Celia Dunne inks Saints with Fangs, Demons with Heart

Celia Dunne didn’t stumble into tattooing. She charged at it, teenage sketchbook in one hand and a pent-up fury in the other. She started young, survived the industry’s crustier corners, and came out the other side swinging black ink like a sword. Based in Sydney and perpetually on the move, Dunne is a guest spot regular with a cult following and a toolkit full of demons, saints, and oddball hybrids that feel like they escaped from a haunted sticker book. Her work isn’t just tattooing; it’s illustrative anarchy, sacred iconography put through a shredder, then glued back together with a sly grin and a flick of the wrist.

Her style? Call it baroque cartoon with a personal vendetta. Her recurring little demon has become an unofficial mascot - born from a one-off joke, now embedded in tattoos, paintings, and even 3D sculptures like some low-fi deity of chaos. Dunne freehands directly on the skin, no templates, no safety net, just pure instinct and muscle memory honed through years of restless creativity and sheer bloody-mindedness. Her designs warp around the body like they grew there, spikes and wings and all.

While she’s best known for tattoos, Dunne’s fingers are in every pie she can reach: painting, drawing, collaborative sculpture, anything with a pulse. Her work is cute until it bites. Sweet until it stares you down. From Catholic kitsch to corpse-painted cherubs, there’s always tension. And always intention. This is visual language as power dressing. Armour with fangs.

And beneath it all? Rage. Joy. Play. Power. Celia Dunne doesn’t just give you a tattoo - she gives you something with claws, heart, and maybe a halo, if you’re lucky. Her art holds a mirror to the world and then doodles devil horns on it, reminding you that beauty doesn’t have to be soft, and vulnerability doesn’t have to be quiet. There’s something defiantly alive in every line she inks, whether it’s a wide-eyed cherub in corpse paint or a swirling thorn-crown that hugs the contours of a ribcage. These aren’t just designs: they’re talismans, emotional exorcisms, bite-sized rebellions against a world that told her she didn’t belong. And now? She carves out space for others, one mark, one monster, one gloriously unhinged little demon at a time.

I. LITTLE DEMONS & BIGGER ENERGY

Your little demon symbol has become kind of a mascot. Where did it come from, and why does it feel so central to your work?
As most good ideas do, it came at random. A friend at work once suggested I use demons as filler in a painting and that’s how the little silhouette was born. After that, they just kept showing up in my work, whether it’s a tattoo, a painting, or a 3D sculpture I made with a friend for an exhibition. Their form’s evolved over time, but they’re still in most pieces I do. I joke they’re my little sidekicks. Maybe they are.

If you could tag that demon symbol anywhere - a billboard, skyscraper, the moon -where would it be, and what would you want it to say to the world?
Never really thought about it, but maybe the Vatican?

II. ON THE MOVE, OUT OF COMFORT

You’ve been guesting around Sydney lately. Has that changed the way you approach tattooing or how people connect with your work?
I’ve been a travelling artist for years now, though I’ve slowed down a bit (she says, while doing at least one guest spot a month). I really believe comfort is the enemy of growth. Travelling pushed me out of my comfort zone, helped me meet new artists and clients, and gave me space to recover from a lot of past anxiety. I used to be way less confident. Moving around gave me perspective. You realise you’re just a microcosm in this huge, talented industry. That’s a good thing. It makes you want to be better. When I moved to Sydney, I guest spotted to get the lay of the land and start building a network here.

III. TATTOOING AS ARMOUR

Your tattoo process feels both instinctive and sculptural. How do you usually go from idea to something permanent on skin?
My process is basic, mostly due to laziness, honestly. I’ve got my fingers in a lot of pies, so I try to keep things streamlined. I usually do rough sketches to get my muscle memory going, but most of the process happens on the day. I freehand directly on the client. It saves time, lets me relinquish control, and helps the piece flow with their body. It’s daunting, not knowing exactly what it’ll look like. But also freeing.

There’s a push-pull in your work - cute but cursed, soft but savage. Do you chase that contrast, or does it just show up?
I like shock and contrast. I love taking something beautiful and drawing out the weird or scary side. Tattooing’s transformative, it gives people power. So I want the work to feel sharp, ominous, confident. A kind of armour. In painting, I like destroying classical subjects to rebirth them: angels with horns and fangs, Mother Mary in corpse paint. If you look hard enough in the dark, you’ll find something beautiful.

IV. INKED RESISTANCE

There’s emotion in your creatures - rage, sadness, vulnerability. What kind of response do you hope people have to your work?
Whether I like it or not, I think there’s a silent rage in my work. Tattooing’s still a boys’ club in many ways. I started as a teenager, in a time and space where there wasn’t really room for someone like me. I had to work ten times harder just to be taken seriously. So now I want my work to be bigger than me. I want it to make some un-showered man go, “No way a GIRL did that.” I want it to be intimidating, dark, a bit ugly - a manifestation of everything I’ve had to push through.

You’ve got recurring symbols that feel almost like a private language. Is that intentional?
There’s definitely muscle memory in my ornamental work, certain patterns and flows I repeat. Hopefully it gives my work its own identity. But the meaning of that language? That’s up to the viewer. It’s theirs to decode.

V. STUDIO RITUALS & FUTURE VISIONS

What’s the vibe when someone sits in your chair for the first time? Any rituals?
I’ll probably talk a million miles an hour. It helps shatter any intimidation and lets the client relax. I want them to feel safe. Music’s essential. I’d hate for someone to sit through pain and bad tunes. A client once said my playlist sounded like “Elvira music.” That felt accurate. And the studio has to smell good. I love burning incense - especially these American Indian ones that smell like bonfires. They’re my favourite.

Some of your work feels like fragments from a myth or dream. Ever think about telling stories in longer form - zines, comics?
I’ve never ruled it out! If the right opportunity comes along, I’d be into it.