Interview with Liz Koss

We were all just doing weird shit. One of my brothers is a blacksmith — he was always making chain mail. We’d sew random things, build tree houses, take on whatever project we could dream up. All of us are very creative, but my parents were firmly in the camp of traditional careers: engineering, nursing, medicine. Art was something you did as a hobby, not something you pursued.

My aunt told me recently that she always thought I’d grow up to be an artist. But I never saw it as something that could be a real career. I’d sit in my room and draw for hours, but it just didn’t feel like an option. I think there was just a lot of pressure to pursue more traditional careers when I was in high school.

I did chemical engineering, then a master’s in mining processing. I picked engineering on a whim. My parents still say, “If you’re an engineer, you can be anything.” And I’m like, “Yeah, if it relates to engineering.”

I worked for large companies, small companies — I hated all of it. I couldn’t see myself enjoying any version of that career. The money wasn’t even worth it. In chemical engineering in the city, I was making more as a server after I quit. That’s when I started thinking: why am I even doing this?

It wasn’t a straight line. I first considered going back to school for something medical, but hit a bureaucratic wall — BC schools wanted a first-year English course I never took, and I’d just done a thesis-based master’s. I emailed the schools, got nowhere, and thought, “Fuck this.”

From there, I fell into cosmetic tattooing. I’d always enjoyed makeup, I’d had my own eyebrows done, and I had the chance to learn with someone in Calgary. I did that for a few years, and it opened the door to the tattoo world. I started meeting artists in Vancouver, and one day a friend of a friend, an old school tattooer with 20 years of experience, offered me the chance to apprentice. I thought, “I’m already making spur-of-the-moment decisions anyway. Let’s see where this goes.”

That was about three years ago. My whole life has been a series of just hoping it all works out. So far, so good.

I lucked out. My mentor worked at a private shop, and since I already had some knowledge of tattoo machines from cosmetic tattooing, we skipped the typical grunt work and went straight into shadowing and technique. Some apprenticeships, especially for women, can be pretty rough. Mine wasn’t. He’s a bit of a crazy old school tattooer, but he was kind and generous with his knowledge.

The biggest thing is that skin is nothing like a canvas. Everybody’s skin is different. How much water someone drinks, their age, their habits — it all affects how they take ink. A 20-year-old and a 70-year-old are completely different experiences. You learn some of that from your mentor, but a lot of it you learn on the fly. Three years in, I still feel like a baby tattooer. I don’t think that feeling ever fully goes away.

I started leaning toward traditional designs. I love the history of trad tattoos and I still bang out the occasional trad piece. But as I’m drawing more at home, I’m less and less inclined to stay in that lane. I’m drawn to weird, creepy, spooky things. If you scrolled through the artists I follow on Instagram, it’s all dark, strange work.

My artwork isn’t quite there yet, but I’m moving toward it. In my dream world, my style would be spooky. A little bit cute, a little bit unsettling. Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten more into horror movies. Your art style grows with you.

Have I found my style? Maybe. I’m getting closer. But “What is my style?” is kind of an impossible question. With art, you can try new things forever. It’s amorphous. And I think that’s what makes it exciting.

I haven’t cracked it. I haven’t released much flash recently, even though I probably should. Instead, I’ve been drawing without a goal — weird things, rough drafts, stuff I don’t even know what to call. Just exploring. Whenever you turn something into a business, you risk losing the parts that made you fall in love with it in the first place.

But I believe that if you’re making work you’re genuinely excited about, it will attract the right people. The audience finds you. And long term, if you want to find joy in your career, you need more than just a paycheck. You need to be stoked on what you’re putting into the world.

I’ve just always been drawn to black and gray. I went to a conference where an artist lectured on color theory. Her work was stunning, but it’s not for me. The further I go, the more I appreciate what you can do without color.

My subjects are mostly animals, women, and plants. A lot of cats, obviously. I have a taxidermy squirrel someone made for me. I drew a bunch of Furbys and got to tattoo one, which was a highlight. I just like random weird things.

I think a lot about aging, too. It doesn’t matter how clean your lines are — skin is a living thing. The ink is always being broken down. I’ve been switching to smaller needles for finer detail, but you still have to consider spacing and how a piece will look decades from now. Maybe it’s the science background, but I’m a bit of a nerd about what’s actually happening under the skin. I overthink everything, which can make this type of career a little stressful. But I think caring too much is a good thing when you’re permanently marking someone’s body.

Completely different. Back then, if you wanted a tattoo, you walked into a shop and everyone behind the counter was some burly dude who looked like he was in a biker gang. That’s probably part of why I never considered tattooing as a career. I couldn’t see myself in that world.

Now there are private studios, all-women spaces, so much more diversity. A lot more women are specifically seeking out female artists. It’s not just tattooing — you’re seeing this shift across creative industries. People who were historically excluded are finally being let in. I think that’s made the work better and the spaces safer.

Essential. Working alone is isolating, and running your own business can be really lonely. Some of my closest friends are tattoo artists I met through Instagram. We’ll hang out and draw together, show each other work, give feedback. It’s not about critique — it’s about having people who understand what you’re going through.

In the fall, I went to a women’s tattoo convention and met artists from all over the country. That kind of thing matters. When you’re self-employed and having a rough week, questioning whether you should even be doing this, having people who can talk you down, or just sit with you and draw, makes all the difference.

I’m not a fan. I think most people who are good at drawing got there through practice, not natural talent. AI lets people skip those steps, and not just in art, but in writing, communication and critical thinking. Those steps matter. They’re what give work its character. AI art feels soulless to me, and it’s built on the work of real artists without their consent.

A teacher I heard about explains it perfectly. She puts a beautiful sunset on the board and tells everyone to draw it, but limits some students to only brown or gray. Her point: you can use AI to pass, but the people who’ve spent time developing their skills will always have more colors to work with. That’s how I see it.

In tattooing specifically, when clients push AI-generated references, it’s a red flag. Those images create unrealistic expectations. I’d rather someone send me their shitty little stick figure than a polished AI render. A hand-drawn idea, no matter how rough, tells me so much more about what someone actually wants.

His name is Bean. He’s my favorite in the world. I have multiple tattoos of him, but my actual favorite tattoos are my finger tattoos — they’re just cat noises. “Prow prow,” which people argue isn’t a real cat sound. I say you’ve clearly never spent time with cats. My cat very rarely makes an actual meow.

I got them when I was still working as an engineer. I’d be in meetings with a bunch of 40-year-old men, and it would take them forever to ask what my fingers said. When I’d tell them, they looked like they wished they hadn’t asked. I’ve always been a bit of a shit disturber. Those tattoos are simple and mean absolutely nothing beyond the fact that I really like cats. They’re my favorites.

Draw. A lot. And be okay with not being perfect. Skin is not a perfect surface. There will always be little imperfections, and that’s just part of the craft. Don’t lose the joy of drawing in the pursuit of perfection. Try to make everything as good as you possibly can, but know that the body is going to do what the body wants to do. That’s not a flaw — that’s art living on someone.

Bigger projects. I’ve been getting into more back pieces and large-scale work, and there’s something exciting about a bigger concept. But I don’t have lofty goals of owning a studio or managing other artists. I just want to create, make enough to live the life I want, and keep getting better.

One of my favorite things about this career is the repeat clients. When someone trusts you once, it’s incredible. When they keep coming back with new ideas, that’s something I’ve never experienced in any other job. You spend hours with someone, you hear about their life, you talk about each other’s pets. It’s so personal. That’s what makes the hard parts worth it.

I’ve made most of my life’s decisions on a whim. At this point, I’m just going to keep doing that. Get better, hang out with my cat, have fun, and see where it all goes.