A tattoo? Who can say with certainty what they want bound to their own skin for the rest of their life? What if the once-new flame has found someone new and “Gabi” no longer gets under my skin? So I had no tattoo, because there was nothing about which I could say with certainty: this holds for the rest of my life.
My daughter Carolin started drawing early. Her precision in observation and execution is something I never had, and she is the only one of my five sons and daughters whose choice of profession I meddled in: “Do whatever you want — but make something of your talent!”
Over the years we naturally talked a lot about design, travelled to cities and museums, I consulted her on some of my own tasks, we made designs together and built models. When she taught herself to tattoo, to open up further skills and forms of expression, I knew: if anyone, then her.
And then came the idea. As a five-year-old I had entered a drawing competition titled “What children wish for”. My drawing of four little tool-men won me fifty marks in 1965, and I still have the newspaper clipping from the Süddeutsche; the caption reads: Florian Stolzenberger, age 5, wishes for a toolbox.
I did buy that toolbox — and with the smile of this story I describe the beginning of my professional identity. These drawings belong inseparably and solely to me, they have long been under my skin, and it was a decision of seconds when I asked Carolin: “What would you think of these drawings…”
From no one else would I have had this tattoo inked — not by the best tattoo artist on earth, and by the roadside somewhere in Asia rather not either. And it was clear that I could rely on Carolin’s precision.