Geoff Ostling: tattoos, the National Gallery and an unusual pledge

Geoff Ostling’s tattoos stayed under wraps when he was a high-school teacher. Now, in retirement, he’s going wild.

TWAM-20150613 EMBARGO FOR TWAM 13 June 2015 NO REUSE WITHOUT PERMISSION SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA - MAY 11: Retired teacher Geoff Ostling displays his tattooed skin at a portrait session at his home in Petersham on May 11, 2009 in Sydney, Australia. The 65-year old has pledged to donate his skin to the National Gallery in Canberra after his death. Ostling, who did not get his first tattoo until he was in his forties, is now covered in the artwork by artist eX de Merci from neck to ankle with the theme 'all the flowers of a Sydney garden'. (Photo by Lisa Maree Williams/Getty Images) *** Local Caption *** Geoff

It took Geoff Ostling years to pluck up the courage for a tattoo.

When he was growing up in Sydney they were for sailors and ruffians – and he was the nice, middle-class son of an Anglican vicar. His first bit of ink, at the age of 42, was a single flower on his chest. Now, 26 years later, he’s a riotous garden in perpetual bloom. His “full body suit” is in the Japanese tradition, but the content is all Australian flora. It’s a remarkable work of art. And you might see it up close one day: when Ostling dies his skin will be removed and sent to the National Gallery.

Sorry, what? “Yes, it sometimes gets a squeamish reaction,” the retired history teacher says. “I’d like them to display it on a mannequin – but they might just store it away.” Ostling has had his hands done since this photo was taken, which means his head is the only bit of blank canvas left. As for getting that tattooed, “I haven’t ruled it out”, he says, though he admits his partner of 21 years, Joe, would not be too happy about it (for the record, Joe is totally OK with him being skinned).

The tatts aren’t a vanity thing – Ostling cheerfully describes himself as a “big, ugly bear” – but about “taking possession” of his body, imbuing it with meaning. The flowers represent beauty, transience, sex, mortality. Especially mortality. “I grew up among people striving for eternal life,” he muses, “but who’d want to live for ever?” The tattoos stayed hidden until he retired on his 60th birthday. “I was discreet about it at school, just as I was about being gay.”

As for the pledge to donate his skin, he has found a willing taxidermist (“she specialises in marsupials,” he says) and run it past the coroner. It makes sense, the way he puts it: “After spending so much time and effort to create something beautiful, it seems a pity to burn it with the rest of you, doesn’t it?”