Safe Space or Safe Façade?
Last week, there was quite a stir in the little Grenoble tattoo bubble.
A classic family drama, as they say.
One shop found itself at the center of a public lynching. I won't name it, because the point here isn't to pile on — it's to understand what this story says about our scene.
What Surfaces When It Blows Up
What was said?
Heavy testimonies from former collaborators and guest artists, talking about manipulation, control, psychological violence, ableism — an environment that called itself "safe" but wasn't for everyone.
A climate of fear, pressure, inconsistency between the values displayed and the actual practices.
I can't say I'm exhaustive, but the list is long.
And beyond this specific case, one question sticks in my head:
how do we, collectively, make sure this doesn't happen again?
You Don't Get to Self-Declare as Caring
How do we make sure our spaces actually stay good to be in?
Not just in the talk.
In the daily reality of the people who work there.
Because sometimes, we think we're doing well.
We tell ourselves: "here, it's a safe place, inclusive, caring."
But the truth — and I've said this a thousand times to a thousand people — is that you don't get to self-declare as caring.
Caring means questioning yourself.
It's not a finished state.
It's an endless path.
Build, Don't Re-Litigate
Rather than dwelling on the past, I'd rather talk about what we can build for the future.
And I've thought of two angles.
As they say, if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
And those who know me, who know my background as a developer, know exactly what that means: I'm going to talk about tools, automation, and processes again.
In short.
My usual playground.
Path 1: A Testimony Platform
The first idea, a bit utopian, would be a platform like "Balance ton tatoueur" — the Insta account that disappeared three years ago.
A space where people could share their experiences.
Check an artist's reputation before booking.
In theory, it'd be a transparency tool.
But in practice, it's hard.
How do you handle defamation, anonymity, verification, moderation?
And above all, the legal responsibility question.
Does the platform take it on?
The witnesses?
How do you prevent abuse?
I don't have the answers.
And honestly, I think today it would be very difficult to do without risking harm to some people unfairly.
But the idea is there.
Path 2: Anonymous Studio Feedback
The second path, more local, more concrete, is the one I'm currently setting up at the studio.
It's really simple: set up an anonymous form.
A little survey sent to clients, guest artists, people who interact with the shop.
The idea is to simply ask how they felt.
Did they feel welcome?
Did the atmosphere feel safe?
Were there things that made them uncomfortable, even subtly?
Spotting Blind Spots Before the Implosion
Basically, it's point-by-point feedback on specific elements.
It opens the door to dialogue.
We already have a lot of things digitized in terms of consent forms, so it's pretty easy to slip this anonymous survey in at the end.
For example in a follow-up email after an appointment, saying:
"If you have two minutes, give us your feedback."
It's not just a five-star public review.
It's an internal tool to help us spot issues we wouldn't have seen otherwise.
It's work.
It's not glamorous.
But it's what keeps the unspoken stuff from piling up and ending in a public explosion.
Caring as Practice, Not as Decoration
In the end, this "drama" says something important.
We still have a lot to learn about how to work together without hurting each other.
And about the fact that even places that call themselves "safe" aren't safe by nature.
They become safe, day after day, through the collective responsibility of the people who make them live.
So instead of judging, let's try to build.
To question our practices, our limits, our blind spots.
Because that's what real care is, in the end.
Not a perfect façade.
But the ability to hear when someone tells us: "this isn't okay."
And the courage to change.
