I remember my dad telling me these epic stories about the level of fabrication my grandpa did. He owned a shop remanufacturing bumpers when they were steel and chrome. He cut a couple of Lincoln Continentals in half and put the good halves back together. He had something to do with the early development of the resin fiber sanding disc. I think my dad had me running a cutting torch around the time I learned to tie my shoes.

I grew up watching him blacksmith, weld, run a lathe. I was taught from an early age that I could make anything, and always had an unreasonable need to take functioning items apart to see how they work. We rebuilt an engine to go in my first car—an International Scout. We rebuilt tractors and implements, and I saw him always make something over buying it if it made sense. I left home obtained a math degree and took some engineering classes but found a home in tattooing.

I look at any object in daily life and can’t help but think how it was made. Where was it made? What materials? What machines? Is it clever? What do I like about how it was fabricated? What don’t I like? This thinking has obviously extended to each tool I’ve encountered in my years of tattooing. I look at armrests, machines, tables, light booms, artist chairs, and I think, “If I was going to make one of those, how would I do it?” I can’t help it. I set out to make an armrest and wound up with a room full of tools and machines.

American made used to mean built to last, buy it once, heirloom quality. Hand tools and pans and furniture used to be passed from generation to generation, lasting more than a human lifetime. In world full of throw-away, disposable everything, I want to provide tattooers with high-quality equipment that will last the rest of their lives.