Jiri Tomanek shared their story and experiences with us recently and you can find our conversation below.
Hi Jiri, thank you for taking the time to reflect back on your journey with us. I think our readers are in for a real treat. There is so much we can all learn from each other and so thank you again for opening up with us. Let’s get into it: What makes you lose track of time—and find yourself again?
Anything that pulls me back to myself, not to my role, not to my work, but to my actual self.
Late nights are a big one. When the city goes quiet, my brain finally stops pretending to be a functional adult and lets me think clearly. That’s when I sketch, write, or just exist without the pressure to perform.
Travel resets me too. There’s something about airports that strange limbo between places that makes me remember who I am without all the labels.
And conversations. The real ones. The kind where no one plays a character and everyone says what they mean.
In those moments, time loses its structure and everything feels simple again.
If I had to summarize it:
I lose track of time when I stop performing for the world and start listening to myself.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
I’m Jiri, the artist behind Bratr Víra a tattoo brand that grew out of a very simple realization: people remember how you made them feel long before they remember what you made for them.
I’ve been tattooing for eleven years, and during that time I learned that the technical side of this craft is only half the equation. The other half is understanding people. Most clients don’t walk into a studio because they want something “pretty.” They come in because they’re closing a chapter, starting one, or trying to make sense of something that doesn’t fit into a sentence. Tattoos just happen to be the language they choose.
My approach is pretty straightforward: I try to make work that respects the person wearing it. That means listening more than talking, designing with intention, and treating every piece like it has consequences because it does. I specialize in watercolor and expressive symbolism, but style is secondary. What matters is whether the tattoo holds up as a story ten years from now.
What makes my brand different isn’t a mystical philosophy. It’s discipline. It’s the refusal to treat clients like numbers. It’s the belief that “premium” isn’t about price, but about care, consistency, and the ability to deliver something personal in a world that’s increasingly generic.
This past year I’ve been focusing on refining the studio experience and elevating the brand. Not by making it louder, but by making it sharper, better systems, more intentional design, clearer communication, and a standard that doesn’t slip just because I’m busy. My goal is to bring the same level of detail to the client experience that I bring to the tattoo itself.
If readers takeaway one thing, let it be this:
I don’t think tattooing is magical. I think it’s meaningful but only when you treat it with the seriousness and respect it deserves.
That’s what my brand stands for. Not mystique. Not hype. Just honest work done with purpose.
Thanks for sharing that. Would love to go back in time and hear about how your past might have impacted who you are today. What was your earliest memory of feeling powerful?
My earliest memory of feeling powerful didn’t come from winning anything or standing above anyone. It happened in elementary school, on a day when a group of older kids decided I’d make good entertainment. Back then I wasn’t the strong one, not physically, not socially. I learned early how quickly a crowd can turn you into a target.
But the moment I remember most clearly wasn’t the bullying itself. It was what happened after.
I was sitting alone behind the school building, trying to make sense of why some kids choose to be strong only when someone else is weaker. And something clicked for the first time:
their power depended on me believing I didn’t have any.
That realization didn’t make me invincible superhero, I was still a skinny kid with paint on my hands and too many thoughts for my age. But it gave me this strange, quiet confidence. I understood that real power isn’t volume or muscles or numbers. It’s the moment you decide you won’t let someone else define your worth.
That was the first time I felt powerful:
not because I could fight back, but because I finally understood that I didn’t have to internalize the role they assigned me.
It’s funny, years later, tattooing became the place where that lesson resurfaced. People come to me carrying their own stories of feeling small, unseen, underestimated. And every tattoo is a small way of reclaiming something. Maybe that’s why this work feels so natural to me.
Power, at least the kind that lasts, isn’t about dominating the world.
It’s about refusing to let it rewrite who you are.
If you could say one kind thing to your younger self, what would it be?
“You’re not too much. You’re just early.”
Early with the questions.
Early with the sensitivity.
Early with the feeling that something about the world doesn’t add up.
I’d tell him that being the quiet, overthinking kid who doesn’t fit in is not a design flaw, it’s training. All those hours feeling out of place, all those moments when stronger kids tried to make you smaller, are just rehearsals for later. For the day when you’ll sit across from people, needle in hand, and they’ll trust you with the parts of themselves they don’t show anyone.
I’d tell him: don’t waste energy trying to be “normal”. The kids who laugh at you now will eventually spend a lot of money trying to look interesting. You’ll get there naturally, just by staying weird and refusing to flatten yourself to fit in.
I’d warn him that he’ll go through seasons where he thinks he’s behind, where it feels like everyone else has a roadmap and he’s just improvising. And then I’d tell him the truth: improvising becomes your superpower. The ability to reinvent yourself, to start over, to turn chaos into something beautiful that’s the thing that will feed you, literally and metaphorically.
Most of all, I’d say this:
One day, people will travel across borders, cities and time zones just to sit in your chair for a few hours.
Not because you played it safe, but because you didn’t.
So don’t rush to be someone else.
Stay strange. Stay curious.
The parts of you that feel like a problem now are exactly the parts your future needs.
Next, maybe we can discuss some of your foundational philosophies and views? What are the biggest lies your industry tells itself?
One of the biggest lies the tattoo industry tells itself is that “good work sells itself.”
It sounds noble, romantic even just focus on your art and the universe will somehow send the right clients. In reality, that’s not how it works anymore. Maybe in 2003. Not in 2025.
A lot of tattooers secretly believe they don’t need marketing, branding or reinvesting money back into promoting themselves. “I’m an artist, not a content creator.”
But here’s the uncomfortable truth:
if you don’t control your story, the algorithm will do it for you and it does not care about your feelings or your talent.
I’ve seen incredible artists stay invisible for years, not because they’re worse than others, but because they refuse to treat their work like something people need to actually find. They’ll spend thousands on machines, inks, conventions and zero on decent photos, strategy, ads, or someone to help them communicate what they do. Then they say, “Social media is dead,” instead of admitting: I never really learned how to use it properly.
Another popular lie is that “marketing = selling out.”
For me, it’s the opposite. Marketing when it’s honest is just giving people a clear doorway to find you. It’s not manipulation, it’s clarity. If you genuinely believe in the experience you offer, why wouldn’t you want it to be seen? Hiding your work and hoping “the right ones will somehow know” is not integrity. It’s fear dressed up as purity.
We also like to tell ourselves that we’re “above” business, that the art speaks for itself and money talk is dirty. Meanwhile, the artists who actually sit down, build systems, invest in promotion, and think long-term are the ones who get to choose their clients, their prices, and their schedule. That’s not selling out. That’s sustainability.
So yeah, the industry lies to itself in many ways.
But the most damaging one is this:
“If I just keep my head down and do good tattoos, everything else will magically work out.”
It won’t.
Your art deserves better than to be a secret.
Before we go, we’d love to hear your thoughts on some longer-run, legacy type questions. What is the story you hope people tell about you when you’re gone?
I don’t need anyone to tell a heroic story about me when I’m gone. I’m not aiming for myth. The story I hope people tell is much simpler:
“He made people feel seen.”
That would be enough.
Not that I was perfect, or endlessly kind, or always wise, I wasn’t.
I made terrible mistakes. I let people down. I ruined more romantic relationships than I care to count, sometimes out of fear, sometimes out of stubbornness, sometimes simply because I didn’t know myself well enough yet. But even with all of that, when someone sat across from me whether for a tattoo or a conversation I tried to be fully present. I tried to create a space where they didn’t have to perform. Where they could drop the version of themselves they showed the world and just be real for a while.
I hope people say I paid attention.
That I listened.
That I noticed the quiet details in them that others overlooked.
I’d like them to remember that I took my work seriously, not because I wanted to be important, but because I understood how permanent a moment can become when it’s etched into someone’s skin.
If there’s a story I’d want to outlive me, it’s this:
He didn’t just make art, he made people feel a little more like themselves.
And maybe they’ll say I lived with a mix of humor and stubbornness, that I took risks even when they terrified me, and that I wasn’t afraid to walk my own, slightly chaotic path. That I tried, really tried to leave people better than I found them.
Everything else fades.
But the moments you give people, the ones where they feel understood those stay in circulation long after you’re gone.
That’s the story I hope survives me.
Contact Info:
- Instagram: bratr_vira
- Other: email: jiri.tattoo@gmail.com
