From Skin to Steel

She once thought tattooing would last forever. Brea Lanyon was in her 20s, a time when most of us are too busy trying to excel at one thing that we ignore the possibilities that lie ahead.

Lanyon, who turned 30 last year, has finally embraced that she’s an artist. She has scaled back on her inkwork but expanded her artistic vision. The Australian, known for her striking art nouveau style, will never lose touch with her first love. It is etched into her soul.

Tattooing is the foundation of a burgeoning artistic empire. She had her own show of 50 metal installations in November 2025, “Skin to Steel,” inspired by her tattoos and sketches, and another exhibition is on the way. Her website, brealanyon.com, offers books, bling, and artworks. Her Google Drive throbs with ideas, but not all of them will soar.

“It’s long game shit,” Lanyon says.

Each failure and success provides an education. The experiences she creates for Bravo, a private dining service, with her partner and fine dining chef, Adam Perconte, have shown Lanyon the value of restraint in her art. Lanyon grew up in the outback, a harsh climate for creativity that is an indispensable part of who she is. In a way, all these endeavors are a way of making up for lost time.

The Creative Compound

On a Saturday afternoon in mid-February, it’s 70 degrees Fahrenheit in Melbourne, a taunt to the millions of Americans who have been pummeled by snow. Lanyon is happily housebound. Thirty seconds before a Zoom call, she was updating her website. A meal is being prepared in the kitchen, which will become content for the masses. In the “House of Hustle,” creativity is a utility that runs 24/7.

The pace has not corroded Lanyon. Today, she looks luminous in a simple black top, silver chain, and technicolor arm ink that contrasts with her skin tone, the color of whole milk. Work is a comfort, part of her natural state, but drawing is a form of meditation. “It’s a step away,” she says. “It’s silence from the world.”

Quiet pushed Lanyon into this phase of her life. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, tattooing became an impossible occupation. But Lanyon drew, and that work eventually led to her first book, “Isolation.” When she decided to create laser-cut bookmarks, she was hit with inspiration: make them bigger. That gave rise to her “Skin to Steel” installations. She has not looked back.

“I don’t ever want to get to the end of this life and think, ‘Fuck, I really wish I had tried that,’” she says. Since Lanyon can give projects her complete attention, not going for it “would be doing a disservice to myself.”

With that freedom comes responsibility. Much has been learned in the moment, including how to be an entrepreneur.

“I’ve learned 95% of sales are based on emotions, and my artwork is all emotion,” Lanyon says. “It’s all storytelling. So, it may take longer for me to sell a piece, but I know it’s going to the person it was meant to be with. And that’s how I operate. I don’t know if that’s a great business model, but that’s where I’m at, and that’s what makes me happy. And at the end of the day, the work must belong with the people it resonates with.”

Fostering Fortitude

The need to be authentic came from her mom and dad. Lanyon was raised in Boort, an outback farm town of 600 people in Victoria. She drew pictures of her dad’s farm equipment when she was just 2 years old. In high school, teachers urged her to marry a nice man and teach, but she wanted to be a tattoo artist. As soon as Lanyon graduated from high school, she left for Melbourne.

She was 18 when she flew to Melbourne and got her first tattoo — a rose on her right hip — at Victims of Ink from the legendary Sara Fabel, her favorite artist. “I was showing her my shitty drawings, telling her how much I wanted to be a tattoo artist,” Lanyon says. “She was so encouraging of it.”

Lanyon’s childhood is the inspiration for her next exhibition, “Harvest: The Architecture of Abundance,” the second show in her VANTA “Steel Statements” collection (Volume II). It will be part of the National Gallery of Victoria’s (NGV) Design Week in May 2026 at West Melbourne’s West End Art Space.

“Growing up on a farm, I witnessed it all,” Lanyon says. “I witnessed the hard work, the relentless days, the droughts, the loss, the resilience, the cycles. You have a good year, you celebrate it. It’s met with gratitude, and then you go through it all again. I’m talking about every system involved in a harvest: community, collaboration, and gratitude. So, it’s big. There’s a lot of storytelling involved.” This time, since there are 15 pieces, she says she can go “so much deeper.”

Lanyon admits she needs a regular staff, not just freelancers recruited from Fiverr. Ideas await their release, and she is tattooing less, maybe once every three weeks. “I want to be completely present with my clients,” she explains. “That’s why I limit my time with it.” This moment of her life feels right — she has more time to craft stories and to make every project click.

“It’s compounding,” Lanyon says. “You’ve got to be comfortable with just holding on before it kicks off. That’s how I see it. That’s what keeps me going, because I believe in it so wholeheartedly. I will be fine.” Now that her first exhibition is on her CV, the pressure to please others is off. “I did feel like I had something to prove for whatever reason then, but now I’m completely content and at peace with myself.”

Lanyon has found herself in her art, pleasing that girl who refused to settle. She can and will tell the next generation that they can live an artist’s life and tell their own story. “Once you are aligned with your North Star, your purpose, whatever you want to call it,” she says, “things just float.”