Rosie Camanga: Flash! by riccomaresca

ROSIE CAMANGA

FLASH!

Untitled ( Lion Heads Love Me All the Way), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10 × 13 in. (25.4 × 33.0 cm)

ROSE TATTOO by Don Ed Hardy

Tino (“Rosie”) Camanga (1910–?) moved to Honolulu from his native Philippines sometime prior to World War II. He worked for a time as a photographer, probably in one of the souvenir photo booths where one could have a picture taken against a painted backdrop of a prototypical Hawaiian scene: grass shack, Diamond Head, etc.—often accompanied by a “hula girl,” complete with grass skirt, provided by the photo operator. After observing fellow Filipinos tattooing in the many shops in the downtown/ Chinatown area, Rosie was granted a part-time job in 1944. He told the shop owner that the job was easy, since the work was all done with stencils; he’d “sketched” his whole life and knew he could do it. The owner scoffed at this and said he’d pay him $50 if he could put on a credible tattoo. Rosie demonstrated his ability by putting a piece on his own leg and was given the job. In wartime Honolulu, hundreds of thousands of military personnel swarmed through the downtown zone, boosting business to incredible levels in the penny arcades, bars, dance halls, government-sanctioned whorehouses, and tattoo shops that blanketed the area. After a couple of years, Rosie had drawn about 400 sheets of flash and left to open his own shop. He tattooed continuously in a variety of locations around the Hotel Street (downtown) area until 1991. After a short hiatus, he reopened his final shop in a former shoeshine stand on the edge of Chinatown. As business was virtually nonexistent for him at this point, he retired for good but kept on drawing. Sailor Jerry Collins introduced me to Rosie in 1968. At that time, they had the only two tattoo shops on the island of Oahu, situated about a block apart. Jerry realized Rosie’s tattoo ability was primitive, to put it mildly, but respected him for his sobriety and industriousness. Rosie’s tiny shop was overlaid with his distinctive hand-drawn flash, layer upon layer, in a style unlike anything I’d ever seen. My early amazement and condescension at his raw version of classic tattoo design gradually gave way to unqualified admiration. When he began selling off his shop contents in the early 1990s I bought much of his flash and brokered it for him at art galleries on the mainland.

Untitled (Hawaiian Paradise), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10½ × 13¾ in. (26.6 × 34.9 cm)

Rosie was a complete original. Humorous and tough-minded, he survived for decades in control of his own game in a volatile honky-tonk environment. A sense of sly humor helped keep him afloat—once he told a health inspector that the powdered charcoal used to apply stencils to the skin came from the barbecue. Rosie’s flash, from early examples (none of his work is signed or dated, but clues exist from dates or events depicted in the designs), segued from standardized versions of classic tattoo designs to eccentric and mysterious scenarios that were his alone. The format of a sheet of flash, crowded with multiple images, or the notion that something might be appealing to someone to wear indelibly for life, were mere jumping-off points for the world he created. He often collaged sheets with images he liked, which he’d clipped from a magazine or assembled from previous designs, which regularly depicted things and sentiments never seen in any other tattoo context. He continued to draw after he stopped tattooing, using the flash format for ever-more unexpected forms. The phrases accompanying the pictures are rendered in the artist’s adopted and imperfect English, often resulting in a hilarious and mysterious poetry of meaning. The overall effect is a wacky mixture of cartoon humor, lofty emotions, menace, and smoldering sexuality. Rosie’s art anticipates today’s stretching of the boundaries in the canon of tattoo themes. But much “art flash” or actual tattoos by younger artists are often loaded with self-conscious irony and rampant careerism, retro-fishing from a world they never experienced. Rosie was the real thing: immensely prolific, completely sincere, and driven by a passion for drawing that ultimately sought to satisfy only himself. Yet, making his works available to a global audience, far beyond his tiny Chinatown shop, will realize a phrase found in one of his sheets of flash: “I fly from Honolulu to eternity.”

Untitled (# 25 Playboy Bunny), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 13¾ in. (27.9 × 34.9 cm)

Speculative Interview with the Late Tino “Rosie” Camanga by Adam Hanft

I’m sitting here at Starbucks on Auhai Street in Honolulu, waiting for what might be the first interview ever with Rosie Camanga—certainly the first one since his death—and I can’t help but compare the impeccably manicured environment I find myself in to what was the pleasure-intense, magnificently licentious, culturally raucous, and violence-ready street life of this neighborhood when Rosie arrived. By best accounts, Rosie showed up in Honolulu from the Philippines “sometime prior to World War II.” My source is none other than Don Ed Hardy, who wrote a richly personal essay for the first Rosie show at Ricco/Maresca three years ago. In that piece he described Rosie as a “tough-minded” figure who “survived for decades in control of his own game in a volatile honky-tonk environment.” That portrait rendered Rosie instantly recognizable when he walked in. His wellinsulated, witnessed-it-all quality—stratigraphically constructed—was charmingly unsuited for today’s Honolulu. I shook his hand, we sat down, and he declined a beverage. I think that if I offered him an oat-milk cappuccino he would have instantly bolted (or perhaps turned it into a flashart design).

ADAM HANFT: I have a sense you don’t like small talk, so should we get right to our interview? ROSIE CAMANGA: Where’d you get that idea? I must have tattooed thousands of people in my life, and most of them required conversation. They were nervous, insecure kids. I was a kind of shrink with a needle. AH: Interesting that you say “nervous and insecure.” In 1944, Honolulu was teeming with GIs on leave, many of whom were emotionally prepping for a possible invasion of Japan.

Untitled (No. 18), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 13¾ in. (27.9 × 34.9 cm)

RC: It would have been a death sentence for thousands. AH: From today’s perspective, it’s easy to forget the emotional state of those sitting in your chair, and just focus on the art. I was doing some research for our interview and came across a review of Homeward Bound: The Life and Times of Hori Smoku Sailor Jerry. It described the sailors as “miles from home and ready for war” and said that they “found solace in the bars and tattoo shops.” Sound familiar? RC: They had to act tough and find a way to feel tough. Tattoos helped. It was a form of recreation, rebellion, and resistance. But they were scared shitless. It was what you would now call an existential moment. Having a drink and choosing their personal tattoo was just about all the freedom they had. AH: A urban slang emerged that called the process “screwed, stewed, and tattooed.” RC: Never heard it. [I guess that’s what Don Ed Hardy meant by Rosie’s “sly” sense of humor.] AH: When I look at your drawings, I can see some of the valences you described and how you addressed them. Some of your images are steeped in home and nostalgia, like a chipper Mickey Mouse, or “Mom + Dad” ribboned against a pair of hearts and a rose. Or what I found to be a strikingly odd image of two small bears holding a vase, with a caption that declares “I love my garden flowers.” These all look backward to a safer, if not saccharine, time. Then there are images that speak to a violent future—animals fighting, viciously threatening serpents. Some are erotic, but in a wearable kind of way. Did different kinds of men choose different designs? RC: You sure trotted out some fancy words there. AH: To restate: how did the guys decide? RC: It was all about how they felt in the moment. If they just wrote a letter home—or one just came in—they were more likely to go for the mushy “I love my family” stuff. If they were focused on getting shipped out or were hanging out with their friends, talking about finishing the war and feeling tough, they would choose something to pump them up. Or they would choose a Japanese girl, a geisha type. It was their way of saying that they’re on the way to Tokyo!

AH: I hadn’t thought of that before . . . Your work interrogates the full range of human emotions. There’s the testosterone surge of a warrior slaying a dragon and the witty fatalism of a snake wrapped around a grinning skull. Simultaneously, your imagery offers peacocks and roses and religious scenes with images of the Virgin Mary protecting sailors. And then there are designs that capture the local, transitory moments in Hawaii. I was struck by an entire sheet dedicated to a bemused man-in-the-moon face. Below it, the inscription reads, “Hawaiian Paradise,” and a caption proclaims, “I am in the moon.” And lots and lots of mermaids. Do you remember that one? RC: Oh yeah. I came back to the shop one night and a full moon was hanging in the sky. It was beautiful. But at the same time, Hawaii wasn’t exactly a paradise then. Compared to where the boys were headed, though, it might have become one in retrospect. AH: So the image is ironic? RC: You could say that. AH: You only get a tattoo once, but its meaning changes as you get older. That’s true of looking at any kind of art, the in-the-moment interpretation depends on where you are in the river of life. So tell me, how did you decide what to draw and how to arrange it on an individual sheet of paper? RC: I gave it a lot of thought, and I gave it almost no thought, if you know what I mean. Like the “Man in the Moon” that just arrived in my head. There were dozens and dozens of tattoo parlors back then, so I had to stand out. I drew things that I knew would sell, because they were popular in the places I worked before I went off on my own. I saw what was selling and then I created illustrations to help me stand out. AH: That certainly shows in your work. It’s a mix of the familiar and the unfamiliar. What do you think of the idea that you were doing two-sided marketing? The illustrations sold your skills. On one image you wrote “All of this designed good for the back.” RC: How helpful of me. AH: And at the same time, once you tattoo someone, it becomes a permanent part of who they are and will be. Their personal brand, as we would describe it now.

Untitled (“I love my garden flowers”), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10½ × 13¾ in. (26.6 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (Great Bull From Teaxas), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10 × 13½ in. (25.4 × 34.3 cm)

RC: True enough. Anyone who gets tattooed is going to carry that thing with them for the rest of their life. So I expressed myself and gave them ways to express themselves. If they wanted something obvious, I offered it. If they wanted something more intriguing and mysterious, it was right there on the wall, too. AH: In Don Ed Hardy’s introduction to Ricco/Maresca’s first exhibition of your work, he compared you to Sailor Jerry, who of course is a tattoo legend. Hardy wrote that Jerry “realized Rosie’s tattoo ability was primitive, to put it mildly, but I respected him for his sobriety and industriousness.” I wouldn’t describe your work as primitive. Can’t comment on your sobriety . . . RC: Did he say that? I am going to have to talk to him about that. AH: When I compare your work to Sailor Jerry’s, I find his tattoos to be more precise, crisper, and more defined, but also less emotionally complex and nuanced. Your work is softer and invites the imagination in. There’s a wonderful weirdness. But even your images that are more typical of tattoo art have a distinctive Rosie touch. RC: I appreciate that, but that was not intentional. I just created tattoos that I liked and I hoped others would like. AH: Do you remember a pin-up image of a vaguely Asian woman (hard to tell if you meant her to be Japanese or Hawaiian given how the cultures collided) who has a delicate set of wings and, of all things. an ice-cream cone on her head? RC: I probably created thousands of images. That may have been an inside joke. On myself. I was responding to what I heard and what I saw—on the streets, in magazines, in my nightmares. I worried about what was going to happen to all those brave young guys who opened themselves to me. AH: You must have had many customers from Texas in your shop. I’ve seen, for example, a rope pattern incorporating a prayerful bull (he has a cross on his forehead), spectacular testicles, and an ironic “Great Bull from Teaxas” as the caption. RC: Are you making fun of my spelling? After more than fifty years, how about the decency of spellcheck? But yes, lots of Texas boys wanted an image of home, or at least how Rosie saw home.

Untitled (Devil and Consort), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 13½ × 10½ in. (34.3 × 26.6 cm)

AH: I can’t let you go before I ask about one image. Ricco/Maresca calls it “Devil and Consort.” It’s a frontal image of a devil, horns and all, wearing one earring (very au courant). A naked woman, seen from the rear, is perched on the devil’s outstretched tongue. Two fang-like teeth straddle his tongue and push up against her thighs. She is wearing red stiletto heels. He is wearing a matching red bow tie, and lightning bolts frame the image. RC: As I recall I only sold one of those. I fantasize that it ended up as an indelible imprint on some guy who went home and hid it for the rest of his life. He may have joined the clergy as recompense. AH: The image is formalistically brilliant. What were you thinking? RC: The devil lies inside all of us, so why not have him outside us? I had never seen a tattoo like that, for obvious reasons. It takes courage to display the truth. More courage to display it than to draw it. AH: Last question. How do you think the guys felt when they left? RC: One guy looked at his arm and said to me, “Thanks, Rosie. No one can hurt me now.” And with that, Rosie stood up and left.

Adam Hanft is a widely published cultural critic; coauthor of Dictionary of the Future; a passionate follower of Outsider art; and friend of the pioneer class at Ricco/Maresca.

Untitled (three mermaids), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 13 in. (27.9 × 33 cm)

Untitled (Hot Stuff Pinup), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10¾ × 14 in. (27.3 × 35.6 cm)

Untitled (Tiger I Am Going to Get You), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 14 in. (27.9 × 35.6 cm)

Untitled (Sailor Riding Mermaid),ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 8½ × 14 in (21.6 × 35.6 cm)

Untitled (Peacocks), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 13¾ in. (27.9 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (Crane), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 13¾ in. (27.9 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (Love You All the Way), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 13¾ in. (27.9 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (You Ripe I Eat You), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 9 × 12 in. (22.9 × 30.5 cm)

Untitled (Dragon Queen of the Cendi), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10¾ × 14 in. (27.3 × 35.6 cm)

Untitled (Angels), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 14 in. (27.9 × 35.6 cm)

Untitled (Tarzan), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 13½ in. (27.9 × 34.3 cm)

Untitled (Pinups), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 14 in. (27.9 × 35.6 cm)

Untitled (No. 14), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10¾ × 13½ in. (27.3 × 34.3 cm)

Untitled (Mermaids), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 13¾ in. (27.9 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (7—11 Good Luck), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11 × 13¾ in. (27.9 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (True Love, I Kill You), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 9 × 11¾ in. (22.9 × 29.8 cm)

Untitled (Three Ladies), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10¾ × 14 in. (27.3 × 35.6 cm)

Untitled (Wrist Bands), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10 × 13¾ in. (25.4 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (Mom and Dad), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 11½ × 13¾ in. (29.2 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (I Love All My Family), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10¾ × 13¾ in. (27.3 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (6 Female Figures), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10½ × 13¾ in. (26.6 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (Hawaii Paradise), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10½ × 13¾ in. (26.6 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (“God give us more than we deserve”), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10½ × 13¾ in. (26.6 × 34.9 cm)

Untitled (Aloha Hawaii), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10 × 11¾ in. (25.4 × 29.8 cm)

Untitled (American Flag Spider National), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 10¾ × 13½ in. (27.3 × 34.3 cm)

Untitled (“good for the back”), ca. 1950s–1970s Ink on paper, 9 × 11½ in. (22.9 × 29.2 cm)

Published in conjunction with the exhibition Rosie Camanga: Flash! Ricco/Maresca Gallery June 2020

Published by Ricco/Maresca Gallery 529 West 20th Street | 3rd Floor New York, NY 10011 riccomaresca.com

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Editor, designer, and project manager: Laura Lindgren

Set in Mixta Sharp and Klein Text

Front cover: Rosie Camanga. Untitled (“Good for the Back”), ca. 1950s–1970s

Rosie Camanga: Flash!

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Rosie Camanga: Flash!