Tattooist Sydney - The Conventional Retelling

Mark Powell is one of those creative types that are always doodling and dabbling but in his case its painting and all things to do with tattoo artistry that tend to consume his time.

Having worked in the ink industry for over 15 years and dedicating himself to his craft, he has become an accomplished and experienced tattooist. So no longer an amateur but still aspiring towards that of an artisan. Let’s face it, if you’re not challenging yourself and learning constantly you’re kind of stagnating.

You might have heard the Western idea that it takes 10 000 hours for an average person to become an expert in their field. Mark sides more with the Japanese view you're not considered a Takumi, or master of your craft, until you've spent 60 000 hours refining your skills. Thinking of that as the equivalent of working 8 hours a day, 250-days a year for 30 years, that’s really a life’s work, which is how Mark views his work as a tattoo artist.

He enjoys portraiture, and anything funky detailed and realistic, or anything kooky or challenging really. Give him a call to discuss your ideas!

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Tattoo Artist Sydney - The Creative Retelling

The Story So Far

Mark had a fairly normal childhood up until he was 3 years 2 months old, at which point he was abducted by strange purple men in silver foil jumpsuits and taken way up into the sky in a imperdiet biiiiig thing that looked like a bubble. It had lots of flashing lights and went ‘vrooom’.

Unfortunately for them, the purple creatures were either inept, inexperienced, or morbidly afraid of balloons - for when one floated past, possibly the remnant of some school fete or village fair, they took fright and sped out of the stratosphere, leaving Mark Powell stranded in mid air.

Not for long, however. Gravity soon took hold and he plummeted downwards, his pink round cheeks gleaming in the light of the setting sun. Luckily for him (and for his loyal customers) he landed safely in a bed of soft grass, with barely a scratch upon him.

Indeed, the only injury he sustained was a strangely circular marking around his belly button, presumably a result of the changing barometric pressure of air as he fell.

He was a rescued by a wolf, a lonely female wolf whose cubs had perished in the Great Depression. She carried Mark Powell back to her den by the scruff of his neck and raised him like a true wolf.

Exactly how Mark Powell found his way back to Australia and civilisation remains a mystery. His communication skills took a some time to develop, and his early interviews consist mainly of grunts, growls, the occasional howl, and inappropriate urination.

To this day he still harbors a secret longing to return to his canine roots, although if asked he will brazenly deny this. But the look in his eye… the wild sideburns and mustache that he passes off as merely 'fashion’… and his penchant for the passing of gas… all are tell-tale signs of his heritage.


The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.

On The Road    Jack Kerouac