Lines of Intention: Shannon Elliott on Myth, Memory, and the Ritual of Tattooing

I went to school for graphic design, but I was always good at drawing. My classmates were always asking me to draw tattoo designs for them, but it never clicked for me until a few years out of college. I was dead broke, living with three roommates, and working an office job that I hated. I was browsing Tumblr one night, looking at all these amazing artists who were doing an up-and-coming style of black and grey tattoo style that was known as “blackwork,” and I was like, “hey, my art already looks like that. I should do this!” After that, it was just a matter of finding an apprenticeship and putting the work in. The job resonated with me immediately. I quit graphic design a few months later and never looked back.

I’m drawn to visual languages that value clarity, where every line has a specific intention. Traditional Japanese print work, Chinese brush paintings, and American traditional tattoo styles all embrace that principle in their own ways. A single stroke defines form, emotion, or movement. In my practice, I try to merge those traditions—not just stylistically, but in spirit. From Japanese prints, I take a sense of minimalism and compositional balance. Chinese brushwork teaches me fluidity, while American traditional tattoos bring boldness and immediacy. Together, they form a specific style influence for me that can say a lot with very little.

The botanical elements, on the other hand, are more intuitive and don’t necessarily carry any meaning. Flowers soften the composition, bring in rhythm, and they just make things look good. The contrast between the formal and the decorative is where I think my work starts to feel like its own thing.

You can definitely see the Asian influence in a lot of my work, and most of my clients are of Asian descent as well. Many of them seek designs that reflect their personal heritage or their own story, and come to me because they feel that in my work, sometimes without even knowing that I’m Asian myself. Luckily, there’s no shortage of us on the West Coast, so I’ve been able to keep a built-in clientele despite moving to another city. I’m constantly honoured that so many people are willing to let me interpret their own heritage into my work.

I rarely paint or draw outside of tattooing these days, though I miss it. Creating art just for myself used to be a big part of my life, but lately I find that my downtime is better spent recharging in other ways. I prefer seeing friends, going outside, exploring the city, being in nature – anything that lets me step back from the tattoo shop and unplug from that world. I do quite a bit of travelling as well, and while a lot of it is work-related, I always try and take time to decompress and immerse myself in a new culture or experience.

I’ve been wanting to return to making art purely for the sake of it – no deadlines, no clients. Now that convention season has wrapped up, I’m making a conscious effort to scale back on tattooing a bit and carve out more time to paint again. It’s part of my practice that I’ve really missed.

This summer, I’ll be showing new work at the 100 Amigos show in Vancouver, a project that’s especially close to my heart since I’ve been contributing to it since it first started back in 2006. Later in the year, I’ll also have work in the Flying Panther show down in San Diego this fall. It’s nice to have an actual event to work toward, and I’m really looking forward to stepping back into that creative space.

I often let the clients come up with the original idea, and then gently tweak it or suggest elements that will make it a more cohesive tattoo. At this point in my career, I have a strong visual language of motifs that I constantly revisit, and I’m often surprised by the original ideas that clients come up with using these elements in ways I wouldn’t consider. It’s almost like building a rapport with the clientele over time, with each of us using the other as building blocks to come up with new ideas.

I try to make friends with each of my clients — or at the very least, make them feel comfortable being themselves. We’ll usually start by sitting down and talking through what they’re thinking. I’ll take a look at the tattoos they already have — their placements, styles, how their body tells its story so far — and use that as a guide. My goal is to create something that fits into their visual narrative and feels like them. It’s not just about slapping a sticker on someone. My favourite client feedback is if at the end they say, “It looks like it was always meant to be there.” Then I know that a real, meaningful collaboration happened.

So much of tattooing is tied to Instagram for me. When I started, it felt like this wide-open space. You could post just about anything and people were excited to see it. There were barely any influencers, no stories, no reels. Just artists and clients connecting through a shared love of tattoos. The growth was organic.

Now it’s completely different. The visibility has exploded, and while that’s opened doors in some ways, it’s also made things more complicated. There are thousands of new artists entering the scene, and the visual noise is overwhelming. Standing out isn’t just about making good work anymore; it’s about playing the game: posting at the right time, making video content, keeping up with trends, and basically making yourself into a brand. The constant demand for visibility can be exhausting, especially when what I really want is to just focus on the work.

At the same time, it’s pushed me to clarify what I care about. I’ve had to get really honest with myself about why I do this and who I want to reach. I try to be intentional with my work and protect my creative energy. At the end of the day, the internet is just a tool. It’s really still just about tattooing and the one-on-one connection with clients.

The most interesting and challenging pieces for me are the ones that carry significant emotional weight, especially those tied to grief or loss. I once had a client come in just a few days after her husband passed away. None of us at the shop knew at first, and when she shared her story, we were shocked. But for her, the act of getting tattooed was a way to momentarily shift the focus away from the overwhelming grief and onto something physical, which in some ways can be more manageable. Even if it was just for a short while, I hope it gave her some relief and a sense of control.

It’s so common to turn to tattooing not just to commemorate, but to cope. Marking the end of something, reclaiming your body, or rewriting a memory. I’ve done more breakup tattoos than I can count (and gotten a few myself). I’m not a licensed therapist, but I can definitely attest that the process of getting tattooed is a form of healing. Something about intention, pain, and transformation can be cathartic.

For some reason, I find myself constantly returning to the image of the same woman endlessly battling the forces of nature. Whether she’s fighting wolves, tigers or demons, she feels deeply Sisyphean to me. Life often feels like a constant struggle up a steep incline, only to be pushed back down again, but there’s something in the refusal to surrender. I’m drawn to myths that reflect the cycle of suffering, transformation, and return. That’s probably why she’s one of my most popular motifs, because the fighting woman is never victorious in the conventional sense, but she keeps showing up. We can all see ourselves in that myth.

Most of my original designs actually begin as redesigns — reinterpretations of old tattoos, past work, or images I’ve stumbled across online or in real life. I’ll often see an image and it immediately sparks an impulse to rework it and ask, “How would this look if I filtered it through my own lens?” That’s usually the starting point; it’s like a visual itch I need to scratch. By the time it’s over, it’s often completely unrecognisable from where it began.

Ritual and repetition definitely play a big role in how I create, both because it gives my work a certain recognizability, and it’s time-effective when drawing ten tattoos a week. Finding specific ways to execute certain patterns, gestures, and motifs is like a personal ritual. Reworking an old piece isn’t just about aesthetic evolution; it’s about revisiting who I was when I first made it and seeing what’s changed since.

I always joke with my friends that I was a queen in Vancouver, and in LA I’m just another peasant. Canada’s tattoo scene—and its art community in general—is a lot smaller, so it was easier to stand out, especially because I grew up immersed in the Vancouver art scene. I’d already built a strong network there before I even started tattooing professionally, which gave me a real head start.

But I’ve always been drawn to challenge, so a couple of years ago I made the decision to move to Los Angeles. I wanted to push myself, to see how I’d grow when I wasn’t the big fish anymore. And LA definitely delivered. It’s been humbling, intense, and creatively energising in ways I never expected.

One of the biggest surprises was how different the popular tattoo aesthetics are. The Pacific Northwest leans toward big, bold designs rooted in nature. LA, on the other hand, is obsessed with fine line work, micro tattoos, and a more urban, fashion-forward sensibility. It forced me to adapt, to rethink parts of my style without losing my core.

The flip side is that LA is overflowing with opportunity. The scale, the energy, the sheer number of talented people doing things—it’s wildly inspiring. I’ve had experiences here I never would’ve encountered back home, both professionally and personally. It’s made me a lot more resilient and definitely more open to experimentation in my work.

I hope they feel cool as hell. Just kidding, I hope they feel proud that they were able to follow through with an idea, sit for a painful procedure, and come out transformed. And I hope that it helps them embrace their own body more fully. I know it does for me.