Bob Bowers' Tattoos

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I was five years old when I first saw my dad’s tattoo—a bulldog on his forearm. That image stuck with me, and from that moment, I knew I wanted ink of my own someday. What I didn’t know was how deeply tattoos would become woven into my identity, my survival, and my story.

For years, people told me to stop getting them, warning me that I’d never be invited into “polite society.” My mom, who was Jewish, told me as a kid that if I got tattooed, I couldn’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery. But life had other plans for me. And, as my wife so bluntly pointed out when I hesitated on my first tattoo, I wasn’t exactly following Jewish traditions anyway. That first piece—a small eagle—happened in the ‘90s at Sunset Strip Tattoo in Los Angeles. I was riding my orcycle down Sunset Boulevard, my wife on the back, when I casually mentioned wanting a tattoo. She challenged me on why I hadn’t gotten one yet. After a quick reality check, I turned the bike around, parked it in front of the shop, and never looked back.

Tattoos  became my armor, my battle scars, my living tribute to survival. At one point, I got a tattoo for each year I survived living with HIV/AIDS. Some pieces represent friends and family I’ve lost, including my beloved mom, whose angel wings now rest on my forearm. But no tattoo carries more weight—physically or emotionally—than the red ribbon on my stomach with the words Never Forget above it. Done for the 25th anniversary of HIV/AIDS, it honors the countless friends I’ve lost to the disease. The pain of that tattoo was unlike anything I’d experienced, but in many ways, it felt fitting—because the grief, the fight, and the memories are etched just as deeply into my soul. My full sleeves, phoenix back piece, chest plates—all of it—are more than ink on skin. They are a testament to resilience, to the fight, to life itself. 

And the experience of getting them? I loved every second in the chair. The hum of the machine, the burn of the needle—it was a sensation that reminded me I was alive. I always disclosed my status to every artist, and that openness only deepened the connection. Those moments became more than just a transaction; they became meaningful experiences, conversations about strength, survival, and what it truly means to keep moving forward.

I used to jokingly call myself the “tattooed Jew,” but today, as a Christian, my ink holds no barriers—only stories. And every line, every shade, every drop of ink tells one: I am here. I am still standing. And I will never stop fighting.

deNever sun

To be continued... 

~ Bob Bowers

"I can't even begin to put to words what it is like to be on the other side of the camera when someone you have grown to love and care about is puking for 40minutes straight and you can't put the camera down to rub their back or get them water...

Bob knew I had fought my own mental, emotional and physical war so he trusted me and he let me in...

I have grown as a human being in ways I could have never imagined in the last three years. My heart and soul have been ripped wide open and I am so grateful to Bowers for teaching me so much.

I hope this documentary film will not only educate but also inspire people around the world to look openly at whatever challenges they face and to appreciate every day-for life is a gift."

- Dr. Leanne Whitney