In South Korea, a country long known for its conservative views on body art, the tattoo industry is on the verge of a historic transformation. After decades of operating in the shadows, tattoo artists are now closer than ever to gaining legal recognition for their craft. The National Assembly is expected to pass the Tattooist Act, a landmark piece of legislation that would finally allow non-medical professionals to give tattoos legally—a move that could reshape both the industry and public attitudes toward body art in the nation.
For years, tattooing in South Korea has been a paradox. It’s a thriving, creative field, with millions of South Koreans proudly displaying ink and artists winning acclaim at international competitions. Yet, since a 1992 Supreme Court ruling classified tattooing as a medical procedure, only licensed doctors have been permitted to perform it. Anyone else faces the threat of up to five years in prison and fines as high as 50 million won (about $35,740), according to the Associated Press and CNN.
Despite these harsh penalties, the law has been loosely enforced. Most tattoo artists work in discreet studios, often hidden away on upper floors of buildings, without advertising their services openly. Many use pseudonyms, wary of being reported to authorities by disgruntled clients, competitors, or even random critics. Kim Chan-hoe, a veteran tattooist who owns Red Waikiki studio in Seoul, described the daily anxiety: “When I walk into a police station or a government office, they don’t see me as a skilled tattoo artist—they see me as nothing more than a criminal with tattoo equipment.”
Kim’s experience is far from unique. The legal limbo has forced artists to take extraordinary precautions: locking doors, monitoring security cameras, and omitting their real profession when applying for bank loans. Some have been reported to police so frequently that officers recognize them on sight. Fines are common, and in some cases, entire studios have been raided mid-session. “There was a time when four or five of us were reported together, and we ended up paying nearly 10 million Korean won (about $7,170) in fines altogether,” Kim recalled to CNN.
Yet, the industry has not just survived—it has flourished. By 2019, there were an estimated 20,000 tattoo artists in the country, contributing to an industry worth about 200 billion Korean won (approximately $144 million) each year, according to the Korea Tattoo Association. Cosmetic tattoos, such as semi-permanent makeup for eyebrows and lips, are especially popular. One manufacturer estimated in 2018 that 10 million South Koreans had such tattoos, while three million had permanent ones.
The growing acceptance of tattoos has been fueled in part by celebrities. K-pop stars like BTS’s Jungkook, TWICE’s Chaeyoung, and BigBang’s G-Dragon have all proudly displayed their ink, inspiring fans to seek similar designs. “We’ve received many requests from clients saying, ‘I want a tattoo just like this person’s,’” Kim said. He estimates he’s done “close to a thousand” tattoos inspired by G-Dragon alone.
Despite the shift in public attitudes, the medical community has remained a staunch opponent of legalization. The Korean Medical Association, which claims to represent 130,000 physicians, has warned that the proposed legislation “shakes the basis of the medical law and will lead to results seriously threatening the public’s health and lives.” In an August Facebook post, the group insisted tattooing is a medical procedure that carries risks of serious side effects, urging lawmakers to withdraw the bill.
But support for reform is bipartisan, and the Tattooist Act has already cleared the assembly’s health and judiciary committees. The Health Ministry has signaled its backing, and opposition from doctors has softened in recent months. The earliest possible date for a final vote is September 25, 2025, with President Lee Jae Myung—who previously campaigned on legalizing the industry—expected to sign the bill into law if it passes.
The new law, if enacted, would introduce official licenses for tattoo artists, requiring them to complete annual hygiene education courses at government-designated locations. There would be a two-year grace period before the law takes full effect, giving authorities time to establish specific guidelines on hygiene, safety, and qualifications. While some artists worry about the added regulatory burden, most see it as a long-overdue step toward legitimacy. Lim Bo-ran, head of the Korea Tattoo Federation, acknowledged, “The law would be a welcome development but that it would also burden tattoo artists by putting them under government supervision.”
The legal uncertainty has also created vulnerabilities beyond the threat of fines. Some artists have endured threats of exposure from acquaintances, and female tattooists have reported suffering sexual assaults but hesitated to go to the authorities for fear of losing their livelihoods. “I was truly terrified when a person close to me threatened to report my business to authorities and destroy all I have,” said Kim Sho-yun, who runs a cosmetic tattoo studio in Hanam city. “I still remember the panic that seized me.”
For many artists, tattooing is more than just a job; it’s a calling. Song Jaemin, a popular tattooist based in Goyang near Seoul, has clients from all walks of life—including police officers, civil servants, soldiers, and even U.S. troops stationed in South Korea. Some clients travel from as far as China, the U.K., Malaysia, and Iraq to be inked by him. Song takes pride in the lasting impact of his work: “There is no limit in tattoos. Whatever you draw on paper, carbon paper, walls or elsewhere, we can also do the same on human bodies. There are really unlimited tattoo styles and artists.”
Clients, too, often seek tattoos for deeply personal reasons. Kim Sho-yun recalls helping cancer patients who wanted eyebrow tattoos before chemotherapy, knowing they would lose their natural brows. Song has memorialized late loved ones in his designs, and recently completed an intricate image of Jesus Christ on the forearm of Lee Byong-joo, a client who already sports a collection of meaningful tattoos. “I feel good as I can have pictures that I like on my body for good,” Lee told the Associated Press, though he joked that his wife has asked him to stop getting new ones.
As South Korea stands on the cusp of legalizing tattoo artistry, the sense of anticipation among artists is palpable. “After nearly 20 years of doing this work, it feels like we’re finally being acknowledged for preserving and growing this culture,” Kim Chan-hoe reflected. “Someone who draws on paper is considered an artist, and someone who draws on skin is also an artist. But why is it that around the world, tattooing is considered art, while in Korea, it’s labeled as a medical procedure under the medical law?”
The passage of the Tattooist Act would not only bring long-awaited legal recognition to thousands of artists but also signal a broader shift in how South Korean society views self-expression, creativity, and the art of tattooing itself. For a profession that has spent decades in the shadows, the prospect of stepping into the light is nothing short of revolutionary.