She got her first tattoo at 65. Now, she has 17 and feels ‘seen’

Sandy Althaus walked into the Silver Lake gift shop, dressed in an almost formal, simple black dress, her curly black hair graying at the temples. She behaved like an older and experienced, albeit somewhat serious woman, but with a twist. Both of her arms were covered in fresh tattoos, and her left arm was still wrapped in shiny cellophane.

“Sorry, but I have to ask: are these your first tattoos?” I said colorful images extending from the top of her shoulders to her wrists.

“Yes,” she said proudly. “I've had them all since May.”

It was September.

“I’d like to know more,” I said, wondering what caused so many tattoos in such a short period of time, all of which were inflicted later in life.

It turns out Althaus, who lives in the Bay Area, has been on what she calls a “tattoo journey,” which she describes as an intentional act of self-care. She told me that her husband of 35 years, Josh Wallace, had recently been diagnosed with a serious illness, and Althaus, in addition to being heartbroken, had become his caretaker and also worked full-time as a radio announcer in KKED in San Francisco.

Getting a tattoo is a way for Althaus to refocus on herself, she explained to me, to stay strong and resilient—for herself and her family. She says sitting in a tattoo studio chair and feeling the constant prick of a needle for seven hours is a repetitive, almost meditative act that helps ground her in the present moment. According to Althaus, it helps release emotional pain by giving it physical form—a kind of release.

“We are dealing with a difficult diagnosis,” Althaus said of her husband. “It's a new part of life. Something new has changed him – and me – and I just feel like why not do something that takes me to a new place, a new adventure.”

She said searching online for images of tattoos she wants to place on her body (mostly famous 20th-century paintings and historically significant neon signs) and deciding where they will go is a creative distraction during such trying times.

And interacting with different tattoo artists as they worked on her body fostered intimate, personal relationships.

“There’s a sensual nature to it—human beings touching you,” Althaus said. “I don't wear headphones; I like to talk. You meet someone new and they put something permanent on you that will change you forever. It's a very deep connection.”

The journey so far – 17 tattoos to date – has given me support and even inspiration.

Althaus spoke about all this in detail on a cool October day recently, sitting in a chair in Ganga Tattoo Studio in West Hollywood. She often tattoos in the Bay Area, but also finds L.A. artists she admires on Instagram and hosts “tattoo tours” here.

Today she is getting a tattoo of Edward Hopper 1957 painting, “Western Motel” who is an artist Mae Soriafinishes work when I arrive. All of Althaus' tattoos are done in a detailed, realistic “micro-realism” style, and Hopper's image is eerily similar to the original artwork. In the oil painting, a young woman in a red dress sits on the edge of a motel bed, tensely clutching the footrest. Huge windows overlook a classic car and the expansive open western mountain landscape.

“I just feel like there’s a little bit of mystery and power in this woman,” Althaus says as Soria adjusts the woman’s leg. “She gives you a lot of space to decide what she’s thinking and going to say.”

The same applies to Althaus, who has the deep, sultry voice of a radio host who often pauses to think deeply before answering questions.

“I want to be stronger, I want to be braver, I want to have wisdom—and I feel like those things are kind of represented in this,” she said of her tattoos.

Althaus never thought about getting a tattoo until shortly before a trip to Italy in May of this year with her husband and two sons, Ethan Wallace, 29, and Xander Wallace, 27. Ethan has a lot of tattoos and has been “stalking” her for years to get one, but she hasn't had the desire. Then, a few weeks before the trip, while we were busy with responsibilities and planning the trip, somehow the idea suddenly made sense. She found a picture of an “old-fashioned” radio microphone and an “on air” sign and took it to a tattoo studio in Rome whose work she had admired online. Artist Georgia Mastrosanti tattooed it on the inside of her right forearm, in an inconspicuous but still noticeable place.

“Last year I got into Bay Area Radio Hall of Famewhich is quite an honor,” Althaus said. “I wanted to document how I spent a significant part of my life—and that was on the radio.”

Her second tattoo, which she received from Mastrosanti the next day, was of Carlos Club the neon sign in San Carlos on her right shoulder. A few days later, she received a radio image from a 1940s Bakelite on the inside of her left forearm.

In addition to his radio work, Althaus is a fiber embroiderer. “I’m really very connected to the arts,” she said. “And this [tattoo journey] it’s a real ongoing art project.”

At the end of September, Althaus got tattoos of two other famous paintings on the same “gallery wall” as her left arm: Amedeo Modigliani 1917 “Young Woman (Tot of Fun)” And Gino Severini “Sea = Dancer.” She got tattoos from Levi Elorreagaan artist from Los Angeles who interned at Black serumstudio in San Francisco at the time.

“Never has a painting captured me as much as a painting [the Severini]. Just the vibration, he had so much movement – he was almost singing,” she said.

Althaus' right arm is now adorned with historic neon signs. Cocktail bar “Li Po” in Chinatown San Francisco and view of Alcatraz sign among them. She is drawn to the vibrancy and vibrant colors of neon signs, adding that they are “incredible and underrated pieces of art.”

The process of creating “art walls” on her hands is also healing—it brings joy and distraction. Althaus approaches this process as if she were a curator designing a museum exhibition. She attaches the designs—in this case, paper cutouts of paintings—to her hand, adjusting the layout. She then gives her tattoo artist a digital image of the work.

During my visit, Soria was working on a blow-up of Hopper's painting on her iPad. As part of the tattoo, Soria designed a mid-century modern wooden frame for the painting. The morning before they started work, she placed tattoo stencils on Althaus' arm, adjusting the size of the tattoo and its placement.

“It doesn’t really hurt that much,” Althaus said as Soria poked her arm with a needle that had just been dipped into a pot of crimson ink. “Just a little ghostly pain. You feel alive.”

Some people may look at her strangely as she sits in the tattooed chair: “What is that old man doing?” she said. But turning the stereotypes of aging on their head is part of the fun of this journey.

“People who receive [tattoos] I understand,” Althaus said. “And I think maybe some people, especially young people, think 'she's kind of a badass.' I like that. I'm fine with that.”

A middle-aged woman making her way through the world now feels different with tattoos.

“You reach middle age and you are looked at more—you are overlooked,” Althaus said. “And I feel noticed. I just love being seen again.”

Soria said she has several clients over 60 years old. It makes sense for her to get tattoos later in life.

“You have more life experience, so you have more stories to tell.” [through tattoos]”, she says. “You know what you want.”

As if on cue, an older man in a baseball cap and raincoat walks by, leaning over to take a closer look at Althaus's unfinished tattoo.

“Amazing. Just amazing,” said Ames Beals, 70. He came here to clean up one of his own tattoos – an image of a harmonica with wings. “Can I take a picture to show my wife? I want her to take it.”

“See? It's never too late to get a tattoo,” Althaus said.

Althaus is now running out of available “canvas” on her body, as she primarily wants tattoos on her arms and legs. She has room for two or three more. Further? a painting by Marcel Duchamp and perhaps a work by Mark Rothko or Ruth Asawa.

As Althaus approaches his fifth hour in Soria's chair, the tattoo is almost complete. It will end up costing $1,500, but it's worth it, Althaus said. (“That’s another thing when you get it later in life: you have more money,” she added.)

She looks at herself in the mirror, a mixture of pride and melancholy is visible on her face.

“I just need to keep supporting myself,” she said. “I need to get stronger. Because it will only get harder. And this…”

She runs her hand down one arm.

“…that reminds me to do it.”