Jimi Famurewa reviews Jackson Boxer at The Corner: like an old tattoo, the idea is better than its execution
That I got my very first tattoo at a pop-up parlour in Selfridges is both completely ridiculous and usefully revealing. Partly this applies to the sort of 18-year-old I was. Which is to say, one who wanted to embrace youthful recklessness (via an only moderately embarrassing, Beckhamesque crucifix between the shoulder blades) but one who also hoped a sheen of boujee respectability might lessen the inevitable hail of parental shouting.
Still, I suppose
