The Judge's Eye: Kate Perets on Tattooing, Competition, and Constant Growth
Story by Kate Perets
The tattoo machine kept shocking my hand. Every few seconds, a sharp jolt ran through my fingers, and I assumed that was simply part of becoming a tattoo artist. I had spent an entire month’s salary on eight lessons, knew almost nothing about the profession I had just chosen, and had no idea my equipment was defective. Looking back, it is almost funny. At the time, it was not. Only months earlier, I had walked away from the career I had spent years preparing for, convinced that starting over was less frightening than wondering “What if?” for the rest of my life. I grew up in a small town in southern Russia, a place where an international career seemed to belong to another world. We did not have a shopping mall. We did not even have an escalator. My biggest childhood dream was to become an art teacher. I spent nine years in art school, studied design, graduated from a pedagogical university with honors, and eventually achieved exactly what I had wanted since childhood. Then, after only a few months in the classroom, I realized I had climbed the wrong mountain.
Tattooing was never a lifelong dream. It was simply the only career that allowed art to remain at the center of my life. My family hated the idea. To them, tattoos belonged to criminals, not artists. I ignored the criticism, enrolled in training, and nearly quit within two months. The gap between what I imagined and what I could create felt unbearable. Every tattoo exposed how much I still had to learn. But instead of walking away, I kept showing up. Nearly every ruble I earned went back into improving my craft. Progress rarely announces itself while it is happening. You recognize it only after looking back.
Years later, after opening my own studio, I faced a different problem. I had become a competent tattoo artist, but not a recognizable one. My portfolio showed technical skill, yet it lacked a clear artistic identity. I could create good tattoos, but they did not immediately look like mine, and that bothered me more than any technical mistake. During a trip to India, I gave myself a simple assignment: stop searching for trends and start paying attention to what genuinely inspired me. I filled a folder with graffiti, stickers, neon signs, comic books, graphic design, street art, and anything else that caught my attention. When I looked through it later, I realized I had not been collecting references. I had been collecting pieces of my own personality. That exercise became the foundation of the style I am known for today. Clients began traveling specifically for my work. One convention led to another, then to guest spots abroad, collaborations, magazine features, and more than fifty awards earned at tattoo conventions around the world. Those years of competing became the foundation for everything that followed, including the opportunity to apply for an O-1 visa to the United States.
The O-1 is a visa for people with extraordinary ability, and obtaining it was one of the most difficult stages of my career. While living in Uruguay, I prepared a case built from international awards, publications, convention experience, recommendation letters, and other evidence of professional recognition. Every publication and award had to be documented and explained. My visa interview took place in Brazil, and I was extremely nervous. It felt as though a few minutes of conversation could redirect my entire life. When the visa was approved, it felt less like reaching a finish line and more like opening a door I had never expected to exist. I came to the United States on that visa three and a half years ago, and I have lived here ever since.
America had never been my childhood dream. It seemed so difficult to reach that I never seriously imagined living here. Many people I knew had struggled even to obtain tourist visas, so moving to the United States felt almost impossible. Once I arrived, I understood why so many people dreamed about it. What impressed me most was the professional culture. Artists openly exchange ideas, celebrate one another’s growth, and are willing to give honest feedback. Success is not handed to you, and the competition is intense, but real effort can receive a real response. If you consistently work, improve your craft, contribute something meaningful, and keep showing up, people notice. You meet people you once knew only through magazines or social media, and new opportunities grow from work already done rather than luck. That connection between effort and result can be difficult to find elsewhere. The United States did not simply hand me a career. It gave my work a chance to be seen, evaluated, and taken seriously. That is one of the main reasons I decided to stay.
Long before I was invited to judge conventions in the United States, I had already spent years on the convention circuit. I began competing at tattoo festivals in Russia, starting in Saint Petersburg and later participating in conventions across several other Russian cities. As my career expanded, I took part in conventions in Poland and India, encountering different artists, cultures, and approaches to tattooing. Over the past three and a half years in the United States, I have attended more than thirty tattoo conventions across the country, serving as a judge at most of them. Some of the most memorable include Sinners Tattoo Expo in Dallas, Empire State Tattoo Expo in New York, Golden State Tattoo Expo in Pasadena, Longhorn Tattoo Expo in Texas, and events produced by Villain Arts. Each event broadened my understanding of the industry and introduced ideas that still shape my work.
Before moving to the United States, I had judged conventions in other countries. In America, I first became visible as a competitor. I entered competitions, won awards, and gradually built relationships within the convention community. As I continued placing at larger festivals, organizers began inviting me back, first because they had seen my work as a participant and later because they trusted my professional judgment. One invitation led to another. In this industry, trust is not created by a title. It is earned through strong work and a reputation among peers. That is why I never saw judging as simply another achievement. I saw it as a responsibility.
Before my first convention, I imagined these events were mainly competitions. They are, but that is only part of the story. For several days, hundreds of artists from different countries work side by side under one roof, creating original tattoos in real time. Artists who have followed one another online finally meet in person, where conversations become collaborations and ideas move freely. By the end of the weekend, the convention floor is filled with work that did not exist only days earlier. It is one of the rare places where you can watch a creative industry evolve in real time. At the end of each day, the strongest tattoos reach the competition stage. Years ago, I stood there hoping to hear my own name. Winning an award felt like the ultimate goal. I could not have imagined that one day I would be standing on the opposite side of the stage.
The biggest milestone of my career was not another trophy. It was walking behind the judges’ table. My first reaction to an invitation to judge an international convention was not excitement. It was pressure. As a competitor, you are responsible for one tattoo. As a judge, you are responsible for every tattoo placed in front of you. Behind each one are hours of preparation, travel, expense, and hope. For many artists, that convention is one of the most important weekends of their career. The goal is not simply to choose the tattoo you like best. It is to make sure every artist believes the work was evaluated fairly. Most people see only trophies and applause, not the hours spent comparing finalists and debating details.
Judging is far more demanding than it appears. An artist may spend months on one tattoo; a judge may evaluate hundreds in a weekend. Every piece deserves the same attention, whether made by a first-time participant or an artist published for decades. The real challenge is maintaining the same standards from Friday morning through late Sunday. Sometimes the decision is immediate. The categories you remember are the ones in which several extraordinary tattoos deserve to win, yet only one can. I have seen judging continue after closing, while vendors packed and organizers checked the clock. The judges were still standing around a handful of tattoos, examining them from every angle. From the outside, it might seem excessive. From the inside, it feels necessary. When two exceptional pieces are separated by the smallest details, rushing the decision would be the unfair choice.
One of the biggest misconceptions about tattoo competitions is that judges simply choose the tattoo they personally prefer. Personal taste never disappears, but good judging requires looking beyond it. A style I would never choose to wear can still demonstrate extraordinary craftsmanship, just as my favorite style is not automatically the strongest tattoo in the room. Over time, I developed a system to keep my decisions consistent. I begin with overall impact: does the tattoo immediately command attention? Then I examine composition, anatomy, originality, color relationships, technical execution, line quality, transitions, and the finish. Even the edges matter. A tattoo should not feel as though it ran out of space. It should feel intentionally complete while still allowing room to grow if it later becomes part of a larger project.
The longer I judged, the more I realized that I was not only becoming a better judge. I was becoming a better artist. Before sitting behind the judges’ table, I naturally focused on whether I liked the tattoo I had created. Now I evaluate my own work by the same standards I apply to everyone else. Is the composition as strong as it could be? Does the anatomy work? Are the colors supporting the design instead of competing with it? Is every element necessary, or is something included only because it looks decorative? These uncomfortable questions drive growth. Evaluating exceptional work also keeps the ego under control. Every convention reminds me that somewhere on the floor is another artist solving a problem in a way I would never have considered. No matter how long you have been tattooing, there is always another technique to learn and another perspective to understand.
Perhaps that is why I still look forward to every convention. Yes, there are competitions, awards, and long days that stretch past midnight. But what keeps bringing me back is not the stage. It is the people. For a few days, artists from different countries, cultures, and artistic backgrounds come together through the same craft. Ideas move freely, friendships begin, and collaborations take shape. People often ask about the best tattoo I have seen, but that is rarely what I remember most. What stays with me are the conversations after the trophies have been handed out, when artists gather around a booth and discuss why a piece worked, how someone solved a technical challenge, or how a new idea came to life. Awards recognize excellence. Conversations move the industry forward.
Judging has changed the way I define success. As a child, success meant becoming an art teacher. Later, it meant becoming a tattoo artist, finding my own artistic voice, receiving an international invitation, or winning a serious award. Each time, I believed the next milestone would be the final destination, but every goal simply opened another one. Today, I no longer measure success by trophies, publications, or countries worked in. The profession's real value is that I am still learning. I can still make mistakes and meet people who make me see familiar things differently. Most of the important events in my life were never part of a grand plan. I never dreamed about judging international tattoo conventions because I did not know that role existed. I never dreamed about moving to America because it seemed beyond the world I understood. I simply kept trying to become better, and each step opened the next door.
Looking back after thirteen years in tattooing, I sometimes smile when I remember that machine constantly shocking my hand. At the time, I thought it was the hardest part of becoming a tattoo artist. It turned out that believing my life could become much bigger than the world I had grown up in was far more difficult. I do not regret a single shock. Maybe that stubborn machine was pushing me toward a future I could not yet imagine. When I was a little girl growing up in a tiny town in southern Russia, becoming an art teacher felt like the biggest future I could imagine. Today, I live in the United States, travel across the country, work at major tattoo conventions, and sit behind the judges’ table beside artists whose work I once admired from a distance. If this journey has taught me anything, it is that the limits of our lives are rarely defined only by talent or circumstance. More often, they are defined by what we are capable of imagining. Every goal that once seemed impossible first had to become imaginable. Everything else came later.
Kate Perets
Tattoo Artist & International Convention Judge
Seattle, WA
Instagram: @kateperets_tattoo
Tattoo Artist & International Convention Judge
Seattle, WA
Instagram: @kateperets_tattoo
...
Thanks for stopping by. While you're here, check out some Gnarly Magazine merch.