These Vancouver artists are turning tattoos into tradition

In Vancouver, tattooing isn’t just an art form; it’s becoming a way to reclaim identity.

From Indigenous formline to South Asian mehndi motifs, a new wave of artists is using ink to honour heritage, resist cultural erasure, and reconnect with ancestral stories.

Daily Hive spoke with five tattoo artists, each with their own roots, style, and story, about what it means to tattoo with purpose.

Chanton Hopkins: West Coast formline as ancestral language

Hopkins, a N’Quatqua First Nation artist from St’át’imc territory, started drawing at age seven.

Inspired by his father’s old-school tattoos, grim reapers, panthers, and daggers, he began experimenting early.

By 12, he’d given himself a stick-and-poke using calligraphy ink and a sewing needle. By 15, he’d built a makeshift machine from Dollar Store parts.

“They wanted $10,000 to $15,000 to train me,” he says. “So I just started tattooing people for free, or I’d trade tattoos for bikes, clothes… even beer.”

 

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Today, Hopkins tattoos at Aboriginal Ink near Coquitlam, specializing in bold, West Coast Indigenous formline designs.

His clients, many of whom are Indigenous, often seek out his work because of his deep understanding of traditional design.

“Once I started working in shops, people wanted Native art that meant something,” he said. “I’m Indigenous, and we’re tattooing on unceded First Nations territory. So I dove deeper.”

For Hopkins, formline isn’t just visual, it’s ancestral.

“You can’t use AI to make Native art,” he said. “You have to understand the ovoids, the U-forms. Each nation has its own style. You have to learn it.”

Clients often bring him stories that carry spiritual weight: clan animals, memorials, spirit names. “One guy said he was Bear Clan, his spirit name was Raven, and his grandmother’s animal was also the bear,” he recalled. “I had to blend all that into one piece.”

A 2024 study by Concordia University researcher Melanie Lefebvre found that traditional Indigenous tattoos can help people reconnect with their roots, heal from colonial harm, and feel more grounded in who they are.

Hopkins knows that firsthand.

Tattooing, he explained, helped him get sober and raise his four children without passing on the pain he grew up with.

“My kids don’t have to go through what I did,” he said. “Tattooing helps me break that cycle.”

He’s now apprenticing his 18-year-old son.

“They all love to draw,” he said. “It runs in the family.”

Jo Yun: From Seoul to East Van, ink without borders

Jo Yun’s tattoo journey started with a worn-out copy of Dragon Ball, a manga.

Growing up in South Korea, where tattoos were taboo and often associated with crime, he found escape and expression in redrawing scenes from the manga series.

“I didn’t have many friends,” he said. “So I spent a lot of time alone, just drawing. That sparked my dream to become an artist.”

Now based in East Vancouver, Jo’s style blends Japanese folklore, Ukiyo-e (a bold woodblock print style from Japan’s Edo period), and vintage manga.

His designs often feature fluid movement, mythic symbolism, and fine-lined detail.

“I collect and study anything that catches my eye… folklore, art, pop culture,” he said. “But I always start with Ukiyo-e. It’s the foundation of my style.”

Moving to Canada unlocked a different kind of freedom.

“In Korea, tattoos still carry a lot of stigma,” he said. “But when I started going to international conventions, I noticed how normalized they were. That atmosphere let me relax and connect with clients in a way I couldn’t before.”

For Jo, tattooing is a deeply personal craft, but it’s also a cultural exchange.

“I’ve met artists here who study Japanese tattooing deeply and reinterpret it in their own ways. Seeing that kind of respectful exchange through art is powerful.”

Ayasha Dunphy: From mehndi to permanence

For Ayasha Dunphy, tattooing began with a cone of mehndi (henna) in her hand and the feeling of creative freedom.

“I grew up in the States, where there wasn’t a big Indian community,” she said. “One of my cousins gave me some mehndi cones and said, ‘You’re creative, just try it.’ I started doing friends’ hands… and suddenly, everyone wanted it.”

That early practice became her first artistic job.

She painted murals, sold illustrations at markets, and eventually moved to Canada, hoping to break into tattooing.

But finding an apprenticeship was nearly impossible.

“It’s hard to find someone willing to teach you,” she said. “I almost gave up. But then a friend introduced me to Jamie Blankenship, an Indigenous artist here in Vancouver. She said, ‘If you’re serious, I’ll teach you.’ That changed everything.”

Today, Dunphy tattoos in a women- and BIPOC-led studio called Sleep Talk Tattoo located near Powell Street in Downtown Vancouver.

Her work is heavily inspired by ornamental South Asian design, delicate florals, radial symmetry, and mehndi motifs, now made permanent.

“My family is Ismaili, from Tanzania, and I’m mixed… Indian and white,” she said.

“There’s a bit of disconnect, so tattooing became a way to reconnect with that cultural side I never fully got to grow up with.”

Dunphy’s clients, many South Asian, come to her with deeply personal stories.

Some want permanent versions of bridal mehndi. Others seek tattoos inspired by family heirlooms.

 

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But the conversations often run deeper.

“A lot of my clients ask, ‘Does your family know you have tattoos?'” she said. “Some only get tattooed in places they can hide. Even I still hide mine from my grandparents.”

It’s a contradiction she hears often: “Mehndi is celebrated when it’s temporary. But when it’s permanent, it becomes taboo.”

Still, she sees change. With each piece she creates, she’s carving space for South Asian identity in the tattoo world.

“When it means something to the person… when they’re getting it for grounding or healing… that’s when tattooing feels the most rewarding,” she said. “That’s why I do this.”

Justine Crawford: Delicate lines, deep legacy

Tattoo artist Justine Crawford didn’t set out to reconnect with her culture, but her ink found its way there anyway.

Half-Chinese and raised in Vancouver, Crawford’s style blends bold composition with intricate detail.

Her work is deeply influenced by her grandfather, a carpenter and visual artist who lived with her growing up.

“He was always carving, crafting, sketching,”  she said. “That made a huge impression on me.”

Before becoming a tattoo artist, she worked in graphic design.

But at art markets, people began gravitating toward her illustrations, some of which referenced family heirlooms, Chinese scrolls, and silk embroidery that once hung in her childhood home.

Today, those influences live on in her tattoos.

“Many of my clients are Chinese or East Asian,” she said. “They’ll come to me with stories or objects from their homes. One woman asked me to design a tattoo inspired by a fan her grandmother used to carry.”

Even when clients don’t know the full history behind a motif, Crawford encourages curiosity.

“I’m still learning, too,” she said. “Sometimes I’ll draw something from memory, then look it up and realize it’s a symbol for clarity or protection. That’s part of the journey.”

In an industry that hasn’t always welcomed artists of colour, Crawford said she’s grateful for finding a community of peers also exploring identity through ink.

“There’s space now for different kinds of tattooing… not just bold black-and-grey traditional, but fine lines, ornamental styles, culturally inspired work,” she said. “I’m proud to be part of that.”

Crawford also tattoos out of Sleep Talk Tattoo Studio in Downtown Vancouver.

Mario “Mayo” Landicho: Reclaiming pintados

Mario Landicho (known in Vancouver’s tattoo scene as Mayo) remembers tattooing before he ever called it art.

Growing up in the Philippines, tattoos were linked with gangs and rebellion.

Mayo gave himself his first tattoos using pens, needles, and rotary ink, often in secret, with makeshift tools.

“Back then, we didn’t call it tattooing,” he said. “We just marked ourselves. But there was stigma. People thought you were a criminal if you had tattoos.”

Before immigrating to Canada in 1999, Mayo was a music teacher with degrees in economics and the arts.

Once in Vancouver, he saw an opportunity to do something different and opened one of the city’s first Filipino-owned tattoo shops: Birthmark Tattoos.

“I started tattooing my basketball buddies,” he said. “The demand just grew and grew. I worked at a few shops, but eventually, I opened my own.”

As his practice deepened, Mayo began researching Filipino tattoo traditions.

He learned about batok, a pre-colonial hand-tapping method, and travelled back to the Philippines to study under the world’s oldest living batok artist, Apo Whang-Od.

“I wanted to do it properly,” he said. “Not just learn from books or YouTube, but ask for a blessing and learn face to face. That’s the honourable way.”

Mayo now fuses traditional Filipino motifs with contemporary tattooing, using custom tools he designed himself, modernized for hygiene, but inspired by Indigenous craft.

 

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“For me, getting a tattoo is like being born again… with a mark,” he said. “That’s why I called my shop Birthmark — it’s about identity.”

He sees his work as both preservation and revival.

“As immigrants, we try so hard to become Canadian, but in the process, we sometimes forget our roots,” he said.

“Tattooing lets me hold on to my identity…  and share it,” Mayo said. “That’s what it’s always been about.”

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