A tattoo flash by Xéu, with its illustrative figure and backdrop, seems to be a nod to Art Nouveau.

Michele “Xéu” Jean Leite spent part of her youth in Montreal, Québec, although she was born in Cambridge, Ontario, Canada, in 1981. When she was eleven years old, her parents, who were Portuguese immigrants, returned to their homeland in Portugal.

Her formal art training began when she enrolled in a prestigious artistic high school (“Antonio Arroio”), followed by admission to the Fine Arts University of Lisbon, Portugal. Xéu, on the other hand, chose to pursue a career in tattooing, commencing as an apprentice in 1998 and becoming a professional in 1999. Years later, Xéu earned a degree in industrial design from the Art Institute of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, which enabled her to continue traveling, tattooing, and caring for her children.

Xéu spent many years tattooing alone and owning a private studio, and felt the urge to be part of a community of artists and set out to find an ideal spot to collaborate with some. Her current home is Asheville, North Carolina, where she works as a resident artist at Zen Ink. The city is characterized by its beautiful natural landscape and cultural scene. She has finally found a place where she can practice the ritual-based, slow, and intentional tattooing, which has always been her dream. “Many clients come to mark transitions, grief, reclamation; they come for something felt. That depth of engagement aligns with how I work: through symbolism, story, and presence,” she comments. Xéu would have become an anthropologist had she not pursued the arts. But the benefit of being a tattooist is that it allows her to gain knowledge about culture, history, and society.

Xéu’s mother captured a snapshot of their family’s relocation from Cambridge, Ontario, to Montreal, Quebec.

What was your upbringing like?

I was the only Canadian-born child in a family of Portuguese immigrants. My parents were deeply nomadic, shaped by the aftermath of a fascist regime [Portugal’s New State from 1933-1974], always searching for freedom, for new landscapes. They were, in many ways, revolutionaries of their time.

My father was an avid reader, a creative man who once dreamed of becoming a photographer, but life led him down a different path—he became a sergeant in the colonial wars. My mother was a nurse, endlessly nurturing, and later devoted herself to Chinese medicine, studying extensively in China.

My sister and I grew up moving constantly. When I was 11, we returned to Portugal and lived in various towns, including five years on a rural farm, before eventually settling in Lisbon, where I began my formal art studies. Our family never stayed still for long—we scattered across continents, often reconnecting by chance rather than design. Now, I’m based in the US, my sister lives in Canada, and my parents continue their nomadic life, traveling Europe in an RV.

A mock-up image of a back tattoo, implying power because it is hidden from the wearer, but an integral part of their body.

You studied fine arts at a university in Portugal. Why didn’t you pursue a career primarily as a painter and illustrator?

I didn’t step away from painting by choice—it was a matter of circumstance. I was 18, fresh out of art school, when my parents decided to return to North America. I stayed behind in Lisbon and accepted an apprenticeship, which had been offered to me to make ends meet.

At the time, tattooing was still mainly viewed as a trade, rather than an artistic pursuit. But to me, it was a way to keep creating and survive. What drew me in even more deeply was the gender dynamic. Tattooing in Portugal was almost entirely male-dominated at the time, and stepping into that space ignited something feminist within me. I saw it as a chance to disrupt the narrative—to carve out a space for myself and for other women who wanted to enter the craft.

The purpose of these floral shoulders is to evoke the appearance of armor.

What else have you learned while in Portugal?

Portugal remains deeply ingrained in my identity. It shaped my love for fine art, architecture, and philosophy—there’s a strong academic tradition there, and they go deep into intellectual and aesthetic pursuits. But what was missing for me was a connection to ancestral and ritual practices.

Ironically, Portugal holds a vast symbolic history—it’s a true hodgepodge of cultural influences. You can feel it in the architecture, the mythology, the land itself. There are deep traces of Moroccan Amazigh symbolism [Berber], African herbal knowledge, Celtic mysticism, and even Persian architectural influence. Yet despite this rich heritage, Europe as a whole—and Portugal included—has distanced itself from its indigenous roots.

The long shadow of colonization has stripped many of these practices of their context. Tattooing and body modification, once sacred, became marginalized, associated with rebellion or subcultures rather than seen as rites of passage. Even today, that lens persists. But I see a resurgence in Europe (i.e., tattoos with intention and more of an ancestral aesthetic), and I’m grateful to the artists who are helping to reclaim those roots.

In contrast, North America feels more naturally attuned to this revival. There’s a growing acceptance of ancestral practices and a willingness to view bodywork not just as art or rebellion but as a ritual, as something that belongs to our collective human memory.

Picture of Xéu by Sayrah Elizabeth Smith, a photographer located in Western North Carolina.

When did you go to Australia, and how did that trip impact you?

I went to Australia for the first time in 2004 and spent a month on Milingimbi Island, living among the Aboriginal communities. They were very closed off, and while I wasn’t able to access much of their cultural knowledge directly, just being there was deeply impactful. It cemented my love for ceremony and showed me how sacredness is often quiet, protected, and not for show. I tattooed independently for the rest of my stay and noticed that the scene was quite dispersed—some parts were deeply rooted, while others were more driven by tourism.

This ornamental blackwork is a testament to the client’s spirit of determination.

You see your work as “an art and ceremony,” similar to performance art. What do you believe your clients feel during your sessions, or what do you aim to create for them?

Yes, I see tattooing as both art and ceremony—an act of performance, not in the theatrical sense, but in the way of the presence, transformation, and embodiment come together in a singular, unrepeatable moment. Like performance art, it requires full presence from both me and the person receiving. The energy exchanged during those hours becomes an integral part of the piece itself.

I often think of Kazuo Ohno, the Japanese Butoh artist, whom I studied in art theory. He used his body as a medium, altering his image to embody a state, not to act, but to become. His philosophy stayed with me. He wasn’t trying to show something to the audience—he was inhabiting it, letting it take over. That’s very much how I see the tattoo process. When I work, I’m not just creating a design on skin—I’m entering a shared emotional and symbolic space with the client, holding a threshold while they move through something.

Tattooing, for me, isn’t just aesthetic. It’s a form of remembering. I intend to offer a space where the client can shift—emotionally, spiritually, psychologically. The session becomes a ritual of claiming, releasing, or marking a passage. Some people enter light trance states. Others cry. Some remain silent, others talk the entire time. All of it is valid—it’s not performative; it’s personal.

I don’t believe I’m the one doing the healing. I see myself as a witness and a guide, using ink, time, and presence to help facilitate whatever process needs to unfold. Clients often leave feeling more rooted in themselves—more seen, more real, more integrated. And the aim is not only to wear a tattoo, but to live through it.

Flash art about protection, such as sternum armor.

You stated, “I don’t believe I’m the one doing the healing,” but since you guide others through their healing, isn’t your entire process also a way of healing for you?

Yes, you’re absolutely right. This work is a mirror; I’m not just holding space for others, I’m constantly meeting myself in the process.

Every session is a kind of reckoning. I learn about my limits, my tenderness, my resistance, and my capacity to hold. Tattooing has taught me patience, humility, and the discipline of showing up even when I’m raw. It’s not always graceful—sometimes it pulls things out of me I didn’t expect—but it keeps me honest.

There’s something about being in that intimate space with another person, witnessing them claim a part of themselves, shed an old identity, or grieve through ink, which reminds me of my humanity. It softens me, even when I’m holding firm. And in guiding others through their thresholds, I often walk through my own as well.

So yes, the healing is mutual. This isn’t just a service—it’s a lifelong dialogue between art, memory, body, and spirit. And I’m still very much inside it.

The poem “The Voice” by Shel Silverstein serves as inspiration for this art piece, which illustrates the kiss of Mother Nature.

Can tattooing, as you practice it, significantly improve certain aspects of modern society?

Yes. In a world feeling increasingly disconnected by the minute, tattooing, when stripped down to its essence as an art form and a ceremony, can reconnect us in ways we don’t even realize we’re craving. Ritual and marking time? It’s baked into our DNA. We’re wired to claim moments, to say, “This happened. I was here.” Tattooing is the physical version of that impulse, and it’s been around for over 3,000 years. It’s not a fad; that’s ancient human stuff.

When people get tattooed in this way, they’re not just decorating skin—they’re reclaiming stories, identity, sometimes even sanity. It all ripples out, makes us a little less alienated, a little more real. Sure, it’s just one small thread in a big, messy society, but sometimes those threads hold everything together.

The client, who is approaching the age of 50, is contemplating the changes she is experiencing and the life she has led so far. The tattoo depicts three stages of life: childhood, adulthood, and old age, represented by three flower blooms.

What specific cultures have influenced the visual forms in your tattoo art?

Both indigenous and ornamental traditions deeply inform my work, but certain cultures have left a lasting imprint on how I approach shape, form, and meaning. Amazigh symbolism was one of the first that spoke to me and was already mentioned.

Croatian Sicanje had a similar impact, especially in how women practiced it to mark identity, express grief, and demonstrate resilience. Those tattoos weren’t only designs, they were “lived maps.” That act of using the body as a vessel for remembering deeply mirrors what I aim to hold in my practice.

I also draw a strong influence from architecture. Growing up around the Manueline architectural style in Portugal—all that intricate stonework tied to spiritual and maritime symbology—left a deep impression on my visual language. It taught me how ornament can hold weight, how a shape can carry centuries of meaning.

Art Nouveau gave me something different—permission to let the line flow, to work with the feminine, to trust curves and softness without sacrificing depth.

Then there’s Japanese tattooing, which shaped the way I view the body itself. Their approach to flow and composition—how a tattoo moves with the anatomy, how it holds narrative across limbs, joints, and movement—taught me how to design for the body, not just on it. It’s a language of harmony and tension, discipline and grace.

These traditions don’t just influence the aesthetic; they shape the intention behind it. Every piece I do carries echoes of these histories. Tattooing, for me, is never just visual. It’s personal, it’s ancestral, and it’s architectural—a ritual of placement and remembrance, inscribed into living flesh.

A client of Xéu who became a friend, her back piece reflecting the power of the ancestral mother Atabey (from the Taíno mythology).

You have read a lot about philosophy, poetry, and art theory. Give an example of a philosopher’s remark, a poem, or a theory on which you thrive.

I read across disciplines, but I’m always looking for the same thread: language that reveals something essential about being human; the kind of truth you feel in the body before the mind.

Philosophically, Michel Foucault shaped the way I see the body, not just as a biological vessel, but as a site of power, resistance, and memory. His writing made it clear to me that marking the body is never neutral. It’s a choice, a rebellion, a reclamation; especially for those of us who’ve been defined, controlled, or silenced by external forces.

Rainer Maria Rilke’s poetry is a lifeline.

I return to Duino Elegies often, especially the line: “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” That sentence alone could describe what happens in my sessions. Tattooing can crack people open; there’s beauty, discomfort, memory, grief (we hold all of it). We don’t rush through it. We stay.

Art theory, for me, lives in the body. Kazuo Ohno and the lineage of Butoh performance taught me that the artist doesn’t illustrate emotion — they become it. He showed me how to channel states, not styles. When I tattoo, I don’t design from the outside in—I try to inhabit what the client is feeling and translate that into form. That’s where the ritual lives.

More recently, I’ve been influenced by the Korean philosopher Byung-Chul Han, especially his work “Saving Beauty.” His critique of a society obsessed with smoothness, perfection, and positivity struck a nerve. He argues that in trying to eliminate pain, we’ve flattened the depth of experience. In my work, I try to create space for the rough edges, for discomfort, vulnerability, and the unspeakable. That’s where the real beauty is, not in the flawless, but in the felt.

All of these thinkers remind me that art, philosophy, and embodiment aren’t separate practices. They’re all part of the same conversation—one I’m still in the middle of.

Xéu is thrilled to be concentrating on her creative work and less on management after a decade of operating a studio.

Finally, a gentle question to conclude this interview. What is one thing most people don’t know about you?

What people don’t usually see online is how quiet my real life is. My work might seem bold, but I live pretty inwardly. I need space, solitude, nature—that’s where things settle and make sense for me. Perhaps it’s my age, and that’s the time for it. I appreciate calm and deep solo conversations.

I’m more of an overthinker than a showman. Much of what fuels my work occurs off-screen, such as drawing, reflecting, and sitting with things. Some may even say boring. I’m not creating to impress anyone; I’m making to understand, to stay connected. Most of my life is pretty quiet. Having been a huge punk and metal fan, I can nowadays spend days without a single song playing—and that’s how I like it.

Photos © Michele “Xéu” Jean Leite