My name was not chosen at random. Exploring the Tamara name meaning art helps me understand how imagery and influence shaped my artistic identity.

My parents didn’t choose it at random. They chose it in reference to Tamara de Lempicka. For a long time, I didn’t really know who she was. Her paintings were there, at home, present without me truly paying attention to them. They were part of the background, all the time. Without realising it, she was already with me. Carrying this name was something vague for a long time. I never thought I had to resemble her or follow a particular path. But with hindsight, I understand that growing up surrounded by these images, carrying a name so strongly tied to art and character, inevitably shaped my way of seeing things. Drawing, ambition, a taste for style and independence settled in very early, almost naturally.

One day, I truly became interested in her.

I discovered an immense artist, a free, demanding, determined woman. At that moment, I felt the need to anchor her within my own story. Her self-portrait, and one of her paintings, the portrait of “Madame Allan Bott”, which my father tattooed on me. That gesture held a particular meaning. It wasn’t an aesthetic tribute, but a transmission.

After one year of tattoo practice, I began a full sleeve built around her, including the portrait of “Madame Boucard”, like an open conversation between her work and mine. Through tattooing, I found a very concrete way to extend that connection. Working around her portraits, her image, allowed me to understand what deeply moves me in art: the strength of figures, presence, character. Even today, this approach shapes the way I think about tattooing — not as a simple motif, but as an image that must fully exist on the skin, withstand time, and accompany a life.

Then came Christmas 2024. I was looking for last-minute gifts and came across a book (well hidden, it must be said): Tamara by Tatiana. The title struck me immediately. Tamara. Tatiana. My name is Tamara, and my cat is called Tatiana (yes, really). I showed the book to a friend, almost amused by the coincidence. She simply said: “This is going to be your mantra. Buy it.”

I read it in a way that doesn’t resemble me at all. I usually read just a few pages (one page, to be honest) before falling asleep, but this time, all I wanted was to get home in the evening to keep reading.

Following her life. Watching her flee the war, assert herself in Paris, paint relentlessly, sometimes until impossible hours. Discovering a woman driven by an immense thirst for success, recognition, money. A woman who loved beautiful things, chic, luxury, independence, and who fully embraced her character. What struck me wasn’t blind admiration, but unease. That strange feeling of recognising something familiar. An energy, a level of demand, a desire to carve out her own path. The similarities were numerous, even though I carry nothing more than her first name. Nothing else.

I inherited only a name.
But sometimes, a first name is enough to pass on a vision, an ambition, and a way of moving forward without apologising.