed  on  a  sheet  of  white  paper.  One  then  goes  over  the  traits  with  blue  
and  red  ink  following  the  colour  of  the  tattoo  itself.  This  done,  the  fabric  is  glued  
on  card  of  dimensions  varying  with  the  size  of  the  tattoo.  Overleaf,  the  cardboard  
is  inscribed  with  the  following  indications  which  constitute  the  observation:  
1.  sequence  number;  2.  surname  and  first  name;  3.  place  of  birth;  4.  profession  
and  education;  5.  date  and  age  of  tattooing;  6.  process  used;  7.  number  of  
sessions;  8.  duration  of  sessions;  9.  information  on  the  tattooer;  10.  description  of  
tattoos;  11.  body  location;  12.  colouration;  13.  changes  in  colouration;  14.  
observations  of  inflammation  following  tattooing;  15.  length  of  time  to  heal;  16.  
current  condition  of  tattoos;  17  effacement  of  tattoos;  18.  voluntary  effacement;  
19.  additions  made  to  tattoos;  20.  morality  of  the  tattooee.411  

                                                                                                               
410  See  Auguste  Ambroise  Tardieu,  Etude  medico-­‐legale  sur  le  tatouage,  considere  comme  signes  d’identite,  

(Paris:  J.-­‐B.  Baillière,  1855).  As  previously  discussed  in  chapter  two,  fading  of  tattoos  can  occur  as  a  result  of  
shallow  tattooing  (see  p.  86),  as  well  as  due  to  the  composition  of  pigments.  Non-­‐cinnabar  based  red  
pigments  in  particular  are  susceptible  to  fading,  based  on  comparisons  of  nineteenth-­‐century  tattooed  skin  
samples.  
411  Lacassagne  and  Magitot,  Du  Tatouage,  pp.  39-­‐40  Translated  from  the  French:  

De  la  toile  transparente  est  appliquée  sur  la  partie.  Le  dessin  apparaît  très-­‐nettement,  et  il  est  facile  d'en  
suivre  tous  les  contours  avec  un  crayon  ordinaire.  On  a  ainsi  une  reproduction  mathématique  de  l'image,  qui  
devient  très-­‐visible  lorsque  la  toile  est  mise  sur  une  feuille  de  papier  blanc.  On  passe  alors  les  traits  à  l'encre  
bleue  ou  rouge  selon  que  le  tatouage  présente  l'une  ou  autre  coloration.  Ceci  fait,  la  toile  est  collée  sur  un  
carton  de  dimension  qui  varie  avec  la  grandeur  du  tatouage.  Au  verso  du  carton  on  inscrit  les  indications  
suivantes  qui  constituent  l'observation:  
166  
 
  

Catalogued  and  stored  on  individual  card  files,  the  tattoos  could  then  be  categorised  
according  to  their  putative  symbolism,  and  motivations  read  in  turn  from  the  symbols:  
they  could  signify  desire  for  vengeance,  group  allegiance,  whether  regimental  or  
criminal  organization,  vanity,  imitation,  idleness,  and  their  crude  ‘hieroglyphic’  style  
read  as  evidence  of  the  'primitive  writing'  of  the  criminal.    Through  this  method,  
Lacassagne  built  up  an  extensive  archive  of  tattoo  imagery,  whose  motifs  could  be  
closely  correlated  with  the  'morality'  of  the  tattooed  individual,  as  well  as  providing  
more  'statistical'  information  such  as  the  average  age  of  tattoo  acquisition,  occupation  
and  place  of  birth.  However,  there  is  a  conflation  within  this  recording  system  between  
information  about  the  tattooed  individual  and  information  about  the  tattoo  itself.  The  
'morality'  of  the  criminal  subject,  for  instance,  was  frequently  infered  from  the  
placement  of  tattoos  on  particular  parts  of  the  body,  as  well  as  their  pictorial  content  or  
linguistic  sentiments.  One  such  example  cited  by  Lacassagne  describes  tattoos  placed  on  
or  near  the  gentials,  which  were  'very  frequent'  among  men  in  the  penal  batallions  he  
studied  in  Algeria:  
 
On   the   abdomen,   below   the   navel,   are   almost   always   lewd   subjects,   and  
pornographic   inscriptions   such   as:   cock   love,   ladies'   pleasure,   come   ladies,   the  
love   tap,   she   thinks   of   me.   On   the   penis   eleven   times   I   found   tattooed   boots:  
Hessian  boots,  spurred  boots.  [...]  This  design  on  the  penis  is  very  frequent,  and  I  
have   fifteen   in   my   collection   [...]   It   is   not,   as   some   have   thought,   a   sign   of  
pederasty.   All   the   men   interviewed   on   this   point   have   agreed,   saying   that   they  
had  this  tattoo  in  order  to  make  that  awful  pun:  'I'll  put  my  boot  in  ...'412  
 
  Lacassagne's  method  of  recording  and  storing  tattoo  images  and  inscriptions  on  
cards  has  striking  parallels  with  Alphonse  Bertillon's  technique  of  'signalment':  In  
Bertillon's  system,  criminal  subjects  were  photographed  in  front  and  profile  views,  and  
eleven  body  measurements  taken  and  recorded  as  a  numerical  series,  as  well  as  a  
shorthand  description  of  distinguishing  marks  such  as  scars,  deformities  and  tattoos.  
This  information  was  recorded  on  single  card,  or  fiche  (see  Figure  138),  and  entered  
into  a  filing  system  for  ease  of  retrieval.  This  system  was  intended  to  facilitate  the  rapid  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
1.  Numéro  d'ordre;  2.  noms  et  prénoms;  3.  lieu  de  naissance;  4.  profession  et  instruction;  5.  date  des  tatouages,  
âge;  6.  procédé  employée;  7.  nombre  de  séances;    8.  durée  des  séances;  9.  renseignement  sur  le  tatouer;  10.  
description  des  tatouages;  11.  siége;  12.  coloration;  13.  changements  survenus  dans  la  coloration;  14.  Y  a-­‐t-­‐il  
eu  inflammation  apres  les  piqûres;  15.  quel  temps  a  mis  le  tatouage  pour  s'installer;  16.  quel  est  l'état  actuel  
du  tatouage;  17.  est-­‐il  effacé;  18.  effacé  volontairement;  19.  surchargé;  20.  moralité  du  tatoué.  
412  Lacassagne,  Recherches  sur  les  Tatouages,  p.  293.  Translated  from  the  French:  

Sur  le  ventre,  au-­‐dessous  du  nombril,  se  trouvent  presque  toujours  des  sujets  lubriques,  des  inscriptions  
pornographiques  telles  que:  Robinet  d'amour,  Plaisir  des  dames,  Venez  Mesdames,  au  robinet  d'amour,  Elle  
pense  a  moi.  Sur  la  verge,  onze  fois  j'ai  trouve  tatouees  des  bottes:  bottes  a  l'écuyere,  bottes  éperonnées.  [...]  Ce  
dessin  sur  la  verge  est  tres  frequent;  j'en  ai  quinze  dans  ma  collection  [...]  Ce  n'est  point,  comme  on  l'a  cru,  un  
signe  de  pédérastie.  Tous  les  hommes  interrogés  sur  ce  point  ont  tous  été  d'accord  a  dire  qu'ils  n'avaient  ce  
tatouage  que  pour  faire  cet  affreux  jeu  de  mots:  'Je  vais  le  mettre  ma  botte  au...'  
167  
 
  

identification  of  repeat  offenders,  as  well  as  to  'break  the  professional  criminal's  
mastery  of  disguises,  false  identities,  multiple  biographies,  and  alibis.'413    
 
For   Bertillion,   the   mastery   of   the   criminal   body   necessitated   a   massive  
campaign   of   inscription,   a   transformation   of   the   body's   signs   into   a   text,   a   text  
that  pared  verbal  description  down  to  a  denotative  shorthand,  which  was  then  
linked  to  a  numerical  series.414  
 
The  data-­‐gathering  projects  of  Bertillon  and  Lacassagne  shared  similarities  in  so  far  as  
their  respective  work  focused  upon  measuring  and  recording  the  surface  signs  of  the  
criminal  body,  which  could  be  translated  into  a  kind  of  'text'  through  processes  of  
inscription  and  punctualization.415  However,  the  purposes  towards  which  their  efforts  
were  directed,  and  their  'reading'  of  these  'texts'  were  entirely  different.  The  inscription  
of  the  tattoo  within  the  police  archive  was  a  nominal  part  of  a  wider  technical  operation,  
in  which  the  tattoo  was  regarded  as  a  physiological  characteristic  that  had  potential  
practical  use  in  the  identification  of  individual  criminals.  From  the  perspective  of  
criminalistics,  the  criminal  body  in  itself  expressed  nothing:  'no  characterological  
secrets  were  hidden  beneath  the  surface  of  this  body.  Rather,  the  surface  and  the  
skeleton  were  indices  of  a  more  strictly  material  sort.'416  For  Lacassagne  and  other  
criminologists  writing  on  the  tattoo  during  this  period  on  the  other  hand,  the  tattoo  
represented  a  particularly  compelling  outward  sign  of  inner  psychological  tendencies,  
desires  and  beliefs.  Thus  the  work  of  criminologists  sought  to  examine  the  criminal  
body's  expressive  repertoire  in  order  to  gain  knowledge  and  mastery  over  the  inner  
criminal  'soul',  a  process  which  reflected  a  broader  shift  in  the  regime  of  power  during  
the  nineteenth  century,  away  from  'punishment  and  vendetta',  and  towards  
'surveillance  and  discipline'.  According  to  Michel  Foucault,  it  is  no  longer  merely  
criminal  deeds  which  are  the  focus  of  punishment  in  this  new  configuration,  but  rather,  
 
[...]   judgement   is   also   passed   on   the   passions,   instincts,   anomalies,   infirmities,  
maladjustments,   effects   of   environment   or   heredity;   acts   of   aggression   are  
punished,   so   also,   through   them,   is   aggressivity;   rape,   but   at   the   same   time  
perversions;  murders,  but  also  drives  and  desires.417    
 
The  tattoo  was  thus  one  sign  amongst  many  that  could  reveal  these  dangerous  inner  
passions  and  'criminal  instincts'  to  the  criminologist.  Lacassagne's  system  for  recording  
                                                                                                               
413  Sekula,  'The  Body  and  the  Archive',  p.  27.  
414  Ibid.,  p.  33.  
415  See  chapter  four,  p.  172  for  detailed  discussion  of  inscription  and  punctualization  processes  and  the  

involvement  of  collecting  practices  in  the  production  of  knowledge-­‐objects.    

416  Sekula,  'The  Body  and  the  Archive',  p.  30.  
417  Michel  Foucault,  Discipline  and  Punish,  pp.  16-­‐17.  

168  
 
  

tattoos  became  something  of  a  benchmark  in  criminological  methods,  and  was  still  
being  used  by  the  police  official  Jacques  Delarue  during  the  middle  decades  of  the  
twentieth  century.418  In  1933,  the  French  criminologist  Le  Goarant  de  Tromelin  
acknowledged  that  although  the  tattoo  could  not  be  regarded  as  a  reliable  means  of  
establishing  individual  identity,  it  nevertheless  represented  a  unique  kind  of  
'anatomical-­‐legal  stigmata',  whose  identification  with  certain  social  groups  meant  that  it  
would  be  'wrong  to  devalue'  its  semantic  potential  altogether.  Writing  on  methods  of  
recording  and  preserving  tattoos,  he  makes  intriguing  distinctions  between  the  
preserved  specimen,  the  trace  and  the  photograph:  
 
[...]   the   Lyon   School,   which   occupied   itself   in   many   medico-­‐legal   studies   on  
tattoos,  still  sees  [the  tattoo]  as  a  valuable  sign  that  often  speaks  longer  than  the  
subject   [...]   The   Lyon   School   advises   their   collection   for   observation.   The  
removal   from   the   corpse   and   subsequent   mummification   enables   the  
preservation   of   interesting   tattoos   in   laboratory   collections.   Photography   seems  
to   give   rather   poor   results.   Drawing   tracings   through   a   piece   of   cloth   or  
transparent  paper  is  an  old  process  that  remains  excellent.419  
 
In  this  passage,  Le  Goarant  explictly  relates  the  harvesting  of  tattooed  skin  from  
cadavers  as  a  valuable  scientific  tool  for  the  'observation  of  tattoos';  photography,  on  
the  other  hand,  is  regarded  as  a  mediocre  method  of  recording  tattoos,  suggesting  that  
it  is  not  merely  the  iconography  of  the  tattoo  which  is  of  value  to  the  medico-­‐legal  
scientist,  but  the  material  artefact  itself.    
  Perhaps  unusually  for  a  police  technician,  Delarue's  study  of  the  tattoo,  treated  
primarily  through  the  compiling  of  photographs  of  tattooed  criminals,  follows  
Lacassagne's  approach  to  the  interpretation  of  tattoo  iconography.  In  particular,  the  
cropping  of  Fromain's  name  out  of  the  photograph  in  Delarue's  book  is  significant,  since  
it  erases  the  link  to  his  identity,  rendering  the  image  an  anonymous  body-­‐portrait  (see  
Figure  139).  Although  the  photograph  was  taken  in  order  to  identify  this  criminal  body  
with  a  specific  individual,  the  image  reproduced  in  Delarue's  book  has  been  
disconnected  from  the  archival  system  that  produced  it.  Thus  the  photograph  is  re-­‐
enlisted  into  an  entirely  different  identificatory  scheme,  in  which  the  signification  of  the  

                                                                                                               
418  Delarue  reproduces  a  number  of  tracings  of  tattoos  from  his  own  research  in  Le  Tatouages  du  "Milieu",  

(1999).  Examples  of  these  drawings  can  be  seen  in  Figures  58,  59,  61,  and  64.  
419  G.  Le  Goarant  de  Tromelin,  Le  Tatouage:  Considérations  Psychologiques  et  Médico-­‐Légales,  (Lyon,  1933),  

p.  203.  Translated  from  the  French:  

[...]  l'Ecole  lyonnaise,  qui  s'est  beaucoup  occupée  d'études  médico-­‐légales  sur  le  tatouages,  y  voit  encore  un  
précieux  signe  qui  en  dit  souvent  plus  long  que  le  nom  du  sujet.  [...]  l'Ecole  lyonnaise  conseille-­‐t-­‐elle  de  les  
collectionner  pour  les  observer.  Le  prélèvement  sur  le  cadavre  et  la  momification  ultérieure,  permet  de  
conserver  les  tatouages  intéressants  dans  des  collections  de  laboratoire.  La  photographie  semble  donner  
d'assez  médiocres  résultats.  Le  dessin  décalqué  à  travers  une  pièce  d'étoffe  ou  un  papier  transparent  est  un  
vieux  procédé  qui  reste  excellent.  
169  
 
  

tattoos  is  foregrounded.  The  configuration  of  the  tattoos  over  the  surface  of  the  body,  
and  their  iconographic  signification,  becomes  the  new  focus  of  a  discourse  which  is  no  
longer  concerned  with  the  identification  of  individual  criminals,  but  with  criminal  types.  
 
Atavism  &  Degeneration  
 
With  the  emergence  of  the  ‘new’  criminology  in  continental  Europe  during  the  1880s,  
tattoos  developed  a  particular  significance  for  researchers  who  were  concerned  to  
identify  reliable  visible  signs  of  criminality  within  their  populations.  The  antecedent  
‘classical  school’  of  criminology,  or  penology,  came  under  criticism  from  the  new  
‘positive’  school,  which  challenged  the  prior  emphasis  on  the  nexus  of  legal  code,  
criminal  act  and  penalty.420  The  classical  school's  formulation  proposed  a  'typology  of  
crimes',  which  Italian  Lawyer  and  positivist  sociologist  Enrico  Ferri  termed  a  'juridical  
anatomy'  of  deeds.  This  was  rejected  by  the  positive  school  in  favour  of  a  typology  of  
criminals,  which  sought  epistemological  grounding  in  the  scientific  measurement  of  
'dangerous  bodies'  and  the  construction  of  an  'anatomy  of  deviance'.421  According  to  
this  new  discourse:  'Crime  [became]  a  "risk"  that  human  scientists  proposed  to  manage  
through  knowledge  of  statistical  laws  and  a  new  attention  to  the  bodies  of  the  
criminal.'422  Citing  Cesare  Lombroso,  who  was  undoubtedly  the  most  famous  
criminologist  of  the  positive  school  in  his  day,  David  Horn  puts  his  finger  on  two  central  
aspects  of  the  new  discipline’s  approach:  'Numbers  had  shown  crime  to  be  'an  
unfortunate  natural  production,  a  form  of  disease,  which  demanded  treatment  and  
isolation  rather  than  penalty  and  vendetta'.'423  
  The  analogy  drawn  here  between  criminality  and  disease  is  intriguing:  
according  to  Lombroso  and  his  contemporaries,  criminality  was  a  pathology  located  
within  the  criminal  body,  dangerously  hidden  from  the  forensic  specialist  unless  one  
knew  how  to  apply  the  appropriate  statistical  tools  to  get  at  the  truth  within.  Moreover,  
the  signs  of  latent  criminality  could  be  read  from  the  body’s  surface,  in  much  the  same  
way  that  the  morphology  of  cutaneous  skin  infections  could  provide  evidence  of  
underlying  disease.  Physical  features  of  all  kinds,  from  skull  measurements  to  
peculiarities  of  the  ear  and  anomalies  of  the  palm,  were  scrutinised  by  criminologists  in  
the  careful  construction  of  their  taxonomies  of  deviance.  Of  all  of  the  supposed  outward  

                                                                                                               
420  David  Horn,  The  Criminal  Body:  Lombroso  and  the  Anatomy  of  Deviance  (New  York:  Routledge,  2003),  p.  

9.  
421  Ibid.,  p.  10.  
422  Ibid.,  p.  8.  
423  Ibid.  

170  
 
  

signifiers  of  atavism,  however,  tattoos  seemed  to  hold  a  particular  fascination.  
Tattooing  was  at  this  time  frequently  associated  with  the  ‘primitive’  body  and  the  art  of  
the  ‘savage’,  familiar  through  both  colonial  encounters  and  the  visual  display  of  the  
native  imported  to  Europe  to  be  put  on  public  exhibition  in  fairs  and  anthropological  
exhibits.  The  apparent  popularity  of  tattooing  amongst  certain  groups  and  classes  
within  European  society  was  viewed  by  some  as  a  dangerous  regression,  or  sign  of  
degeneration,  within  their  populations.  In  his  essay  The  Savage  Origin  of  Tattooing,  
which  appeared  in  Popular  Science  Monthly  in  April  1869,  Lombroso  takes  on  the  
'fashion'  amongst  prominent  women  of  London  society  in  no  uncertain  terms:  
 
Tattooing  is  the  true  writing  of  savages,  their  first  registry  of  civil  condition  [...]  
Nothing  is  more  natural  than  to  see  a  usage  so  widespread  among  savages  and  
prehistoric   peoples   reappear   in   classes   which,   as   the   deep-­‐sea   bottoms   retain  
the   same   temperature,   have   preserved   the   customs   and   superstitions   ...   of   the  
primitive   peoples,   and   who   have,   like   them,   violent   passions,   a   blunted  
sensibility,   a   puerile   vanity,   long-­‐standing   habits   of   inaction,   and   very   often  
nudity.   There,   indeed   among   savages   are   the   principal   models   of   this   curious  
custom.424  
 
 
  Thus  Lombroso  translates  the  'savage'  and  atavistic  character  of  the  foreign  or  
prehistoric  tattooed  peoples  into  the  'criminal'  nature  of  the  tattooed  European.  This  
view  is  representative  of  the  Italian  school  of  criminology  in  particular,  which  was  
known  for  its  theories  of  the  'inborn'  nature  of  criminality  and  for  its  emphasis  on  
atavism.  However,  similar  approaches  to  tattooing  and  criminality  are  found  in  
numerous  studies  published  on  the  subject  during  the  late  nineteenth  century  in  
various  European  countries.  Much  of  the  continental  debate  revolved  around  the  
relative  popularity  of  the  concepts  of  atavism  and  degeneration  in  the  explication  of  
theories  of  criminality.  The  French  school,  championed  by  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  
advanced  the  theory  of  dégénéresence,  which  placed  its  emphasis  on  the  social  aetiology  
of  crime.  For  Lacassagne  and  his  followers,  it  was  the  milieu  social  which  was  the  
determining  factor  in  criminal  behaviour:  'The  social  milieu  is  the  breeding  ground  of  
criminality;  the  germ  is  the  criminal,  an  element  which  has  no  importance  until  the  day  
where  it  finds  the  broth  which  makes  it  ferment.'425    
  The  criminological  preoccupation  with  tattoos  may  be  elucidated  through  a  
consideration  of  two  factors  pertaining  to  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  tattoo  itself;  firstly,  
the  tattoo  mark  occupies  an  intriguing  boundary,  both  physiologically  and  socio-­‐
                                                                                                               
424  Cesare  Lombroso,  'The  Savage  Origin  of  Tattooing',  in  Popular  Science  Monthly  (April  1896),  p.  802.  
425  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  'Les  transformations  du  droit  pénal  et  les  progrès  de  la  médecine  légale,  de  1810  

à  1912',  in  Archives  d’anthropologie  criminelle,  Lyon  (1913),  p.  364.  

171  
 
  

culturally.  It  appears  at  the  body  surface,  but  is  suspended  indelibly  within  the  flesh;  as  
Julie  Flemming  writes,  'lodged  on  the  border  between  inside  and  outside,  the  tattoo  
occupies  the  no-­‐place  of  abjection.'426  Thus  embodying  an  internal-­‐external  dichotomy  
paralleled  in  the  new  criminological  formulation  of  atavistic  character  and  stigmatised  
body,  the  tattoo  may  be  viewed  as  the  ultimate  symbol  of  abjection,  in  the  context  of  
nineteenth-­‐century  criminological  discourse  -­‐  a  self-­‐imposed  stigmata  which  scholars  
themselves  found  both  abhorrent  and  irresistable.  Moreover,  as  a  socially  acquired  yet  
permanent  physical  mark,  the  tattoo  seems  to  articulate  something  of  the  relationship  
between  social  atavism  and  corporeal  ‘degeneration’,  to  which  I  will  return  in  my  
discussion  of  tattooing  and  skin  disease.  
  As  Lombroso  succinctly  put  it,  the  study  of  tattoos;  'serve  a  psychological  
purpose,  in  enabling  us  to  discern  the  obscurer  sides  of  the  criminal’s  soul.'427  
Moreover,  they  could  provide  reliable,  self-­‐selecting  evidence  of  social  pathology.  Thus  
a  further  aspect  of  the  new  disciplinary  approach  is  revealed  in  a  shift  away  from  the  
'penalty  and  vendetta'  which  focussed  punishment  upon  the  body,  and  towards  
'treatment  and  isolation'  which  sought  to  manage  the  'criminal  soul'.  The  emerging  
technologies  of  power-­‐knowledge,  which  read,  interpreted  and  catagorised  the  surface  
signs  of  the  body,  isolated  these  characteristics  in  their  data  in  a  process  paralleling  the  
physical  isolation  of  criminals  in  prisons  and  asylums.428    
  An  illustration  from  Henry  Havelock  Ellis's  1895  work  The  Criminal,  which  drew  
heavily  on  the  work  of  Lombroso,  is  exemplary  of  the  kind  of  visual  data  gathered  by  
criminologists  during  this  period  (Figure  140).  A  drawing  of  two  disembodied  arms  is  
presented,  floating  on  a  flat,  featureless  ground,  with  numerous  tattooed  figures  drawn  
over  the  surface  of  each  limb.  The  primary  purpose  of  the  image  is  to  illustrate  the  
distribution  and  relative  coverage  of  tattoos  over  the  arms  of  an  anonymous  criminal  -­‐  
the  tattoo  marks  in  this  case  are  not  so  significant  in  isolation  as  in  their  cumulative  
effect,  and  indeed  the  claim  was  made  that  the  extent  of  a  criminal’s  tattoos  often  
marked  him  out  from  his  non-­‐criminal  tattooed  contemporaries,  such  as  sailors  and  
ordinary  working  class  men.  Moreover,    
 
Lombroso's   presentation   displayed   the   criminal's   body   as   if   it   were   an  
unmediated  text  narrating  the  story  of  his  self,  and  this  theme  was  taken  up  in  
the   scattered   attempts   to   read   the   multiple   tattoos   as   a   kind   of   visual  
autobiography,  as  intimate  clues  to  the  bearer's  personality  and  psychology.429  

                                                                                                               
426  Fleming,  'The  Renaissance  Tattoo',  p.  64.  
427  Lombroso,  'The  Savage  Origin  of  Tattooing',  p.  802.  
428  See  Foucault,  Discipline  and  Punish,  pp.  195-­‐228.    
429  Caplan,  '"One  of  the  Strangest  Relics  of  a  Former  State"',  p.  359.    

172  
 
  

Havelock  Ellis430  followed  the  pictorial  conventions  found  in  Lombroso's  work  L'uomo  
delinquente;  the  isolation  of  the  arms  in  the  pictorial  space,  and  the  almost  complete  
two-­‐dimensionality  of  the  image,  has  the  effect  of  conceptually  abstracting  the  tattoo  
from  the  three-­‐dimensionality  of  the  body.  This  abstraction  made  it  possible  to  devise  a  
visual  taxonomy,  which  in  turn  facilitated  the  shift  away  from  the  ‘anatomy  of  crime’  
and  towards  the  ‘anatomy  of  the  criminal’  that  the  positive  school  advocated.  
  Interestingly,  this  pictorial  strategy  is  paralleled  in  the  dermatological  imagery  
of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  a  watercolour  sketch  drawn  by  Mabel  Green  in  1901,  for  
example,  care  has  been  taken  to  focus  on  the  specific  part  of  the  body  affected  by  the  
disease:  a  right  arm  infected  with  a  skin  disease  described  as  Lichen  variegatus  (Figure  
141).  Although  this  sketch  was  certainly  drawn  from  a  living  patient,  the  arm  appears  
like  a  neatly  dissected  specimen  in  which  the  patient  becomes  generic  whilst  the  
disease  is  afforded  a  greater  specificity.  Writing  on  dermatological  illustrations  of  this  
period,  Mechthild  Fend  points  out  that  the  particular  visual  strategy  deployed  in  the  
production  of  images  of  skin  disease  helped  to  facilitate  the  development  of  
dermatology  as  an  independent  discipline  in  the  nineteenth  century.431  The  creation  of  
‘characteristic  morphologies’,  which  could  be  used  for  comparison  and  diagnosis,  
allowed  physicians  to  perceive  diseases  as  discrete  entities,  whilst  making  an  important  
contribution  to  the  process  of  standardisation.  This  would  have  been  particularly  
significant  in  the  case  of  the  ‘Great  Imitators’  such  as  syphilis  and  tuberculosis,  whose  
visually  palpable  symptoms  and  effects  could  be  easily  misread  and  misdiagnosed  prior  
to  the  advent  of  serological  testing.  
  Whilst  the  tattoo  was  mobilsed  as  a  kind  of  socio-­‐pathological  signifier  within  
the  context  of  continental  European  criminology,  medical  professionals  in  France  and  
across  the  channel  and  the  Atlantic  turned  their  research  efforts  to  the  question  of  
tattooing  as  a  risk  factor  in  the  spread  of  disease.  In  one  context  the  tattoo  was  re-­‐coded  
as  social  disorder;  in  another  it  appeared  as  corporeal  malaise.  
 
 
 

                                                                                                               
430  Havelock  Ellis  was  unusual  amongst  British  criminologists,  in  that  he  was  influenced  by  Lombroso's  

theories  of  criminality.  However,  as  James  Bradley  notes,  'his  approach  was  marked  by  an  ambivalence  
towards  Lombroso's  crude  determinism  [...]  Ellis's  account  [...]  separated  the  'pathological  tattoos  of  the  
hereditary  criminal,  and  the  'normal'  environmental  tattoos  of  the  rest  -­‐  a  perfect  example  of  the  English  
intellectual  tradition  of  finding  the  'middle'  or  'third'  way.'    'Body  Commodification?  Class  and  Tattoos  in  
Victorian  Britain',  in  Jane  Caplan  (ed.)  Written  on  the  Body,  p.  139.  
431  Mechthild  Fend,  'Portraying  Skin  Disease:  Robert  Carswell's  Dermatological  Watercolours',  in  Jonathan  

Reinarz  and  Kevin  Siena  (eds.)  A  Medical  History  of  Skin:  Scratching  the  Surface  (London:  Pickering  Chatto,  
2013),  p.  147-­‐164.    
173  
 
  

The  Tattoo  and  Medicine:  Risk  and  the  Inoculation  of  Disease  
 
One  of  the  earliest  sources  linking  disease  transmission  to  the  practice  of  tattooing  can  
be  found  in  Mathurin  Félix  Hutin's  Recherches  sur  les  Tatouages,  published  in  1853.  He  
relates  the  case  of  a  tattooed  soldier,  allegedly  still  a  virgin,  who  had  been  admitted  to  
the  hôpital  du  Val  de  Grâce  suffering  from  Syphilis.  His  tattooist  was  apparently  to  
blame;  when  the  tattoo  ink  had  dried  up  in  the  shell  he  used  to  contain  it,  he  had  re-­‐
moistened  the  dry  powder  by  mixing  it  with  his  own  saliva.  His  needles  thus  loaded  
with  ink  and  Spirochaetaceae,  the  unfortunate  soldier  was  simultaneously  tattooed  and  
inoculated  with  Syphilis.  The  resulting  infection  was  so  bad,  Hutin  tells  us,  that  the  arm  
almost  had  to  be  amputated.432  Whilst  there  was  indeed  scientific  interest  in  the  risk  
factor  of  disease  transmission  through  tattooing  in  France  and  Germany  continuing  into  
the  late  nineteenth  century,  the  continental  context  was  nevertheless  more  remarkable  
for  the  extent  of  its  criminological  scholarship  on  tattooing  and  discussions  of  tattoo  
removal,  which  I  will  return  to.  The  relative  absence  of  such  debates  from  the  British  
and  American  discourse,  by  contrast,  invites  further  investigation  of  the  medical  
literature  in  which  reports  of  tattooing  exist  in  these  contexts.  From  these  short  studies  
a  picture  of  an  otherwise  historically  obscured  tattooing  practice,  though  partial,  begins  
to  emerge.    
  Of  the  cases  specifically  dealing  with  skin  disease  inoculated  by  tattooing,  there  
are  two  that  stand  out  in  the  literature,  both  of  which  are  illustrated.  The  first  report  
appears  in  The  British  Medical  Journal,  dated  1889,  and  is  entitled,  Notes  Of  Cases  On  An  
Outbreak  Of  Syphilis  Following  On  Tattooing  by  Army  Surgeon  F.  R.  Barker.  The  images  
are  of  particular  interest  and  are  highly  unusual  amongst  the  medical  literature  
concerning  tattooing  and  disease,  as  they  clearly  illustrate  the  tattoo  itself  as  the  site  of  
infection.  Barker's  report  describes  an  outbreak  of  syphilis  at  the  Portsea  Army  
barracks  in  Hampshire  in  1888,  in  which  twelve  soldiers  were  infected  with  the  disease  
by  a  single  tattooist,  who  is  referred  to  simply  as  'S'.  Barker  took  care  to  track  down  the  
tattooist,  who  was  said  to  be  a  discharged  soldier  of  the  regiment  and  a  'hawker  in  the  
barracks'.  After  interviewing  him  about  his  health  and  working  methods,  it  was  
established  that  he  was  indeed  infected  with  syphilis.  The  article  goes  on  to  briefly  
describe  the  tattooing  method  which  undoubtedly  led  to  the  transmission  of  infection  -­‐  
the  tattooist  had  used  his  saliva  variously  throughout  the  process,  either  using  it  to  mix  
his  inks,  moistening  his  needles  in  his  mouth,  or  rubbing  saliva  directly  onto  the  skin  
before,  during  and  after  tattooing.  In  all,  twenty-­‐three  men  where  tattooed  by  S.  over  a  
                                                                                                               
432  Mathurin  Félix  Hutin,  Recherches  sur  les  tatouages  (1853),  pp.  10-­‐11.  

174  
 
  

three  month  period,  though  only  twelve  showed  signs  of  infection.  The  first  four  cases  
presented  were  photographed,  and  these  images  appear  in  the  article.    
  The  first  two  image  plates  in  Barker's  text  show  the  flexor  and  extensor  surfaces  
of  the  forearm,  with  large  ulcerated  sores  emerging  from  the  margins  of  the  tattooed  
lines.  The  first  of  these  illustrations,  shown  in  Figure  142,  is  identified  as  'Case  I'  and  
shows  the  flexor  surface  of  a  left  forearm  tattooed  with  a  flag  and  a  clothed  female  
figure,  the  lower  portion  of  the  tattooed  figure  corroded  by  two  large  syphilitic  ulcers.  
This  image  bears  the  typical  features  of  cropping  and  isolating  the  affected  limb  in  space  
common  to  medical  illustrations  of  skin  diseases  of  the  period,  and  in  this  respect  
shares  formal  similarities  with  Mabel  Green's  watercolour  of  a  the  skin  disease  Lichen  
variegtus.  In  contrast  with  the  sketched  tattooed  forearms  in  Figure  140,  however,  
there  is  a  distinct  voluminous  three-­‐dimensionality  to  the  limbs  in  these  images,  which  
have  been  reproduced  from  photographs.  The  third  image  plate  presents  a  much  more  
abstracted  image  of  the  infected  tattoo,  which  fills  the  pictorial  space  (Figure  143).433  
The  syphilitic  eruptions  have  a  greater  specific  character,  appearing  to  ‘bloom’  out  of  
the  tattooed  images  of  flowers  in  a  pot.  It  is  interesting  to  note  the  subtle  aesthetic  
judgements  which  Barker  makes  in  his  description  of  these  particular  syphilitic  
manifestations:    
 
The   rupiæ   were   very   perfect,   like   limpet-­‐shells.   The   ulcers   were   situated   over  
the  site  of  a  flower  and  a  flower  pot  tattooed  by  S.  on  the  flexor  surface  of  his  left  
forearm.434    
 
 
  Barker’s  description  of  the  rupial  sores  as  a  perfect  representation  of  a  
morphological  type  suggests  an  important  linkage  between  the  production  of  medical  
imagery  and  diagnostic  standardisation;  particularly  in  the  case  of  syphilis,  whose  
surface  manifestations  are  varied  and  may  be  confused  with  other  conditions.  This  
image  demonstrates  a  different  visual  style,  in  which  we  are  essentially  presented  with  
an  isolated  symptom  on  a  flat  surface;  the  skin  only  becomes  legible  as  such  through  the  
surface  sign  of  the  disease,  and  in  this  case  by  the  inclusion  of  the  tattoo  beneath  the  
surface.  Similarly,  in  the  work  of  criminologists  of  the  same  period,  the  surface  sign  of  
the  tattoo  is  flattened  out  and  'removed'  from  the  context  of  the  body  in  the  collections  
of  drawings  that  accompany  numerous  criminological  texts  on  tattooing.435  It  may  be  

                                                                                                               
433  This  image  is  also  reproduced  in  Bradley,  'Body  Commodification?',  p.  145.  
434  F.  R.  Barker,  M.B.  Lond.,  Medical  Staff  (Surgeon),  'Notes  Of  Cases  On  An  Outbreak  Of  Syphilis  Following  

On  Tattooing',  in  The  British  Medical  Journal,  Vol.  1,  No.  1479  (May  4,  1889),  pp.  985-­‐989.  
435  See,  for  example,  Alexandre  Lacassagne,  Les  Tatouages  Étude  Anthropologique  et  Médico-­‐Légale  (1881).  

175  
 
  

argued  that  these  acts  of  visual  abstraction  and  isolation  contribute  to  the  construction  
of  visual  taxonomies  within  the  disciplines  of  medicine  and  criminology  alike.  
James  Bradley  comments  upon  Barker's  report  of  the  outbreak  with  reference  to  
anthropologist  Alfred  Gell's  metaphor  of  the  'epidemiology  of  tattooing'  as  follows:    
 
We   see   the   quasi-­‐dermatological   illness   of   the   tattoo   spreading   plague-­‐like  
through   a   segment   of   the   regiment,   followed   swiftly   by   the   real   disease   of  
syphilis,   which   asserted   its   ascendancy   by   transposing   its   own   mark   upon   the  
crudely  etched  tattoo  patterns.436    
 
  Gell's  formulation,  adopted  here  by  Bradley,  is  based  upon  his  observation  that  
tattooing  has  an  observable  'pattern  of  occurrence,  which  resembles  the  uneven,  but  at  
the  same  time  predictable,  incident  of  an  illness.'437  Though  he  seems  to  suggest  that  
this  pattern  is  metaphorical,  he  nevertheless  refers  to  the  somewhat  empirically  
impoverished  and  theoretically  tenuous  work  of  Lombroso,  who  had  identified  
'imitation'  and  'idleness'  to  be  two  of  the  primary  motivating  factors  amongst  criminals  
who  acquire  tattoos,  and  suggests  that  in  this  historical  case  there  may  be  some  veracity  
in  his  ideas.  This  metaphor,  which  proposes  a  mechanism  of  'social  contagion'  for  the  
spread  of  physical  stigmata  (the  tattoo),  reproduces  many  of  the  questionable  
assumptions  made  in  the  work  of  Lombroso.  Yet  it  is  also  intriguing,  in  light  of  these  
assumptions,  to  consider  the  ways  in  which  tattooing  was  represented  and  understood  
by  medico-­‐legal  professionals  of  the  period,  as  a  risk  factor  in  the  transmission  of  
disease  associated  with  disreputable  behaviours.    
  The  second  source  from  the  British  medical  literature  that  I  will  consider  
presents  a  particularly  interesting  case  in  light  of  the  above,  and  also  deals  with  the  
tattoo  as  the  site  of  skin  disease  -­‐  in  this  case  tuberculosis.  This  extremely  short  report  
is  accompanied  by  two  images,  which  share  stylistic  similarities  to  those  of  the  case  of  
syphilis,  though  they  are  clearly  engravings  rather  than  photographs.  The  transmission  
agent  in  this  case  is  also  saliva,  employed  in  the  same  manner  as  by  the  tattooist  S.  
during  tattooing,  though  the  tattooist  is  a  fifteen-­‐year-­‐old  boy  who  had  died  of  
pulmonary  tuberculosis  shortly  after  tattooing  his  younger  brothers,  who  were  aged  ten  
and  thirteen.  He  is  said  to  have  used  Indian  ink  'rubbed  up  with  his  saliva  in  the  palm  of  
his  hand'.  In  the  first  of  the  images  presented  with  the  case  notes,  the  tuberculosis  
infection  has  destroyed  the  lower  portion  of  the  tattoo,  which  is  described  as  a  rose  
design,  heavily  scarred  and  covered  with  a  mass  of  pustules.  

                                                                                                               
436  Bradley,  'Body  Commodification?'  p.  143.  
437  Gell,  Wrapping  in  Images,  p.  20.  

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  The  second  image  plate  shows  the  flexor  surface  of  the  forearm,  which  had  been  
tattooed  with  a  heart  crossed  by  two  flags,  and  is  described  in  the  report  as  'leaving  in  
lines  of  the  pattern  deep  ulcers  with  hard,  round,  smooth  edges  and  granulating  bases.  
The  whole  design  was  raised  and  surrounded  with  an  erythematous  border.'438  (Figure  
144)  The  infection  has  completely  engulfed  the  tattoo  such  that  the  disease  itself  has  
taken  on  the  pattern  of  the  tattoo  design.  Thus,  according  to  Bradley  and  Gell's  formula,  
we  are  able  to  visualise  the  tattooed  sign  and  symptom  of  infection  merging  into  one  
single  stigmata  of  social  and  physical  disorder.  It  is  possible  to  imagine  the  tattoo  during  
the  late  nineteenth  and  early  twentieth  centuries  as  a  kind  of  doubly  pathological  
signifier,  inflected  with  the  spectre  of  social  disreputability  or  even  criminality  in  one  
social  context,  and  stigmatised  disease  in  another.  There  may  even  be  overlap  between  
the  two;  highly  visible  diseases  such  as  syphilis  were  implicated  in  the  spread  of  social  
degeneration  through  the  transmission  of  infectious  diseases.439  Thus,  in  response  to  
reports  of  such  outbreaks  as  those  described,  some  medical  and  military  professionals  
were  lead  to  conclude  that  tattooing  may  pose  a  significant  enough  threat  to  be  banned  
outright:  
 
Tattooing,  we  think,  might  well  be  forbidden  in  the  army  and  navy,  as  a  useless  
and   perhaps   pernicious   practice,   one   which   may   injure   the   men   and   prove   an  
expense   to   the   government,   by   bringing   into   hospital   and   on   the   pension   lists  
some  who  might  otherwise  be  in  active  service.440  
 
Anatomy  of  the  Tattoo  and  Tattoo  Removal    
 
As  mentioned  above,  medical  interest  in  the  anatomy  of  the  tattoo  during  the  
nineteenth  century  was  primarily  concerned  with  questions  of  the  indelibility  of  the  
mark,  which  had  significant  implications  for  the  forensic  potential  of  the  tattoo  as  an  
identifying  feature.  However,  doctors  were  also  interested  in  practical  methods  of  
tattoo  removal,  which  necessitated  studies  of  the  structure  of  the  skin  and  the  processes  

                                                                                                               
438  Collings  and  Murray,  'Three  Cases  of  Inoculation  of  Tuberculosis  From  Tattooing',  in  The  British  Medical  

Journal  (June  1  1895),  p.  1200.  

439  Syphilis  is  a  particularly  good  example  to  illustrate  something  of  the  connection  between  concepts  of  

degeneration,  disease  and  criminality  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Precisely  because  the  visual  effects  of  the  
disease  were  so  horrific  and  appeared  at  the  surface  of  the  body,  syphilis  was  a  highly  stigmatised  
condition  which  was  also  associated  with  amoral  social  behaviours  such  as  prostitution  based  on  
knowledge  of  its  transmission.  In  fact,  one  of  the  symptoms  of  tertiary  syphilis  observed  in  suffers  who  had  
gone  untreated  for  many  decades,  was  dubbed  'Prostitute’s  pupil'  (known  as  Argyll  Robertson,  or  'AR'  
pupils  today).  This  peculiar  symptom,  which  is  highly  specific  to  neurosyphilis,  causes  the  pupils  to  become  
non-­‐reactive  to  bright  light,  but  does  not  affect  a  patient’s  ability  to  focus  on  near  objects.  This  gave  rise  to  
the  observation  that  like  a  prostitute,  the  pupils  'accommodate,  but  do  not  react'.  
440  F.  F.  Maury,  (M.D.)  and  C.  W.  Dulles  (M.D.),  'Syphilis  Communicated  by  Tattooing',  in:  The  American  

Journal  of  the  Medical  Sciences  (Jan  1878),  p.  62.  

177  
 
  

through  which  the  tattoo  is  formed.  Microscopial  studies  of  cross-­‐sections  of  tattooed  
skin  were  carried  out  on  cadavers  in  prisons  and  hospitals  in  order  to  establish  where  
precisely  the  ink  particles  lay  in  the  dermis.  Of  all  the  practising  physicians  with  an  
academic  interest  in  the  tattoo  and  its  removal  during  the  later  nineteenth  century,  Dr.  
Gaston  Felix  Joseph  Variot  is  the  most  frequently  cited  regarding  methods  of  tattoo  
removal.  This  may  at  first  seem  unexpected,  given  that  his  primary  area  of  expertise  
was  paediatrics,  infant  nutrition  and  obstetric  health;  however,  aspects  of  both  Variot's  
academic  work  on  tattooing  and  his  biography  are  especially  interesting  in  respect  of  
the  Wellcome  tattoo  collection.  Although  he  was  never  formally  a  member  of  the  Paris  
Faculty  of  Medicine,  Variot  appears  in  connection  with  a  number  of  episodes  relating  to  
the  excision  and  preservation  of  human  skin,  as  well  as  his  experimentation  on  tattooed  
human  skin,  most  notably  the  Pranzini  affair,  which  unfolded  at  the  Paris  anatomy  
school  in  1887.441  In  1888,  Variot  published  a  study  co-­‐authored  with  Dr.  Morau,  in  
which  he  set  out  to  explain  the  colouration  and  indelibility  of  tattoos,  using  microscopic  
and  experimental  techniques.  He  writes:  
 
The   reason   why   tattoos   are   indelible   was   found   to   lie,   on   the   one   hand,   in   the  
topography  of  the  colourant  introduced  into  the  thick  dermal  tissue,  where  it  is  
very  well  tolerated  and  fixes  itself,  and  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  very  nature  of  
the  colourant,  which  is  resistant  to  fading  and  stable,  despite  being  made  up  of  
fine  particles.442  
 
Variot  verified  these  methods  for  himself  by  first  'carrying  out  experimental  tattoos  on  
the  skin  of  the  stomach  of  a  young  dog',443  and  then  excising  several  strips  of  skin  for  
microscopial  analysis.  Variot  did  not  limit  his  experiments  to  the  skin  of  dogs,  however,  
but  also  carried  out  work  on  the  excised  skins  of  cadavers,  noting  that  the  topography  
of  pigment  within  the  dermis  is  markedly  different  in  old  human  tattoos,  as  compared  
with  his  freshly  healed  experimental  tattoos.  He  describes  how,  
 
At   the   Central   Infirmary   of   the   Paris   prisons,   we   collected   a   forearm   tattoo  
which   was   approximately   thirty-­‐two   years   old,   according   to   its   bearer,   a  
prisoner.   The   tattooed   image,   which   was   quite   well   preserved,   depicted   a   steam  
ship  with  a  French  flag  on  its  stern.  This  tattoo  had  been  done  using  Indian  ink  
during  a  sea  crossing.  We  have  also  studied,  with  the  aid  of  a  microscope,  other  

                                                                                                               
441  See  chapter  two,  pp.  68-­‐70  for  an  overview  of  this  affair.      
442  Gaston  Variot,  'Les  Tatouages  Européens',  in  Revue  Scientifique  (12  Mai,  1888),  p.  594.  Translated  from  

the  French:  
La  raison  de  l'indélébilité  des  tatouages,  nous  la  trouvons  d'une  part  dans  la  topographie  de  la  substance  
colorante  incluse  dans  l'épaisseur  du  derme  cutané  où  elle  est  parfaitement  tolérée  et  fixée,  d'autre  part  dans  
la  nature  même  de  la  substance  colorante  qui,  bien  que  divisée  en  fines  particules,  est  inaltérable  et  stable.  
443  Ibid.  

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blue   tattoos   of   indeterminate   age   from   the   Practical   School   of   the   Faculty   of  
Medicine.444  
 
In  his  article,  he  also  reproduces  a  drawing  of  a  microscopial  cross-­‐section  of  old  
tattooed  human  skin,  indicating  the  distribution  of  black  ink  particles  in  the  dermal  
layer  (see  Figure  145).  The  above  remarks  are  intriguing,  since  they  suggest  that  Variot  
was  engaged  both  in  the  surgical  removal  of  tattoos  from  living  patients  (who  were  able  
to  verbally  confirm  the  age  of  their  tattoos),  as  well  as  the  excision  of  tattooed  skin  from  
cadavers;  at  least  some  of  which  he  received  from  the  Paris  Faculty  of  Medicine,  where  
Professor  Paul  Poirier  was  apparently  assembling  a  'curious  collection  of  tattooings'  for  
the  practical  museum.445  However,  his  interest  appears  to  have  been  primarily  
concerned  with  determining  the  physiology  of  the  tattoo,  in  order  to  develop  efficient  
methods  of  tattoo  removal.  He  makes  no  such  suggestions  along  the  lines  of  Le  Goarant,  
that  the  collection  of  tattoos  could  be  of  value  for  purposes  of  scientific  'observation'of  
tattoo  imagery.    
  Methods  of  tattoo  removal  were  explored  by  a  number  of  French  medical  
professionals  during  the  nineteenth  century,  including  Ernest  Berchon,  Mathurin  Félix  
Hutin,  Auguste  Ambroise  Tardieu,  and  Albert  Le  Blond.  Le  Blond  dedicates  a  whole  
chapter  to  the  subject  in  his  1889  monograph  Du  Tatouage  chez  les  Prostituées,  
describing  a  variety  of  methods  employed  by  both  physicians  and  the  tattooed  
themselves,  who  were  often  'desperate'  to  remove  these  'dreadful  and  stigmatizing'  
marks,  resorting  to  applications  of  caustic  substances,  which  frequently  caused  scarring  
worse  that  the  original  tattoo.446  Among  early  available  methods  were  surgical  removal  
of  the  entire  tattooed  section  of  skin  (suitable  only  for  small  designs),  vesication,  
punctures  followed  by  suction  over  the  tattooed  area,447  as  well  as  various  
combinations  of  chemical  solutions  and  abrasion  techniques,  which  mechanically  
removed  the  pigmented  areas  of  the  skin.  Perhaps  most  unusual  of  all  was  the  method  
proposed  by  Chardin  et  Foveau  de  Courmelles,  described  by  Le  Blond  as  'electrical  
acupuncture',  which  involved  the  introduction  of  a  solution  of  tannin  and  silver  nitrate  
into  the  tattooed  area  using  electrolysis.  This  method,  according  to  Leblond,  gave  
                                                                                                               
444  Ibid.,  p.  595.  Translated  from  the  French:  

 Nous  avons  recueilli  à  l'infirmerie  centrale  des  prisons  de  Paris  un  tatouage  de  l'avant-­‐bras  datant  de  trente-­‐
deux  ans,  d'apès  le  témoignage  du  prisonnierqui  en  était  le  porteur.  La  figure  tatouée  en  bleu,  assez  bien  
conservée,  représentait  un  bateau  à  vapeur  avecle  pavillon  français  à  l'arrière.  Ce  tatouage  avait  été  fait  avec  
de  l'encre  de  Chine  pendant  une  traversée.  Nous  avons  également  étudié,  à  l'aide  du  microscope,  d'autres  
tatouages  bleus  provenant    de  l'École  pratique  de  la  Faculté  de  médecineet  dont  l'ancienneté  ne  nous  était  pas  
conne.    
445  See  chapter  two,  p.  68;  also  Pascal,  Pranzini,  p.  273.  
446  Albert  Le  Blond  and  Arthur  Lucas,  Du  Tatouage  chez  les  Prostituées  (Paris:  Société  d'Éditions  

Scientifiques,  1899),  pp.  77-­‐88.  

447  Gaston  Variot,  'Le  Détatouage',  in  Revue  Scientifique,  3rd  Series,  Vol.  17  (Jan-­‐Jul  1889),  p.  972.  

179  
 
  

effective  results,  leaving  only  'small,  almost  imperceptible  whitish  scars'.448  However,  it  
was  Variot's  work  in  this  area  which  came  to  be  accepted  as  the  standard  method,  and  
which  is  in  fact  still  used  as  a  'DIY'  removal  method  by  contemporary  tattooists449.  
Variot  himself  seems  to  have  tried  several  different  techniques  before  arriving  at  his  
recommended  method,  including  surgical  removal  and  'ignipuncture',  involving  the  
cauterisation  of  the  tattooed  area  with  hot  needles:  
 
In  August  1887,  at  the  request  of  a  patient  at  the  Hôpital  Saint-­‐Antoine,  we  tried  
to  destroy  an  obscene  tattoo  on  his  chest  using  ignipuncture.  With  the  exception  
of  a  few  areas  where  our  punctures  were  very  deep,  the  overall  design  did  not  
change.450  
 
The  use  of  needles  in  the  removal  of  tattoos,  described  both  by  Le  Blond  in  the  
'electrical  acupuncture  method',  and  in  Variot's  attempt  at  cautery,  is  intriguing,  
suggesting  a  correspondence  between  the  methods  and  tools  of  tattooers  and  
physicians.  The  method  for  which  Variot  became  known  involved  the  re-­‐tattooing  of  the  
pigmented  area  utilising  tattooing  needles  after  the  fashion  of  the  tattooers  themselves.  
In  his  1889  article  on  tattoo  removal  methods,  which  appeared  in  the  Revue  Scientifique,  
Variot  even  suggests  that  'we  believe  that  the  involvement  of  a  tattoo  artist  is  the  best  
way  to  meet  this  criterion,'451  although  whether  or  not  he  actually  enlisted  the  
assistance  of  any  professional  or  amateur  tattooer  is  not  clear  from  his  work.  It  is  clear,  
                                                                                                               
448  Ibid.,  p.  84.  
449  During  my  time  working  in  tattoo  studios  in  Chester  and  Manchester,  I  came  across  this  method  on  a  

number  of  occasions  -­‐  it  always  left  a  very  conspicuous  scar,  and  was  described  as  an  extremely  painful  
procedure  by  colleagues  who  had  self-­‐administered  the  treatment.  Chemical  removal  methods  such  as  
Variot's  are  now  seldom  used  in  the  contemporary  age  of  laser  removal  technology.  However,  many  old  
tattooists  are  still  familiar  with  the  procedure,  and  in  fact  these  removal  techniques  were  a  part  of  the  early  
twentieth  century  tattooist's  professional  repertoire.  In  a  recent  conversation  with  London  tattooist  Lal  
Hardy,  he  described  removal  techniques  as  follows:  'The  old  tattoo  removal  method  -­‐  as  I  used  and  tried  on  
myself  too  -­‐  was  thus:  the  area  to  be  removed  would  be  tattooed  with  a  diluted  tannic  acid  solution  (mixed  
with  water)  using  the  regular  tattoo  machine  -­‐  some  old  timers  advocated  really  working  the  skin  or  as  they  
termed  it  'chopping  the  skin  up'  or  'opening  up  the  skin'.  The  area  tattooed  with  the  solution  would  then  
appear  a  white-­‐ish  colour  [...]  the  area  would  then  be  rubbed  with  a  stiptic  pencil  used  to  stop  bleeding  on  
shaving  cuts.  These  were  made  of  silver  nitrate  and  would  be  rubbed  vigorously  over  the  tattooed  area  
making  the  area  then  appear  black  (and  stopping  any  bleeding).  A  fabric  plaster  was  then  applied  to  the  
area  and  left  on  it  (yes,  the  same  plaster!)  for  two  weeks,  in  which  time  the  plaster  could  not  get  wet.  After  
two  weeks  the  plaster  had  to  be  ripped  off,  taking  the  scab,  skin  and  hopefully  the  tattoo  with  it!  The  wound  
could  often  be  deep  and  messy,  and  I  used  to  make  clients  apply  a  fresh  paraffin  dressing  daily  until  the  
skin  returned  to  some  kind  of  normality.  This  method  varied  in  its  success  in  both  removal  and  
healing/scarring.  The  solution  of  tannic  acid  used  to  appear  as  a  white  liquid  so  old  time  tattooists,  who  
were  fiercely  secretive  of    [...]  methods,  tools,  solutions  etc.,  they  would  tell  the  uninformed  they  were  using  
'milk'.  This  was  the  way  of  the  old  timers,  to  label  solutions  with  fake  names:  ferric  chloride  was  used  as  a  
coagulant  and  was  often  labelled  as  'snake  piss'  or  'monkey  piss'  because  of  its  deep  yellowish  colour.  
Sometimes  tattooists,  rather  than  using  tannic  acid,  would  tattoo  over  an  area  to  be  removed  with  a  dry  
needle,  Dettol  antiseptic  or  Milton  sterilizing  fluid.'  
450  Variot,  'Les  Tatouages',  p.  597.  Translated  from  the  French:  

Au  moins  d'août  1887,  sur  la  demande  d'un  malade  de  l'hôpital  Saint-­‐Antoine,  nous  avons  tenté  de  détruire,  à  
l'aide  des  pointes  de  feu,  un  tatouage  obscène  placé  au  devant  de  la  poitrine.  Sauf  en  quelques  points  où  nos  
piqûres  de  feu  ont  été  très  profondes,  l'ensemble  de  la  figure  n'a  pas  été  modifié.  
451  Variot,  'Le  Détatouage',  p.  298.  

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however,  that  he  learned  the  basic  techniques  of  hand-­‐poke  tattooing  using  a  bundle  of  
fine  needles,  with  which  to  apply  his  chemical  reagents  to  the  tattoos  he  sought  to  
remove.    
  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Variot  was  not  the  only  medical  practitioner  to  take  
up  tattoo  needles  as  a  therapeutic  medical  tool.  A  number  of  dermatologists  were  
beginning  to  explore  the  use  of  tattooing  for  therapeutic  and  cosmetic  procedures  from  
as  early  as  the  1890s.  Several  interesting  accounts  appear  in  the  historical  literature,  
which  describe  the  ways  in  which  medical  professionals  adopted  the  techniques  and  
tools  of  contemporary  tattooing  for  their  own  medicinal  purposes.  These  accounts  
reveal  little  of  the  moralising  attitude  frequently  encountered  in  the  continental  
criminological  literature  on  tattooing  during  the  period;  rather  it  seems  that  some  
medical  professionals  had  a  genuine  interest  in  the  new  technology  of  tattooing  
developing  in  Britain  and  America.  The  electric  tattoo  machine  in  particular,  which  was  
invented  in  1891  by  the  American  tattooist  Samuel  O'Reilly,  presented  a  novel  method  
for  the  introduction  of  substances  other  than  ink  into  the  skin  in  a  relatively  controlled  
manner.  One  such  article  exploring  this  possibility  was  published  in  The  British  Medical  
Journal  in  1899,  entitled  'Hypodermic  Medication  in  Skin  Disease',  and  made  the  case  
for  therapeutic  tattooing.  The  author,  Dr.  C.  Butler  Savory,  describes  his  own  ‘original  
method’  for  treating  certain  forms  of  skin  disease,  which  involved  tattooing  a  solution  of  
carbolic  acid  into  the  affected  area.  He  writes:    
 
For   localised   patches   of   ringworm,   etc.,   this   method   of   treatment   proves  
eminently   successful.   I   have   not   as   yet   tried   the   treatment   for   skin   diseases  
depending  upon  constitutional  conditions,  but  I  see  no  reason  why  the  result  of  
tattooing  some  of  the  chronic  localised  rashes  of  syphilis  liq.  hydrarg.  perchlor.  
should  not  prove  successful.452    
 
  Variot  experimented  in  counter-­‐tattooing  using  a  range  of  substances,  including  
finely  pulverised  white  enamel  powders,  cantharides  tincture,  phenol  oil,  tannin  and  
papain,  all  without  success.  In  arriving  at  his  final  method,  Variot  explains  the  necessity  
of  re-­‐tattooing  over  the  coloured  mark  for  reducing  potential  scarring,  and  in  order  to  
achieve  a  'graduating  penetration'  of  the  caustic  agent.  His  method  is  described  as  
follows:  
 
I   coat   or   paint   the   tattooed   area   of   the   skin   with   a   concentrated   solution   of  
tannin,  then,  using  a  set  of  needles  like  those  produced  by  tattoo  artists,  I  make  

                                                                                                               
452  C.  Butler  Savory,  'Hypodermic  Medication  in  Skin  Disease',  in  The  British  Medical  Journal,  Vol.  1,  No.  1998  

(Apr.  15,  1899),  pp.  904-­‐905.  

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punctures  very  close  together  all  over  the  surface  of  the  skin  from  which  I  want  
to   remove   the   colour,   taking   care   not   to   encroach   on   the   uncoloured   skin.   I  
introduce  a  certain  amount  of  tannin  into  the  superficial  layer  of  the  dermis.  The  
tannin  used  in  the  first  stage  of  the  procedure  has  the  advantage  of  being  aseptic  
and  haemostatic  and  it  acts  as  a  mordant  for  the  caustic  agent.    
I  then  use  an  ordinary  silver  nitrate  pencil  to  rub  firmly  on  all  the  areas  which  I  
have   pricked   with   tannin.   I   leave   the   concentrated   silver   salt   to   act   on   the  
epidermis   and   dermis   for   several   seconds,   until   I   see   the   puncture   mark  
standing  out  in  dark  black.  I  then  wipe  off  the  caustic  solution;  silver  tannate  has  
formed   in   the   superficial   layers   of   the   dermis,   turning   the   tattooed   area   black.   It  
is   necessary   to   check   that   the   eschar   has   dried   up   in   the   first   three   days   by  
dusting   it   several   times   a   day   with   tannin   powder.   This   is   the   best   way   to  
prevent  the  scab  from  coming  away  prematurely  and  any  ensuing  suppuration.  
The   two   stages   of   this   technique   can   be   carried   out   very   quickly   and   are   only  
mildly  painful.  The  follow-­‐up  treatment  is  very  simple.  In  the  first  two  days  after  
cauterisation,   there   is   slight   inflammatory   reaction   with   a   varying   degree   of  
sensitivity.   In   the   following   days,   all   the   areas   pricked   with   tannin   and  
cauterised  with  silver  nitrate  become  dark  black,  forming  a  sort  of  scab  or  thin  
eschar   which   is   firmly   attached   to   the   deeper   areas   and   then   on   the   third   or  
fourth  day,  they  become  colourless.453  
 
Variot's  method,  though  widely  accepted  among  physicians  (and  professional  
tattooists)  as  an  effective  technique  of  tattoo  removal,  nevertheless  caused  some  
controversy.  Reports  of  his  prison  experiments  leaked  to  the  press,  which  denounced  
his  techniques  as  unnecessary  and  -­‐  despite  Variot's  words  to  the  contrary  -­‐  evidently  
painful  experiments  on  his  living  charges  at  the  prison  infirmary.  Emile  Laurent  
mentions  the  public  reaction  to  reports  of  Variot's  experiments  in  his  1890  monograph  
Habitues  des  Prisons  de  Paris:  
 
Tattoos  were  removed  from  a  number  of  inmates  at  the  prison  hospital  by  this  
method  with  full  success.  This  discovery  made  some  noise  in  the  political  press.  
Hypocritical   and   malicious   employees   denounced   M.   Variot   as   an   inhumane  

                                                                                                               
453  Variot,  'Le  Détatouage',  p.  299.  Translated  from  the  French:  

J'enduis  ou  je  badigeonne  les  parties  de  peau  tatouée  avec  une  solution  concentrée  de  tannin,  puis  à  l'aide  d'un  
jeu  d'aiguilles,  comme  en  fabriquent  les  tatoueurs,  je  fais  des  piqûres  très  serrées  sur  toute  la  surface  de  peau  
que  je  veux  décolorer,  en  ayant  soin  d'empléter  sur  la  peau  incolore.  J'introduis  ainsi  dans  la  partie  
superficielle  du  derme  une  certaine  quantité  de  tannin.  L'emploi  du  tannin  dans  ce  premier  temps  de  
l'opération  a  l'avantage  d'être  antiseptique,  hémostatique,  et  de  servir  de  mordant  au  caustique.  
Je  passe,  en  frottant  fortement  sur  toutes  les  parties  que  j'ai  piquées  au  tannin,  le  crayon  de  nitrate  d'argent  
ordinaire.  Je  laisse  pendant  quelques  instants  la  solution  concentrée  de  sel  d'argent  agir  sur  l'épiderme  et  le  
derme,  jusqu'à  ce  que  je  voie  la  piqûre  se  détacher  en  noir  foncé.  J'essuie  alors  la  solution  caustique;  la  surface  
tatouée  est  devenue  noire  par  la  formation  d'un  tannate  d'argent  qui  s'est  produit  dans  les  couches  
superficielles  du  derme.  Il  convient  d'assurer  la  dessiccation  de  l'eschare  pendant  les  trois  premiers  jours,  en  la  
saupoudrant  plusieurs  fois  dans  la  journée  avec  de  la  poudre  de  tannin.  C'est  le  meilleur  moyen  d'eviter  le  
détachement  prématuré  de  la  croûte  et  la  suppuration  qui  s'ensuivrait.  Les  deux  temps  de  cette  petite  
opération  peuvent  se  faire  trés  vite  et  ne  provoquent  qu'une  douleur  modérée.  Quant  aux  suites,  elles  sont  fort  
simples.  Dans  les  deux  premiers  jours  qui  suivants  la  cautérisation,  il  y  a  une  légère  réaction  inflammatoire,  
avec  une  sensibilité  variable.  Puis,  les  jours  suivants,  toutes  les  parties  piquées  au  tannin  et  cautérisées  au  
nitrate  d'argent  prennent  une  teinte  noire  foncée,  formant  une  sorte  de  croûte  ou  d'eschare  mince,  très  
adhérente  aux  parties  profondes  et  deviennent,  le  troisième  ou  le  quatrième  jour,  tout  à  fait  incolores.  
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doctor   who   tormented   the   inmates   and   was   operating   on   them   'as   on   rabbits  
and  guinea  pigs,  giving  them  phlegmons454  and  fevers.'455  
 
Moreover,  some  of  Variot's  detractors  pointed  to  the  deleterious  effect  that  his  efforts  to  
erase  the  tattoos  of  criminals  might  have  on  police  work,  since  it  was  assumed  that,  for  
the  criminalist,  the  tattoo  could  be  a  useful  identifying  mark  in  the  pursuit  of  recidivists.  
The  scandal  at  La  Santé  prison  where  Variot  carried  out  his  work  resulted  in  an  inquiry,  
at  which  Variot  called  upon  the  expert  opinion  of  Alphonse  Bertillon  in  support  of  his  
defence.  Emile  Laurent,  who  was  also  present  at  the  inquiry,  recounts  Bertillon's  
testimony,  which  stated  that  contrary  to  popular  belief,  the  tattoo  was  not  a  reliable  
sign  of  identity,  since  it  could  be  altered  or  effaced  by  the  clever  criminal;  on  the  other  
hand,  the  inevitable  scarring  left  behind  after  the  tattoo  was  removed  could  be  an  
'equally  convincing'  sign.456  Most  interesting  are  Bertillon's  concluding  remarks,  which  
Laurent  paraphrases:  'Before  attempting  to  purify  the  criminal  soul,  [...]  we  must  first  
try  to  purify  their  bodies  and  get  rid  of  the  obscene  or  seditious  tattoos  that  they  
wear.'457  This  incident  clearly  made  an  impression  on  Variot;  in  an  1889  article  in  which  
he  outlined  his  successful  tattoo  removal  methods,  he  was  also  careful  to  underline  the  
social  and  moral  importance  of  this  work,  appealing  once  again  to  the  expertise  of  
Bertillon  on  the  matter  of  identity:  
 
Tattoo   removal   can   serve   a   genuine   social   function.   Alphonse   Bertillon   put   it  
very   well   when   he   said   that   there   are   savages   in   our   civilisations   bearing  
grotesque   or   obscene   designs,   or   hate-­‐filled   inscriptions   on   the   skin   of   their  
limbs   and   even   their   faces.   All   these   visible   marks   mean   that   decent   folk   close  
their   doors   to   people   who   are   branded   by   the   mark   of   penal   servitude.   The  
rehabilitation   of   these   unfortunate   men   is   impossible   without   tattoo   removal.  
Finally,  how  many  idle  people,  sailors  and  soldiers  are  ashamed  on  returning  to  
civilian  life  because  they  are  tattooed  like  prisoners  or  prostitutes!  
Can   tattoo   removal   impede   the   legal   pursuit   of   criminals?   Alphonse   Bertillon,  
the   Head   of   the   Anthropometry   Department   can   provide   us   with   the   answer.  
Tattoos   are   deceptive   identification   marks,   as   they   can   be   altered.   Even   if   they  
are   not   removed,   they   can   be   covered   by   over-­‐tattooing.   When   a   design   has  
fallen  from  favour,  it  is  possible  to  draw  another  one  over  the  top  or  simply  to  
shade   it   out.   A   tattoo   artist   can   correct   skin,   just   like   a   painter   correcting   his  
canvas.   Since   the   identification   department   in   Paris   has   been   established   on   a  

                                                                                                               
454  An  acute  suppurative  inflammation  affecting  the  subcutaneous  connective  tissue.  
455  Emile  Laurent,  Les  Habitues  des  Prisons  de  Paris  (Paris,  1890),  p.  532.  Translated  from  the  French:  

Un  certain  nombre  de  détenus  furent  détatoués  à  la  prison  la  Santé  par  ce  procédé  et  avec  un  plein  succès.  
Cette  découverte  fit  un  certain  bruit  dans  la  presse  politique.  Des  employés  hypocrites  et  malveillants  
dénoncèrent  M.  Variot  comme  un  médecin  inhumain  qui  martyrisait  les  détenus  et  opérait  sur  eux  "comme  sur  
des  lapins  ou  des  cobayes,  leur  donnant  des  phlegmons  et  des  fièvres."  
456  Ibid.  
457  Ibid.,  pp.  532-­‐533.  

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scientific   basis,   i.e.   anthropometry,   tattooing   as   an   identification   technique   has  

been  relegated  to  a  position  of  secondary  importance.458  
 
  This  episode  points  to  a  tension  between  nineteenth-­‐century  conceptions  of  the  
tattoo  as  a  mark  of  individual  identity  on  the  one  hand,  and  as  a  generalised  sign  of  
deviance  on  the  other.  This  tension  played  out  in  Variot's  work  on  tattoo  removal  and  
the  subsequent  public  backlash,  manifesting  a  contradiction  between  the  desire  of  the  
physician  to  erase  the  stigmatising  mark  in  order  to  rehabilitate  the  criminal,  and  the  
imperative  to  'fix'  the  tattoo  as  an  identifying  mark  in  order  to  detect  dangerous  
individuals  in  the  fight  against  crime.  Variot's  motivations  for  developing  a  successful  
method  of  removal  for  tattoos  thus  derived  from  the  aforementioned  broader  
criminological  codification  of  the  tattoo  as  a  'primitive'  mark  which  was  associated  with  
disreputable  groups  such  as  prisoners,  sailors,  soldiers  and  prostitutes.  His  approach,  
also  reflected  in  the  testimony  of  Bertillon  who  spoke  of  first  'cleaning'  the  criminal  
body  in  order  to  rehabilitate  the  soul,  is  characteristic  of  the  French  criminological  
approach,  which  viewed  the  causation  of  crime  and  moral  'degeneration'  as  primarily  
environmental.  According  to  this  perspective,  the  criminal  or  deviant  individual  could  
be  'remoulded'  through  education  and  disciplinary  management  of  the  body.459  As  
Mechthild  Fend  writes:  
 
The   trust   in   the   potential   betterment   of   an   offender   corresponds   with   [...]  
medical   efforts   to   render   the   criminal   or   prostitute   immaculate   again   in  
removing  the  tattoo.460  
 
 
  Variot  led  an  extremely  active  and  varied  medical  career,  not  only  working  as  
the  chief  medical  officer  at  La  Santé  and  being  retained  as  a  military  doctor,  but  also  
undertaking  significant  research  into  infant  nutrition,  milk  and  child  health,  which  took  
him  on  an  extended  research  visit  to  England  in  1889.  This  work  culminated  in  his  

                                                                                                               
458  Variot,  'Le  Détatouage',  p.  300.  Translated  from  the  French:  

Le  détatouage  peut  rendre  de  réels  services  sociaux.  Il  y  a,  comme  l'a  très  bien  dit  M.  Alphonse  Bertillon,  des  
sauvages  de  notre  civilsation  qui  portent  sur  la  peau  des  membres  et  même  sur  le  visage  des  dessins  grotesqies  
quand  ils  ne  sont  pas  obscènes,  des  inscriptions  haineuses.  Toutes  ces  marques  visibles  ferment  les  portes  
honnêtes  devant  ces  hommes  qui  gardent  l'empreinte  du  bagne  par  leurs  tatouages.  La  réhabilitation  de  ces  
malheureux  est  impossible  sans  le  détatouage.  Enfin,  combien  de  désœuvrés,  de  marins,  de  soldats  qui,  une  fois  
rentrés  dans  la  vie  civile,  rougissent  d'être  tatoués  comme  des  prisonniers  ou  comme  des  prostituées!  
Le  détatouage  peut-­‐il  entraver  la  recherche  des  criminels  par  la  justice?  Laissons  répondre  M.  Alphonse  
Bertillon,  le  chef  du  service  anthropométrique.  Le  tatouage  est  un  indice  d'identification  trompeur,  car  il  est  
modifiable.  S'il  n'est  pas  enlevé,  il  peut  être  masqué  par  un  tatouage  surajouté.  Quand  un  dessin  a  cessé  de  
plaire,  on  peut  en  tracer  un  autre  par-­‐dessus,  ou  on  peut  simplement  l'ombrer  uniformément.  Le  tatoueur,  
comme  le  peintre  surcharge  sa  toile,  surcharge  aussi  la  peau.  Depuis  que  le  service  d'identification  est  établi  à  
Paris  sur  des  bases  scientifiques,  c'est-­‐à-­‐dire  sur  l'anthropométrie,  le  tatouage,  comme  moyen  de  
reconnaissance  des  criminels,  ets  relégué  au  second  plan.  
459  Foucault,  Discipline  and  Punish,  pp.  135-­‐169.  
460  Mechthild  Fend  'Emblems  of  Durability.  Tattoos,  preserves  and  photographs',  in  Performance  Research,  

Volume  14,  No.  4  (December  2009),  p.  46.  

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publication  Goutte  de  lait  (A  Drop  of  Milk),  which  became  a  seminal  work  in  the  field  of  
paediatrics.  In  this  context,  it  seems  feasible  that  Variot  would  have  been  exposed  to  
milk  advertising  in  the  UK,  such  as  the  image  from  the  Ridge's  Patent  Foods  
advertisement  (Figure  21).  Could  it  be  that  his  two  professional  interests  were  
combined  when  he  recognised  this  very  same  image  tattooed  onto  the  body  of  one  of  
the  prisoners  under  his  care  at  La  Santé?  Could  he,  like  Lacassagne,  have  been  so  taken  
with  the  iconography  of  this  image,  which  had  personal  relevance  for  him,  that  he  was  
unable  to  resist  having  the  skin  preserved  after  Fromain's  death?  Of  course,  such  
possibilities  remain  entirely  speculative,  but  many  of  the  details  of  Variot's  professional  
biography  have  remarkable  symmetry  with  other  historical  material,  and  correspond  
with  the  scant  clues  offered  in  Johnston-­‐Saint's  writings:  he  worked  in  military  and  
prison  hospitals;  he  had  a  professional  interest  in  the  tattoo  and  wrote  about  their  
removal;  he  was  known  to  have  experimented  on  tattooed  skin  removed  from  cadavers;  
and  he  himself  writes  of  the  ease  with  which  one  may  tan  human  skin  in  his  discussion  
of  the  autopsy  of  Pranzini,  perhaps  suggesting  a  familiarity  with  such  processes.461  
Interestingly,  in  his  biography  of  Henri  de  Rothschild,  medical  historian  Harry  Paul  
mentions  the  Pranzini  affair  and  suggests  that  professional  rivalries  between  Variot  and  
Poirier  within  the  Faculty  were  at  the  root  of  the  scandal:    
 
Following   an   established   custom,   students   in   Poirier's   laboratory,   who   were  
doing   a   dissection   of   the   executed   murderer   Pranzini,   made   wallets   from   the  
cadaver's  skin.  Anthropodermic  bookbindings  were  more  common.  La  Lanterne  
used  news  of  the  practice  (and  the  fact  that  the  police  also  received  a  wallet)  to  
stir   up   politicians   and   to   sell   papers.   It   is   probable   that   Gaston   Variot   was  
behind   the   articles.   Variot   had   lost   to   Poirier   in   the   competition   for   the   single  
available   agrégation   d'anatomie,   an   event   that   led   him   to   hate   the   faculty   and  
Poirier;   Variot   later   recognized   that   there   was   no   basis   for   the   accusation  
against  Poirier.462  
 
  In  the  final  analysis  however,  it  is  clear  that  neither  Variot,  Cornil  nor  Poirier  
could  have  been  the  man  calling  himself  'Lavalette',  with  whom  Johnston-­‐Saint  met  on  
the  15th  of  June,  1929.  Both  Cornil  and  Poirier  were  already  dead;  and  although  Variot  
lived  for  another  year,  dying  in  1930,  Johnston-­‐Saint  met  with  Lavalette  again  later  that  
year,  and  on  at  least  one  more  occasion  in  1936.  Thus,  whilst  it  is  more  than  likely  that  
multiple  individuals  working  at  the  Faculty  of  Medicine  in  Paris  and  La  Santé  were  
involved  in  the  collection  and  preservation  of  tattooed  human  skin  in  the  late  

                                                                                                               
461  See  chapter  two,  p.  70;  also  Variot,  'Remarques  sur  l'Autopsie',  p.  45.  
462  Harry  Paul,  Henri  de  Rothschild,  1872-­‐1947:  Medicine  and  Theatre,  (Surrey:  Ashgate,  2011),  p.  70.  

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nineteenth  century,  it  seems  that  another  unknown  individual  ultimately  sold  the  
collection  to  Sir  Henry  Wellcome  in  1929.    
 
After  Lacassagne:  Interpreting  the  Tattoo  in  the  Twentieth  Century  
 
  Writing  in  1960,  Jean  Graven  still  maintains  that  the  tattoos  of  criminals,  whilst  
being  motivated  by  all  the  usual  factors  -­‐  vanity,  frivolity,  whim,  idleness  and  boredom  -­‐  
may  also  be  related  to  the  so-­‐called  'criminal  mind-­‐set',  which  may  be  a  'direct  source  of  
inspiration'.463  He  even  describes  certain  types  of  tattoo  as  'eloquent  and  conclusive  
signs',  although  how  one  might  distinguish  precisely  which  tattoos,  and  on  whom,  are  
the  most  incisive  in  revealing  this  criminal  mentality  is  difficult  to  determine.  In  respect  
of  this  problem,  he  suggests  that  'especially  those  [tattoos]  indicating  affiliation,  
provocation,  rebellion,  vengeance  or  obscenity'464  may  be  regarded  as  reliable  
indicators  of  the  underlying  pathological  psychology  of  the  criminal,  adding  that:  
 
There   is   no   doubt   that   frequently   'a   criminal's   tattoos   are   a   reflection   of   his  
abnormal   psyche'   and   that   if   we   can   read   this   'emblematic   and   metaphorical  
language'   of   criminals,   then   what   we   will   term   their   'immoral   morality'   or  
antisocial  nature  can  be  read  like  an  open  book  on  their  bodies.465  
 
  Twentieth-­‐century  writers  such  as  Delarue,  Le  Goarant  de  Tromelin  and  Graven  
continue  to  elaborate  the  work  of  criminologists  such  as  Lacassagne;  describing  an  
extensive  range  of  tattoo  iconography  and  reporting  on  their  received  meanings,  some  
of  which  are  judged  to  be  more  or  less  ambiguously  deviant  in  character.  Particularly  
interesting  examples  are  found  in  the  varied  depictions  of  women,  wine  and  cards  (or  
sometimes  dice),  which  when  grouped  together  are  said  to  encapsulate  a  whole  ideal  
(presumably  criminal)  way  of  life.  Delarue  recorded  the  image  of  a  naked  woman,  a  dice  
and  four  playing  cards  with  the  inscription  beneath:  La  vie  d'un  homme  (A  man's  life),466  
and  Graven  cites  an  example  given  by  Dr.  Solowjewa  in  Russia  of  'the  special  lifestyle  of  
vagrants  with  its  triad  of  wine,  women  and  cards  [is]  reflected  in  the  tattoos  of  some  
criminals'.  Interestingly,  two  of  the  elements  that  typify  this  collection  of  motifs  appear  
amongst  Fromain's  tattoos  (see  Figures  2  and  20).  The  tattoo  depicting  a  domestic  or  

                                                                                                               
463  Graven,  'Le  Tatouage  et  son  Importance  en  Criminologie',  p.  85.  
464  Ibid.  
465  Ibid.,  p.  99.  Translated  from  the  French:  

Il  n'est  pas  douteux  en  effet  que  fréquemment  "le  tatouage  du  malfaiteur  est  le  reflet  de  son  psychisme  
anormal",  et  qui,  si  l'on  sait  lire  ce  "langage  emblématique,  souvent  métaphorique",  des  délinquants,  ce  que  
nous  appellerons  leur  "morale  d'immoralité"  ou  leur  antisocialité  se  déchiffre  comme  à  livre  ouvert  sur  leur  
corps.  
466  Delarue  and  Giraud,  Le  Tatouages  du  'Milieu',  p.  48.  

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cafe  scene  over  the  abdomen  features  a  clothed  woman  sat  at  a  table,  which  is  set  with  a  
wine  bottle  and  glasses,  as  well  as  a  meal  and  what  appears  to  be  a  letter,  although  the  
usual  gambling  symbols  such  as  dice  or  cards  are  conspicuously  absent.  This  does  not  
prevent  Graven  from  reproducing  a  cropped  photograph  of  this  particular  tattoo  in  his  
article,  along  with  the  caption  L'ideal  de  la  "bonne  vie",  le  vin,  les  femmes,  et  le  jeu  (The  
ideal  of  the  good  life  -­‐  wine,  women  and  gambling).467  As  previously  discussed  in  
chapters  one  and  four,  Fromain's  torso  tattoos  are  an  exceptional  case  within  the  
Wellcome  collection,  as  the  survival  of  a  range  of  archival  materials  connected  to  his  
tattoos  provides  a  unique  opportunity  to  critically  examine  the  criminological  
discussion  of  tattoo  iconography.  In  Delarue's  text,  we  have  seen  and  critically  
deconstructed  the  framing  of  the  female  portraits  on  his  chest  and  abdomen  as  
essentially  erotic  and  personal  in  nature.  Graven's  analysis  interprets  the  tattooed  
abdominal  scene  according  to  assumptions  about  the  criminal  nature  of  the  subject,  and  
the  presumed  anti-­‐social  or  irresponsible  lifestyle  of  the  criminal,  represented  by  the  
'trinity  of  vices'  -­‐  women,  alcohol  and  gambling  -­‐  despite  the  fact  that  one  element  of  
this  triumvirate  is  entirely  absent  from  the  scene.  This  particular  constellation  of  motifs  
-­‐  described  by  Graven  as  'the  bust  of  a  woman  with  a  bottle  of  wine  and  glasses  to  one  
side  and  playing  cards  on  the  other,  or  a  woman's  leg,  a  bottle,  glasses  and  cards'468  -­‐  is  
still  familiar  today,  although  it  is  not  associated  with  an  ideal  'criminal  lifestyle'  as  he  
suggests,  but  rather  with  hedonism.  In  the  late  nineteenth  and  early  twentieth  
centuries,  this  motif  typically  appeared  with  the  tattooed  phrases  Les  troix  maus  (The  
three  evils)  or  Ne  t'emballe  pas  (Don't  get  carried  away),'469  but  is  today  far  more  likely  
to  be  accompanied  by  a  scroll  bearing  the  familiar  phrase  'Man's  Ruin'.  London  based  
illustrator  Vince  Ray  produced  a  well-­‐known  contemporary  representation  of  this  
‘classic’  tattoo  design  in  the  1990s:  as  well  being  a  highly  popular  piece  of  tattoo  flash,  it  
has  also  been  reproduced  on  various  household  items  such  as  ceramic  ashtrays  and  
mugs470  (see  Figure  146).471  

                                                                                                               
467  Graven,  'Le  Tatouage  et  son  Importance  en  Criminologie',  p.  90.  
468  Ibid.;  citing  Le  Goarant  de  Tromelin,  Le  Tatouage,  p.  139.  
469  Ibid.  
470  One  cannot  fail  to  appreciate  the  parallel  between  these  contemporary  mass-­‐marketed  items  and  

Lacassagne's  personal  collection  of  'tattooed'  dinnerware  (Figure  106).  

471  Examples  of  'Woman's  Ruin',  the  female  counterpart  to  this  tattoo,  also  exist  in  the  contemporary  

context.  The  design  by  graphic  artist  A.  V.  Phibes  (Figure  147)  employs  a  particularly  interesting  gender  
reversal,  consisting  of  a  muscular  tattooed  man  with  a  black  eye,  in  place  of  the  usual  sexualised  female  
figure.  Whilst  all  the  accoutrements  of  drink  and  gambling  are  also  represented,  it  is  the  male  figure  who  
clutches  the  bottle,  as  well  as  a  gun,  suggesting  that  it  is  her  attraction  to  the  wrong  'type'  of  man  -­‐  a  drinker  
and  a  gambler  who  is  prone  to  violence  -­‐  which  is  the  source  'woman's  ruin',  rather  than  a  drinking  and  
gambling  lifestyle  indulged  in  on  her  part.  The  tattoo  on  the  male  figure's  shoulder,  which  reads  
'Heartbreaker',  reinforces  this  interpretation.  
187  
 
  

  Fromain  was  arrested  for  an  unknown  crime  and  his  tattoos  were  photographed  
as  part  of  established  identity  recording  procedures;  thus  the  connection  between  his  
tattoos,  the  milieu  of  the  prison  and  criminality  have  already  re-­‐coded  the  iconography  
of  his  tattoos  as  deviant  or  pathological.  Graven's  interpretation  of  the  tattooed  
abdominal  scene  thus  reflects  a  preoccupation  in  the  field  of  criminology  with  
establishing  reliable  meanings  of  tattoo  iconography,  which  persists  well  into  the  
1960s.  He  concludes:  
 
When   all   is   said   and   done,   one   can   dispute   the   validity   of   Lombroso's  
criminological   explanation   for   tattooing   only   on   its   merits   as   a   fundamental  
thesis,   since   many   of   the   observations   made   by   the   leader   of   the   positivist  
school   of   anthropology   remain   judicious,   profound   and   true,   while   sharing  
Tarde's   view   that   'even   supposing   that   the   assimilation   of   the   criminal   to   the  
savage   ever   had   any   sound   basis,   it   loses   some   of   its   credibility   every   day   as  
crime   draws   fewer   and   fewer   recruits   from   backward   rural   populations   and  
ever  more  from  the  corrupt  and  sophisticated  milieu  of  the  cities.'472  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                                                                               
472  Graven,  'Le  Tatouage  et  son  Importance  en  Criminologie',  p.  93;  citing  Gabriel  Tarde,  La  Criminalité  

Comparée  (Paris,  1886),  p.  42.  Translated  from  the  French:    

On  ne  peut,  en  définitive,  que  s'incrire  en  faux  contre  l'explication  criminologique  lombrosienne  du  tatouage,  
dans  ce  qu'elle  a  d'essentiel  en  tant  que  thèse  -­‐  car  nombre  des  observations  du  maître  de  l'école  positiviste  
anthropologique  restent  toujours  judicieuses,  profondes  et  vraies,  -­‐  non  sans  observer,  comme  le  faisait  Tarde,  
que,  "en  admettant  que  l'assimilation  du  criminel  au  suvage  ait  jamais  pu  avoir  le  moindre  fondement,  elle  
perd  chaque  jour  de  sa  vraisemblance,  à  mesure  que  le  crime  se  recrute  de  moins  en  moins  parmi  les  
populations  arriérées  des  campagnes,  de  plus  en  plus  dans  le  milieu  corrompu  et  raffiné  des  grandes  villes."  
 
 
188  
 
  

CONCLUSIONS  
 
On  the  afternoon  of  Monday  13th  of  May  2013,  I  paid  a  visit  to  the  Weiner  Library  for  the  
Study  of  the  Holocaust  and  Genocide  on  Russell  Square  in  London,  at  the  invitation  of  
the  Director,  Ben  Barkow.  He  had  contacted  me  the  previous  week,  seeking  advice  on  
'what  to  do'  with  a  preserved  tattoo  in  the  library  collections,  and  had  invited  me  to  
come  along  to  the  archives  to  see  it.  The  tattoo  had  been  donated  to  the  library  many  
years  previously,  and  was  a  unique  item  within  their  collection.  On  my  arrival,  I  was  
taken  down  into  the  basement,  where  the  tattoo  was  kept  in  a  small,  dark  storage  room  
crammed  with  mobile  shelving.  The  tattoo  was  stored  in  a  box,  wrapped  in  a  kind  of  
light  calico  sack.  I  was  surprised  to  see  that  the  box  was  quite  large,  I  judged  
approximately  50cm  long  by  30cm  wide  by  sight;  I  hadn't  expected  the  skin  fragment  to  
be  so  large,  and  at  first  assumed  that  it  must  be  a  sizable  fragment  taken  from  a  torso.  
When  I  commented  on  this,  the  Director  told  me  that  the  tattoo  wasn't  especially  large,  
but  that  the  case  it  was  kept  in  was.  I  thought  nothing  of  this  remark  until  we  took  the  
bag  and  its  contents  into  a  small  office  for  viewing:  As  Mr.  Barkow  unwrapped  the  box,  I  
saw  that  this  was  not  merely  a  cardboard  storage  container,  but  was  a  purpose-­‐built  
display  case  constructed  from  dark-­‐stained  wood,  with  a  hinged  glass  front.  A  large  
sheet  of  heavy-­‐bodied  white  cartridge  paper  was  taped  over  the  upper  portion  of  the  
glass,  presumably  in  order  to  hide  the  unsettling  contents  of  the  case.  I  was  immediately  
reminded  of  the  storage  cabinets  in  the  human  remains  room  at  the  Science  Museum;  
the  glass  door-­‐panels  covered  with  white  paper  shrouds  in  order  to  instil  a  sense  of  
dignity  and  decorum  in  the  viewing  and  handling  of  the  human  relics  inside.  The  paper  
sheet  was  taped  onto  the  glass  front  of  the  case  at  the  top  corners,  such  that  I  had  to  lift  
it  up  in  order  to  see  the  tattooed  skin  inside:  
  The  interior  of  the  case  was  lined  with  a  deep,  red  velvet;  I  was  struck  by  the  
visceral  and  highly  tactile  quality  of  this  ground.  The  velvet  lining  seemed  to  invite  my  
touch  whilst  also  possessing  an  unsettling  corporeality,  reminding  me  both  of  the  lining  
of  a  coffin  and  the  interior  of  a  jewellery  box;  containers  designed  to  cradle  treasured  
things.  The  tattooed  skin  fragment  was  approximately  five  inches  long  by  three  inches  
wide  and  rectangular  in  shape,  mounted  on  a  separate  cushion  of  red  velvet  in  the  
upper  portion  of  the  case,  and  fixed  to  the  backing  at  the  corners  with  red  stitches.  The  
first  and  most  striking  aspect  for  me  when  encountering  this  piece  of  tattooed  skin  was  
the  familiarity  of  this  kind  of  specimen  -­‐  at  first  glance  there  was  nothing  to  distinguish  
it  from  any  of  the  tattoos  in  the  Wellcome  Collection.  It  was  dry  preserved,  with  very  
carefully  cut  straight  edges,  similar  to  the  small  parchment  piece  professing  undying  

189  
 
  

love  to  Henri  Faure  (Figure  69).  The  skin  had  evidently  been  prepared  with  skill  and  
precision;  appearing  as  a  neat  piece  of  human  parchment.  The  tattoo  was  a  crudely  
executed  image  of  a  male  bust  -­‐  a  common  enough  motif  amongst  the  nineteenth  
century  tattoos  that  I  was  familiar  with  -­‐  made  with  coarse,  thick  black  lines,  hand-­‐
poked.  The  tattooed  figure  had  a  large  distinctive  moustache  and  a  medal  of  some  
description  pinned  to  his  breast.  A  small  amount  of  vivid  red  ink  adorned  his  collar.  The  
figure's  head  turned  to  look  directly  toward  the  viewer.  But  there  was  a  small  detail  on  
the  surface  of  this  specimen  that  I  had  not  seen  before  -­‐  a  stamp,  in  an  elaborate  black  
script  on  the  upper  right  corner  of  the  skin,  which  read:  'Dachau'.    
  My  encounter  with  this  particular  fragment  of  tattooed  skin  underscores  two  
significant  and  recurrent  themes  within  my  research:  The  uneasy  ethical  and  political  
status  of  collections  of  tattooed  human  skin,  and  the  ambiguity  of  their  historical  origins  
and  purpose.  More  than  any  other  kind  of  human  remains,  these  entities  seem  to  invite  
narrative  speculation;  both  in  cases  in  which  their  provenance  is  unknown,  as  in  the  
example  of  Bonheur,  and  where  there  is  at  least  some  contextualising  historical  
information  available,  as  in  the  example  of  the  Weiner  Library  tattoo.  In  the  latter  case,  
the  ethical  entanglements  and  ambiguities  surrounding  these  remains  arise  from  the  
especially  mythologised  status  of  Nazi  tattoo  collecting  practices  during  World  War  II.  
As  well  as  the  well-­‐documented  Nazi  practice  of  tattooing  inmates  at  Auschwitz  
concentration  camp  with  serial  numbers,  American  Intelligence  officers  also  reported  
the  removal  of  tattoos  from  the  bodies  of  concentration  camp  prisoners,  in  order  to  
fashion  various  objects  of  use  such  as  wallets,  belts  and  lamps,  during  the  late  1940s.  
Ilse  Koch,  the  wife  of  SS  Colonel  and  Buchenwald  concentration  camp  commandant  Karl  
Otto  Koch,  was  especially  implicated  in  these  'extraordinarily  sadistic  acts',  having  
allegedly  ordered  over  forty  prisoners  killed  for  their  tattooed  skins.473  Reports  
describing  the  collection  of  human  skin  trophies  by  members  of  the  SS  were  
sensationalised  in  the  American  press,  including  stories  of  Ilse  Koch's  supposed  
penchant  for  handbags  made  of  human  skin.474  Whilst  these  stories  were  not  entirely  
unfounded,  the  specific  association  of  Ilse  Koch  with  these  activities  could  not  be  
proven  in  court.  Specimens  of  human  remains  recovered  from  Buchenwald  camp  
pathology  laboratory  during  American  liberation  in  1945,  including  fragments  of  
tattooed  human  skin,  were  well  documented  in  photographs.  These  images  appeared  in  
popular  American  news  publications  such  as  Time  and  Life;  the  photograph  of  an  
American  soldier  holding  up  two  large  dry-­‐prepared  specimens  of  tattooed  skin  for  the  

                                                                                                               
473  Przyrembel,  'Transfixed  by  an  Image',  p.  369.  
474  'German  Civilians  Forced  to  See  SS  Horror  Camp  by  Patton',  Washington  Post,  (4th  June  1945).  

190  
 
  

camera,  which  appeared  in  Life  magazine  in  1945  is  typical  of  these  images,  which  
display  the  human  remains  recovered  as  'evidence'  (Figure  148).  However,  these  
specimens  disappeared  soon  after  American  forces  arrived,  possibly  taken  by  the  
soldiers  who  recovered  them,  ironically,  as  macabre  liberation  souvenirs.  The  collection  
and  preservation  of  tattoos  at  Buchenwald  thus  became  an  iconic  and  highly  publicised  
symbol  of  Nazi  dehumanisation  and  atrocity,  with  which  Ilse  Koch's  name  became  
synonymous.  Alexandra  Przyrembel  writes:  
 
Although   a   US   Army   laboratory   report   of   May   1945   identified   three   pieces   of  
skin   found   in   Buchenwald   and   described   the   tattoos   on   them,   thus   confirming  
the  real  background  to  the  accusations,  her  role  in  the  skinning  of  inmates  could  
not  be  proven  in  the  American  and  German  trials  of  1947  and  1950/1.475  
 
At  least  some  part  of  the  'real  background'  to  the  accusations  of  tattoo  collecting  
involved  the  criminological  study  of  tattoos.  Buchenwald  camp  physician  SS  Dr.  Erich  
Wagner  carried  out  research  which  involved  the  registration  of  tattooed  inmates,  
photographic  documentation  of  their  tattoos,  and  the  collection  and  preservation  of  
tattooed  skin  post-­‐mortem.  Thirty  photographs  of  various  body  parts,  such  as  tattooed  
arms  and  torsos,  as  well  as  full-­‐length  photographs  of  tattooed  prisoners,  and  two  
examples  of  preserved  tattooed  skin,  are  included  in  the  appendices  of  his  doctoral  
thesis.476  Wagner's  dissertation  tried  to  establish  a  causal  connection  between  
criminality  and  the  desire  to  acquire  tattoos:  Thus  his  work  elaborated  on  a  tradition  of  
criminological  scholarship  on  the  tattoo  begun  in  the  late  nineteenth  century,  and  re-­‐
framed  within  the  context  of  Nazi  conceptions  of  social  and  racial  hygiene.    
  Framed  within  this  historical  context,  the  Weiner  Library  tattoo  becomes  an  
especially  abject  entity.  Ben  Barkow  related  to  me  the  story  of  this  'sad  relic'  during  our  
meeting:  The  tattoo  and  case  had  been  donated  by  a  Mr.  H.  H.  Alexander,  who  had  
apparently  been  an  interpreter  with  the  International  War  Crimes  Commission,  
according  to  the  letter  had  he  sent  with  the  artefact.  Mr.  Alexander  had  been  involved  in  
tracking  war  criminals,  and  claimed  that  the  tattoo  was  one  of  three  that  he  had  
acquired  from  an  undisclosed  individual  suspected  of  war  crimes.  The  tattoo  was  
allegedly  one  of  three  that  had  been  incorporated  into  a  lampshade,  as  decorative  
panels.  One  of  these  tattoos  had  apparently  gone  to  Luxemburg  to  a  government  official;  
he  couldn't  recall  what  had  become  of  the  third  tattoo.  Whilst  the  'Dachau'  stamp  on  the  

                                                                                                               
475  Przyrembel,  'Transfixed  by  an  Image',  pp.  369-­‐370.  
476  See  Erich  Wagner,  Ein  Beitrag  zur  Tätowierungsfrage,  Inaugural  Dissertation  (1940),  einer  Hohen  

Medizinischen  Fakultät  der  Friedrich-­‐Schiller-­‐Universität  zu  Jena,  pp.    59-­‐68.  

191  
 
  

skin  surface  has  been  authenticated  according  to  Mr.  Barkow,  the  account  furnished  by  
Mr.  Alexander's  letter  is  far  more  difficult  to  verify.  
  Aside  from  the  'Dachau'  stamp,  the  tattooed  image  and  the  preserved  skin  are  in  
themselves  indistinguishable  from  dry-­‐prepared  tattoo  specimens  originating  in  
nineteenth-­‐century  collections,  which  problematises  assumptions  about  the  
provenance  of  such  remains.  Nazi  prisoner  identification  tattoos,  by  contrast  are  far  less  
ambiguous  in  their  provenance,  though  still  unsettling  when  encountered  in  museum  
collections.  UCL  pathology  collections,  for  instance,  contains  such  a  tattoo;  a  small  
lozenge-­‐shaped  fragment  of  skin  printed  indelibly  with  the  number  'A-­‐25374'  (Figure  
149).  From  May  1940,  prisoner  numbers  were  introduced  for  all  concentration  camp  
prisoners  deemed  capable  of  work  at  the  Auschwitz  concentration  camp  complex  –  
those  sent  directly  to  the  gas  chambers  were  not  registered  and  did  not  receive  
numbers.  These  numbers  were  initially  sewn  onto  prisoner  uniforms;  however,  as  the  
daily  mortality  rate  increased  and  clothes  were  removed,  this  soon  proved  impractical  
as  a  way  of  identifying  the  dead.  Tattooing  of  prisoner  numbers  was  thus  introduced  at  
Auschwitz  in  the  autumn  of  1941.  Tattoos  were  applied  to  either  the  inner  or  outer  side  
of  the  left  forearm  on  registration  at  the  camp.  More  than  400,000  inmates  were  
forcibly  tattooed  in  this  way  at  Auschwitz.  The  SS  introduced  number  sequences  
beginning  with  ‘A’  in  mid-­‐May  1944  –  20,000  men  and  30,000  women  were  assigned  
numbers  in  this  series.  The  inscription  of  these  tattoos  were  thus  an  unambiguous  
means  of  registering  identity  within  the  Nazi  concentration  camp  system;  preserved  
tattoos  such  as  the  one  stored  in  UCL  pathology  collections  retain  the  possibility477  of  
identifying  this  entity  with  a  specific  individual.  There  is  no  such  possibility  with  the  
Weiner  Library  tattoo  -­‐  not  simply  because  the  tattoo  design  is  itself  a  generic  image  
chosen  by  the  bearer,  rather  than  forcibly  applied,  but  because  unlike  the  Auschwitz  
tattoo  its  provenance  cannot  be  conclusively  established.  The  display  case  in  which  this  
tattoo  is  presented  in  particular  presents  some  doubt  as  to  its  origins  and  purpose.  The  
attention  to  the  display  of  this  skin  fragment  is  striking:  the  small  red  velvet  relief  
mount  is  attached  in  the  upper  portion  of  the  case,  which  is  vastly  oversized  for  the  
scale  of  the  specimen.  In  the  lower  portion  of  the  case,  a  yellowed  card  label  is  glued  to  
the  backing,  which  reads:  
 
Tattooed   human   skin   that   was   stripped   from   the   body   of   a   prisoner   at   Dachau  
Concentration  Camp,  where  it  was  used  for  decoration.  
                                                                                                               
477  This  is  by  no  means  a  straightforward  process,  however.  Many  Nazi  records  were  destroyed  at  the  end  

of  the  war,  and  the  many  thousands  of  files  that  do  remain  are  scattered  across  Europe  –  even  today,  it  is  
difficult  to  trace  the  identities  of  inmates  based  on  their  tattooed  prisoner  numbers.  
192  
 
  

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  label  is  printed  in  two  languages:  in  English  first,  with  a  
French  translation  beneath.  This  would  seem  to  suggest  that  the  display  case  in  which  
the  tattoo  is  contained  is  very  likely  to  have  been  constructed  post-­‐World  War  II,  
presenting  two  possibilities:  1)  That  the  tattoo  did  originate  from  Dachau  concentration  
camp,  where  is  was  incorporated  as  part  of  the  lamp  described  by  Mr.  Alexander,  and  it  
was  later  re-­‐assembled  and  re-­‐presented  as  a  new  kind  of  'liberation  trophy',  most  
likely  by  Allied  American,  British  or  French  forces;  or  2)  This  preserved  tattoo  may  be  a  
much  older  specimen,  contemporary  with  the  Wellcome  collection  tattoos,  which  was  
re-­‐purposed  post-­‐war  as  a  kind  of  morbid  curiosity,  in  light  of  Nazi  atrocities.  Whatever  
the  case  may  be,  the  survival  of  the  display  case  underscores  the  potential  ways  in  
which  these  entities  may  be  enlisted  in  a  political,  as  well  as  in  a  scholarly  or  aesthetic  
field.  The  historical  literature  on  tattoo  collecting  and  preservation  remains  largely  
silent  on  their  use  and  display,  but  the  Weiner  Library  tattoo  presents  a  particularly  
intriguing  set  of  possibilities  for  the  enactment  of  the  post-­‐mortem  tattoo:  It  may  be  an  
object  of  knowledge,  a  war/liberation  trophy,  an  aesthetic  object,  morbid  curiosity,  or  
politicised  human  remains.  It  may  be  any  or  all  of  these  things  throughout  the  course  of  
its  post-­‐mortem  life.  In  the  context  of  my  visit  to  the  library,  the  ambiguous  political  and  
ethical  entanglements  were  foregrounded;  this  entity  was  considered  too  problematic  
to  remain  within  the  library's  collections;  so  much  so,  that  the  Library  was  seeking  to  
de-­‐accession  it.478    
  The  example  of  the  Weiner  tattoo  thus  illustrates  the  multiple,  ambiguous  and  
historically  shifting  status  of  preserved  tattoo  specimens,  as  well  as  uniquely  suggesting  
some  of  their  potential  purposes  as  collection  pieces.  The  potential  narratives  
surrounding  this  entity  are  multiple;  a  quality  it  shares  in  common  with  the  Wellcome  
Collection  tattoos.  The  absence  of  consent,  the  presence  of  an  institutional  power  
relationship,  and  the  trace  of  underpinning  concepts  of  degeneration  and  of  the  sub-­‐
human  disreputability  of  the  tattooed  classes,  haunts  the  Weiner  and  Wellcome  
collections  alike.  The  Weiner  tattoo  also  registers  a  significant  high-­‐watermark  for  
tattoo  collecting  in  Europe:  Following  the  Second  World  War,  tattoo  collecting  largely  
seems  to  cease.479  The  brutality  witnessed  in  the  Nazi  concentration  camps  exerted  a  
powerful  influence  on  the  popular  conception  of  tattoo  collecting,  reviving  the  horrors  
                                                                                                               
478  After  our  meeting,  Ben  Barkow  followed  my  advice  to  contact  Dr.  Robert  Budd,  the  Keeper  of  Science  

and  Medicine  at  the  Science  Museum,  who  is  now  in  the  process  of  accessioning  this  tattoo  into  the  Science  
Museum  collections.  
479  With  the  notable  exception  of  the  Medical  Pathology  Museum  of  Tokyo  University  in  Japan,  tattoo  

collecting  seems  to  continue  only  sporadically  throughout  the  latter  decades  of  the  twentieth  century,  and  
is  pursued  as  a  fairly  idiosyncratic  practice  within  pathology  laboratories  by  individual  doctors.  The  
collection  of  preserved  butterfly  tattoos  held  in  UCL  Pathology  Collections  dating  from  1954  are  a  good  
example  of  this  kind  of  collecting  (see  Figures  133  and  134).  
193  
 
  

of  folk-­‐memory  in  which  human  skin  could  be  fashioned  into  clothing,  decorative  items  
and  furniture.  Re-­‐invested  with  associations  of  Nazi  dehumanization  and  trophy-­‐
collecting,  preserved  tattoo  collections  largely  disappeared  from  public  view,  coinciding  
with  a  decline  in  the  scholarly  interest  in  the  tattoo  as  a  serious  object  of  criminological  
study  from  the  middle  of  the  twentieth  century  onwards.    
 
Situating  the  Wellcome  Collection  Tattoos  
 
This  thesis  has  set  out  to  explore  a  specific  collection  of  preserved  tattooed  skins  
through  a  combination  of  interdisciplinary  theoretical  and  methodological  approaches,  
which  is  reflected  in  the  structure  of  the  thesis  itself:  Beginning  with  my  own  
ethnographic  experience  of  the  collection  within  the  museum  context,  I  have  examined  
their  contemporary  political  and  ethical  status  as  human  remains,  explored  their  
sensory  and  affective  presence,  and  closely  analysed  their  material  substance  in  an  
attempt  to  reconstruct  their  multiple  post-­‐mortem  lives.  These  material  and  affective  
observations  have  in  turn  led  to  a  close  reading  of  a  broad  range  of  historical  and  
archival  sources,  within  which  their  histories  and  potential  enactments  are  
contextualised.    
  The  material  substance  of  the  tattooed  skins  reveals  a  complex  coagulation  of  
multiple  biographies,  collecting  practices  and  potential  purposes,  suggesting  close  
connections  with  nineteenth-­‐century  criminological  studies  of  the  tattoo  in  particular.  
An  analysis  of  the  type  and  range  of  tattoo  iconography  within  the  Wellcome  Collection,  
demonstrates  close  affinities  with  the  collections  of  tattoo  imagery  amassed  by  
criminologists  such  as  Lacassagne,  as  a  part  of  their  studies  of  the  tattoo,  suggesting  
that  this  collection  was  assembled  according  to  similar  principles  and  preoccupations.  
The  geographical  specificity  of  some  of  this  iconography  suggests  a  military  context  for  
many  of  the  tattoos,  although  this  is  not  necessarily  also  a  penal  context.  The  connection  
between  the  tattoos  of  Fromain  and  the  photograph  held  in  the  police  archives  in  Paris,  
however,  shows  that  in  at  least  one  instance,  the  context  of  the  prison  is  relevant  to  this  
particular  collection.  Moreover,  the  disparity  between  the  geographic  locale  of  the  
military  tattoos,  and  the  Parisian  police  context  of  records  relating  to  Fromain's  tattoos,  
further  suggests  that  this  collection  was  assembled  over  an  extended  period  of  time,  
and  drawn  from  a  diverse  range  of  sources  and  unknown  individual  doctors,  
criminologists  and  collectors.  
  Thus  it  is  reasonable  to  conclude  that  Lavalette's  'unique'  collection  of  tattoos  
was  very  likely  amassed  from  different  contexts,  and  though  the  unknown  doctor  may  

194  
 
  

well  have  prepared  many  of  these  specimens  himself,  what  emerges  from  a  close  
material  and  iconographic  analysis  of  the  collection  is  a  disparate  selection  of  tattooed  
skin  fragments,  preserved  according  to  differing  methods  and  with  varying  degrees  of  
skill.  The  preservation  of  tattooed  human  skin  in  late  nineteenth-­‐century  France,  whilst  
connected  to  scholarly  preoccupations  with  the  tattoo  in  the  fields  of  criminology  and  
anatomy,  nevertheless  appears  to  have  been  a  marginal  practice  within  these  
disciplines.  For  doctors  such  as  Gaston  Variot,  who  sought  to  erase  the  'stigmatising'  
tattoo  from  the  surface  of  the  criminal  body,  it  was  the  material  substance  and  anatomy  
of  the  tattoo  which  was  of  primary  concern;  whilst  for  Lacassagne  and  other  
criminologists  who  probed  the  deeper  meaning  of  the  tattoo,  it  was  the  symbolism  of  
the  tattoo  itself  which  held  the  greatest  potential  for  understanding  the  criminal  'soul'.  
As  a  surface  sign  of  the  body,  the  tattoo  seemed  to  invite  analysis  and  interpretation  by  
criminologists  'almost  irresistibly',  the  marks  themselves  appearing  as  a  form  of  
encoded  'argot'  or  idiographic  language,  that  the  criminologist  sought  to  master  
through  the  systematic  amassing  of  tattoo  imagery  and  physiological  data.  But  this  
obscure  'language'  was  not  so  readily  translated.  Whilst  criminology  monopolised  
discourse  about  the  tattoo,  the  tattooed  body  itself  was  not  so  much  rendered  'docile'  
and  manageable  through  this  discourse  as  'mute';  as  we  have  seen  in  the  case  of  
Fromain,  the  meanings  ascribed  to  particular  tattoos  or  arrangements  of  tattoos  by  
criminologists  and  police  scientists  could  in  fact  be  entirely  at  odds  with  the  personal  
biographies  of  the  tattooed  themselves,  who  may  attach  entirely  different  significance  
to  their  tattoos.    
  Through  a  combination  of  ethnographic,  visual  and  historiographical  
approaches,  this  thesis  has  explored  the  different  kinds  of  entity  that  tattoos  may  
become  during  their  post-­‐mortem  lives,  via  the  various  discourses  in  which  they  are  
enmeshed,  and  their  movement  through  multiple  collections  assembled  for  varied  
purposes.  These  entities  are  not  mute,  passive  objects  within  these  flows  of  language  
and  things,  but  rather  their  obstinate  materiality  imbues  them  with  a  loquacious  
presence  that  compels  interpretation,  generates  discussion  and  invites  closer  analysis.  
Thus  the  notion  of  the  enactment  of  these  entities  has  been  foregrounded  -­‐  as  political  
materials,  curiosities,  criminological  objects  of  study  and  signs  of  deviance,  foreign  
bodies  and  vectors  of  disease,  sources  of  anatomical  interest  or  offending  marks  to  be  
erased,  fetishised  trophies  or  aestheticised  objects  -­‐  in  each  instance  engendering  a  new  
episode  in  the  afterlife  of  the  post-­‐mortem  tattoo.    
 
 

195  
 
  

The  Future  of  Tattoo  Collecting:  The  Tattoo  as  Art  

 
The  presence  of  preserved  tattoos  within  contemporary  museum  collections  inevitably  
raises  questions  of  display,  interpretation  and  aestheticisation  of  human  remains  
through  public  exhibition.  As  discussed  in  chapter  four,  the  'reshuffling  and  re-­‐
combination'  of  different  kinds  of  objects  on  display,  and  their  framing  within  the  
context  of  museum  exhibitions,  enacts  new  meanings  of  the  preserved  tattoo.  The  
aesthetics  of  display  have  also  been  mentioned  in  relation  to  the  Weiner  Library  tattoo  
and  the  collection  of  butterfly  tattoos  in  UCL  pathology  collections  (Figures  133  and  
134);  thus  the  issue  of  framing  and  display  can  be  seen  as  a  central  feature  of  the  
enactment  of  the  meaning  of  these  entities.  The  apparent  aestheticisation  of  the  tattoo  
presented  by  these  examples  invites  consideration  of  the  value  of  the  tattoo  as  an  art  
form,  and  brings  me  a  to  a  final,  contemporary  enactment  of  the  post-­‐mortem  tattoo.  
The  contemporary  tattoo  is  increasingly  viewed  by  tattooists  and  the  tattooed  alike  as  
an  art  form  worth  documenting  and  preserving  for  future  generations,  almost  as  one  
would  conserve  a  painting  or  sculpture.  Throughout  my  research,  I  have  been  in  contact  
with  a  number  of  tattooed  informants  who  have  expressed  a  desire  to  have  their  tattoos  
preserved  post-­‐mortem.  One  of  these  individuals  explained  her  interest  in  tattoo  
preservation  to  me  as  follows:  
 
My   personal   interest   in   preserving   my   tattoos   are   [sic]   –   first   and   foremost   –   to  
document   the   art   work,   style   and   medium   of   tattooing.     I've   had   work   done   by  
seven  extremely  talented  artists,  and  the  idea  of  their  work  dying  with  me  seems  
cheap.     Their   talent   and   dedication   should   be   timeless.     Secondly,   I   think   the  
evolution  of  tattooing  is  an  interesting  field  of  study.     From  ancient  cultures,  the  
old   days   of   WWI   and   WWII,   to   the   underground   NYC   days,   to   the   surge   in  
popularity   from   the   90’s   to   now   –   the   spectrum   of   work,   techniques   and  
applications   have   changed   so   dramatically.       Like   any   fine   art   –   it   evolves   and  
changes   over   time.     I   hate   to   see   that   kind   of   history   lost   to   the   grave,   so   to  
speak.    Not  that  my  tattoos  are  more  special  than  any  others  –  but  I  will  have  close  
to   a   full   torso   by   the   time   I   am   done,   a   collaboration   of   so   many   different  
talents.     Perhaps   photography   is   the   way   to   go,   but   in   all   honesty   –   there   is   a  
morbid  part  of  me  that  wants  the  skin  preserved,  and  the  tattoos  shown  how  they  
should  be  –  on  skin.480    
 
All  of  the  informants  I  have  exchanged  communications  with  regarding  post-­‐mortem  
tattoo  preservation  have  expressed  the  same  conception  of  their  tattoos  as  significant  
art  works,  and  of  their  tattooists  as  significant  artists,  whose  work  should  be  
documented.  The  historical  value  of  this  work  is  frequently  emphasised.  Whilst  most  
people,  like  my  informant  quoted  above,  acknowledge  that  photography  perhaps  offers  
                                                                                                               
480  Personal  communication,  March  11th,  2013.  

196  
 
  

a  more  practical  means  to  document  their  tattoos,  the  desire  to  preserve  them  after  
death  seems  to  reflect  a  concern  for  the  authenticity  of  the  'original'  art  work,  as  well  as  
the  sense  that  they  are  participating  in  the  documentation  of  a  personal  and  social  
history.    
  These  sentiments  were  also  echoed  by  Geoff  Ostling,  a  heavily  tattooed  retired  
Australian  schoolteacher,  who  I  met  in  early  2012.  Geoff  had  for  many  years  been  
working  with  Australian  artist  eX  de  Medici  on  a  complete  body  suit  of  tattooed  flowers,  
which  he  now  plans  to  have  preserved  after  he  dies.  What  is  unusual  about  Geoff's  case,  
is  that  the  National  Gallery  of  Australia  (NGA)  have  agreed  to  accession  his  tattooed  skin  
into  their  collections  post-­‐mortem  -­‐  a  decision  that  has  been  widely  documented  by  the  
press  and  media.  In  2008,  he  appeared  in  a  documentary  film  entitled  Skin,  which  
explores  some  of  the  reasons  behind  his  decision,  as  well  as  the  practicalities  entailed  in  
removing  and  preserving  his  skin  post-­‐mortem.  Geoff  carries  a  copy  of  his  will  
everywhere  he  goes,  which  sets  out  his  wishes  for  his  remains  should  he  die  
unexpectedly.  He  has  a  team  of  people  ready  to  execute  those  wishes  when  the  time  
comes,  including  his  personal  doctor,  funeral  directors  and  a  taxidermist,  all  of  whom  
are  interviewed  in  the  film.  During  our  meeting  at  Blythe  House  archives  in  January  
2012  and  in  subsequent  communications,  Geoff  told  me  about  the  verbal  agreement  he  
has  made  with  the  current  curatorial  staff  at  the  National  Gallery  of  Australia,  who  have  
agreed  to  accept  and  display  his  preserved  skin  after  he  dies.  He  reflected  that  the  
situation  may  well  change  by  the  time  of  his  death;  should  he  die  twenty  years  from  
now,  changes  in  staff  at  the  museum  may  mean  that  they  no  longer  want  to  display  his  
tattooed  skin:    
 
Although   they   are   happy   to   accept   the   donation   of   my   tattoos   if   I   were   to   die  
tomorrow,  this  may  not  be  the  situation  in  the  year  2033.  The  National  Gallery  
will   have   a   new   director   and   a   new   staff.   The   Gallery   may   have   taken   a  
completely  different  direction  and  may  not  want  to  accept  my  skin.  Maybe  they  
will   accept   it   but   not   allow   it   to   be   put   on   show.   It   will   be   stupid   if   they   did  
accept  it  and  then  failed  to  display  it  from  time  to  time.481    
 
Despite  this,  Geoff  is  committed  to  the  process  of  post-­‐mortem  preservation,  and  plans  
to  offer  his  preserved  skin  in  the  first  instance  to  the  Powerhouse  Museum  in  Sydney,  
and  secondly  to  Museum  of  Old  and  New  Art  (MONA)  in  Hobart.  If  no  Australian  Art  
Gallery  or  Museum  is  willing  to  accept  his  tattooed  skin,  he  intends  to  offer  it  to  the  
Wellcome  Collection  in  London.  If  Geoff's  tattooed  body  suit  were  to  end  up  in  the  
Wellcome  Collection,  it  strikes  me  that  this  would  be  an  interesting,  if  slightly  
                                                                                                               
481  Personal  communication,  April  17th,  2013.  

197  
 
  

incongruous,  footnote  to  the  history  of  tattoo  collecting.  Both  Geoff's  attitude  towards  
tattoos  and  his  motivations  for  having  them  preserved  could  not  be  more  different  from  
the  context  in  which  the  nineteenth-­‐century  specimens  were  collected  -­‐  but  they  are  
nevertheless  a  source  of  inspiration  to  him.  To  Geoff,  the  crude  tattoos  preserved  in  the  
Science  Museum  are  art  too.    
  The  contemporary  rise  in  the  popularity  of  tattooing,  along  with  an  influx  of  
artistically  trained  tattooists  to  the  profession,  have  resulted  in  significant  innovations  
within  the  art  form  in  recent  decades,  with  many  tattoo  artists  exhibiting  their  work  in  
the  form  of  drawings,  paintings  and  photographs  in  art  galleries  around  the  world.  
Geoff's  tattooist,  eX  de  Medici,  is  one  of  these  artists,  whose  drawings  and  painted  
works  on  paper  have  been  collected  and  exhibited  by  the  National  Gallery  of  Australia  
(NGA).  Within  this  context,  Geoff's  body  art  becomes  part  of  a  broader  collection  of  
visual  works  by  an  institutionally  recognised  artist.  In  a  photograph  of  Geoff  taken  at  
the  NGA  with  one  of  eX  de  Medici's  paintings,  the  relationship  between  body  surface  
and  painted  surface  becomes  blurred  (Figure  150).  The  photograph  is  taken  from  a  low  
angle,  such  that  Geoff's  body  is  enclosed  within  the  frame  of  the  painting  hanging  on  the  
gallery  wall  behind  him.  This  quite  deliberate  framing  sets  up  a  relationship  of  
equivalence  between  the  tattooed  surface  of  Geoff's  body  and  the  painted  surface  
behind  him,  with  which  his  body  almost  appears  to  merge.  The  stylistic  comparison  
made  between  eX  de  Medici's  tattooing  and  her  work  on  paper  is  striking  in  this  image.  
His  body  becomes  part  of  a  larger  body  of  work,  a  process  that  is  supported  and  
facilitated  by  the  National  Gallery  of  Australia  through  their  agreement  to  accession  his  
preserved  tattooed  bodysuit  post-­‐mortem.  Should  this  agreement  be  honoured  at  the  
time  of  Geoff's  death,  this  will  be  the  first  case  in  history  of  an  art  institution  collecting  
tattoos  on  human  skin  as  works  of  art.  Thus  in  this  future  context,  we  may  encounter  
the  post-­‐mortem  tattoo  anew  as  an  objet  d'art,  encouraging  a  new  type  of  collector  in  
the  form  of  the  art  collector  and  gallery  curator.  
 
 
     
 
 
 
 
 
 

198  
 
  

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