The Rose Tattoo was an old bar my good friend and artistic mentor Thomas Mann used to frequent in the late 70s into the early 80s. In April of 1993, Tom walked out of Neville Brother’s show at Tipatina’s at 4 in the morning and saw a “For Sale” sign on The Tattoo across the street. A month later, he bought it for $25,000. Years later, in the early 2000s he moved into the then-decrepit shell of a building and started to transform it into one of the most uniquely beautiful spaces I’ve personally ever been in.
It’s chaotic and considered, which is what I think makes it such a true reflection of Tom.
The Rose Tattoo is an important “character” in my new book Close to the Bayou. It’s a space I thought about a lot as I created that body of work as I supported Tom through his cancer treatment in a different, temporary home he made for himself in Houston where he was receiving treatment. I started writing the following piece while I was staying at the Tattoo a few weeks ago. I was in New Orleans photographing a mind-blowing career retrospective Tom has installed in the space, which to be clear, is his home, studio, and gallery.
I hope you enjoy it. I had a little too much fun writing it.
The Rose Tattoo
To the left of Tom’s toilet, there is, like in most bathrooms, a roll of toilet paper on a circular rod. But unlike in other bathrooms I’ve entered, next to that first roll of toilet paper there is a perplexing arrangement of six additional rolls mounted in varying positions. Four rolls are affixed about a foot above the toilet bowl in a parallel line. Above the fourth roll are another three stacked above it at a 90-degree angle to create an “L” of rolled white, textured paper.
All the rolls are in different stages of use. Some rolls are nearing their end while others have yet to be started.
Over the years I’ve observed these rolls in various stages of their lifespans.
I pull from one of the rolls closest to my left hand and wonder,
Why did I pick this roll and not that roll?
Was it a purely ergonomic decision?
Did something aesthetic attract me to this specific roll?
As I make this observation I realize that the rolls are all different. Some are made from thicker paper, some thinner, and the textures are varied. This means that the rolls are not all from the same stock. They were bought at different times and replaced at different times. I’m already in way too deep.
The first time I stayed in Tom’s home, The Rose Tattoo, was in 2009. And while the bar-turned-home-turned-studio-turned-gallery has always been in a constant state of transformation during that time, the bathroom has largely stayed the same.
These seven rolls have always been there.
Well, I should say that the toilet paper holders have been there that whole time.
But that makes me think, how long has the oldest roll been here?
I have, on occasion, for the novelty of it craned behind my back after relieving myself to pull from the top roll which is in no way conveniently located for this purpose. After brushing my teeth, I’m sure I’ve pulled from a roll less conveniently located near the toilet to wipe the sink. But there are certainly some rolls that I have never touched.
Does anyone ever touch them?
How old is the oldest roll?
I start thinking about the ridiculousness of it all. Thinking about myself thinking about toilet paper holders, the age of toilet paper, and if I’ve used toilet paper from each holder.
Why the fuck would Tom put seven toilet paper holders in his bathroom?
Why the fuck am I taking a shit thinking about this?
Is this art?
It’s 8:07 AM.
—
After writing this I had to ask.
“Tom, why the hell do you have seven toilet paper holders?
“To create a fun little atmosphere. To make people go ‘Oh! This is unusual.’”
Well, it definitely worked dude.
For me, that’s what’s so special about The Rose Tattoo. While the toilet paper holders are a totally ridiculous detail, they are also the perfect detail to illustrate the point I want to make.
Every single corner of Tom’s home has been considered. If you think you’ve considered every corner of your home, stepping into Tom’s home will make you realize just how unconsidered your space is.
Outside his bedroom window, I noticed that he started growing tomatoes in the divet between the two slopes that make up his roof. In an alcove inset almost 20 feet up there’s a Buddha overlooking his office. Nestled in a corner of his jeweler's bench, there’s a row of miniature drawers labeled “INSPIRATION” and “WONDER”.
As I’ve recently started decorating my own home, I consider how much time each of these projects would have taken. Tom is creative and handy, but he’s not a wizard. To get pots and dirt and seeds takes time. To find a Buddha, fabricate a metal frame, climb a 15-foot ladder, and mount it all 20 feet in the air takes time. To collect, arrange, and mount seven toilet paper holders takes time.
My point is that as absurd as the seven toilet paper holders feel, I love that I find myself thinking about the absurdity of it all while I’m going to the bathroom.
In Close to the Bayou I describe the Tattoo as “the largest vessel for and expression of Tom’s creativity.” To me, this building is a living, breathing piece of artwork. For me, entering this space is stimulating and exhausting in the same way that walking through an incredible exhibition is. And while I can’t imagine living there, I always leave feeling totally inspired and energized to create.
In a perfect world, I think some major art collector or museum would buy Tom’s home and preserve it in whatever state he leaves it when he eventually leaves it by choice or as he leaves this world. It’s upsetting that I know that won’t happen. That someone will buy this amazing building and Tom will either have to scurry to figure out what the hell he’s going to do with all this stuff as they make plans to gut it all and turn it into a sterile palace of their own imagination, or worse, some sort of mixed-use nightmare.
I can’t imagine what that process is going to be like. I also don’t have to because I have a feeling that I’ll, begrudgingly but also somehow willingly and enthusiastically get dragged into it.
Until then, it genuinely makes me happy to imagine Tom meandering this space that I’ve seen change so much over the years.
If you’re in New Orleans and have a chance to stop by the Tattoo I’d encourage you to do so. Tom will probably take you on a tour of his 50-year art career that he’s painstakingly curated in his museum-like home. Tell him Dimitri told you to come by.
When you head to the bathroom, where you’ll find numerous pieces of artwork as well, make sure to take a peek at the toilet and maybe even use it so you can ponder which roll you’ll pull from.