Every tattoo tells something about a person’s past: The name of a loved one, perhaps otherwise forgotten; a mysterious symbol that is (or was) in fashion; or blue numbers on fingers that hint at a criminal past.
Sevastopol native Viktor Putilin, 41, knows more about the meaning of tattoos than most – because his life and health depended on it for several years.
Sentenced to seven years in prison for stealing luxury cars, Putilin learned the art of tattooing from his deaf-mute cellmate using the most basic of tools – a sharpened guitar string. He not only learned the techniques for drawing, but also acquired crucial knowledge about the meaning behind each dot on a prisoner’s skin.
In jail, tattoos are much more than a permanent picture – they are a mark of who you are and your position in the hierarchy.
“In prison everyone knows his place,” explained Putilin. Wearing a black jacket, Putilin speaks proper Russian – without a trace of prison jargon – fumbling with a ring on his finger. Deep scars furrow his face.
Viktor Putilin
Decoding a message behind each tattoo is like learning Chinese characters.
An eight-point star is a sign reserved exclusively for top dogs; cards with the suit of hearts were tattooed on homosexuals; Christian symbols, like crucifixes and church domes were used widely, with the number of domes representing the number of times a person was sent to prison.
The tradition of criminal tattoos predated the 1920s and became especially widespread after World War II, according to criminologist Oleksandr Kostenko.
But with the evolution of society, criminal tattoos started to lose their significance from the 1970s. “The criminal world wanted to identify itself in order to survive, to oppose the world of law. Now they use simpler ways, either informational or oral,” explained Kostenko.
A body image of death signifies its inevitability. (www.bigpicture.ru)
During the Soviet period, tattoos could be drawn even against the will of a prisoner. Now getting a tattoo is up to everyone, unless a criminal breaks the rules of that society. For example, a tattoo mark of a rat is sometimes made forcibly on those who dare to steal off other convicts.
“I have seen a man with a rat tattooed all over his back. Such a person will be treated very cruelly,” Putilin said. “You can be a very powerful figure in prison but have no tattoos at the same time.”
Despite an overall decline in the significance of criminal tattoos, Putilin still takes them very seriously. In fact, it’s his skill as a tattoo artist that gave him a new start and an escape from his life of crime after he was released in 2005. He returned to his native Sevastopol and opened his own tattoo parlor.
Now he is a real professional and is well-known enough to take part in the Festival of Tattoos, which will take place in Kyiv on May 20-22.
Tattoos of an eight-point star and a shoulder strap are marks of the highest criminal rank. (www.russiancriminaltattoo.ru)
“There are some crazy people who have no idea about the seriousness of criminal tattoos. If someone comes up to me and asks me to draw, say, an eight-point star, I will make sure to talk them out of it and for sure will not draw it. Otherwise, if this person later gets imprisoned, such a tattoo will be asking for trouble,” Putilin said.
When I was there, the most hi-tech device was a handmade tool of a sharpened guitar string attached to a motor from a tape recorder. For zhzhenka (ink), you take the heel of a boot, burn it down till it becomes powder and mix it with water.
Viktor Putilin
Putilin has his forearm, half of his back and his side covered with two large tattoos, both of which he got while in prison. A complicated scene with swords, lions, and a torn pirate flag symbolize his non-conformist life philosophy.
His second tattoo of a ship stands for “nomadic criminals,” or those who don’t tie up to any specific location.
To draw tattoos, prisoners use whatever they can lay their hands on, be it ink made out of a burnt shoe heel or professional equipment. Acquiring the materials isn’t easy but still possible.
“When I was there, the most hi-tech device was a handmade tool of a sharpened guitar string attached to a motor from a tape recorder,” said Putilin. “For zhzhenka (ink), you take the heel of a boot, burn it down till it becomes powder and mix it with water.”
All of those materials, though prohibited, prisoners get “with the help of corrupt policemen,” explained Putilin.
“You can even sneak in professional equipment and ink. I’ve done that myself a few times. All of them are forbidden as even a guitar string can be a used as a weapon,” Putilin said.
As remuneration, policemen accept money and different craftwork. “There are many things made in the prison [by convicts], like knives or backgammon sets, which serve as money. You won’t find it anywhere else. People in prisons can really create,” Putilin said.
If prisoners are caught drawing tattoos, “disciplinary means will apply,” which vary from a reprimand to being placed in a punishment cell
Yuriy Yaremchuk of the State Department of Corrections said they don’t have the current update on the state of criminal tattoos in Ukrainian prisons as they are “losing their significance” and that’s why no analysis or monitoring is done.
At the same time, if prisoners are caught drawing tattoos, “disciplinary means will apply,” which vary from a reprimand to being placed in a punishment cell.
Despite changing prison culture, criminal tattoos are well-preserved in the world of history and books. One of the most significant works in this area was created by Russian ethnographer Danzig Baldayev, who served as a warden at an infamous prison Kresty in St. Petersburg from 1941.
Over 40 years there, Baldayev made thousands of sketches of different tattoos, explaining their meaning.
The sketches may have been lost forever if not for two English men, Damon Murray and Stephen Sorrell. They found out about Baldayev’s drawings and bought the sketches off his widow.
They then published the Russian Criminal Tattoo Encyclopedia, a compendium of a craft that artists like Putilin are keeping alive.
Kyiv Post staff writer Nataliya Horban can be reached at [email protected]
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