Logo tattoos: How late capitalism came for our body art

Over the past decade, there’s been a cycle of viral tattoos doing the rounds online – Apple logos on lower backs, Monster Energy logos slapped across biceps, McDonald’s arches as backpieces. Usually, they are accompanied by a “tag someone who would get this” caption and shared by a distant relative on Facebook. 

But in fact, logo tattoos are far more common than we think. A 2021 report found that Disney was the most tattooed logo globally, with over 474,000 posts, followed by Nintendo and Harley-Davidson. For the most part, these logo tattoos span generations, and are just as likely to be spotted on leathered skin as they are coated in sweat under club strobes. Despite growing criticism of capitalism among younger generations, these brand tattoos remain popular, revealing just how tangled our identities are with the things we consume.

“In the next week, I’m about to do a Sony Handycam logo and Hollywood sign,” says Brazil-based tattoo artist Lau Mota, whose portfolio includes the ZUSHI album dragon and a last.fm tag. “My favourite one, and most viral, is this Panasonic tattoo, it’s made by a good friend who is a great filmmaker, he mostly uses Panasonic Mini-DV cameras for his films.” Lau has a matching Sony tattoo, done at a party. “People love having a brand tattooed that they have history with, like Gameboy or Nintendogs.” 

As Mota notes, the latest tattoo trends have often blurred into the language of branding. A post-pandemic boom of nostalgia and cuteness saw Sonny Angels and Hello Kitty designs worked into flash sheets and patchwork sleeves, which is now happening again with (cursed) Labubu tattoos. Shaped by terminally online childhoods and a wave of cultural nihilism, a generation embraced ignorant and post-ironic tattoos: upturned Nike swooshes accompanied with “Just do nothing” or satirised brand names like Berlinciaga.

Mota tells us that requests for post-ironic tattoos have started to curb, and the logo tattoos we see still spilling onto Instagram Explore grids are less nihilistic, tending to hold more emotional resonance. This is especially true for Maya Devika Rajan, a 26-year-old director and shopkeeper from Brooklyn. Maya has a tattoo of the logo fluff – the sticky marshmallow spread – on her forearm. “The main story behind it is that it was my best friend’s nickname because she loved it so much as a kid. Her parents always called her fluff, and she died in 2017.” Stories like theirs are heartfelt and the antithesis of the throwaway capitalist associations of logos. 

For Rae Martins Ashton, a 25-year-old marketing executive, the reasoning for their logo tattoo is also a meaningful one, rather than ironic. “I got my TY teddy logo tattoo quite a few years ago – I’m toy-obsessed and had just started re-buying some of the teddies from my childhood. I thought the logo would be cute. I was one of those chaotic kids who always ripped off the labels, so it’s kind of fitting I’ve always got one on me now.”

These emotional associations reveal how deeply brands have embedded themselves in our memories. Logos have become shorthand for the moments we want to remember. It’s a strange contradiction – an anti-capitalist generation tattooing themselves with the very symbols that built the system. Cultural theorist Fredric Jameson described this phase as late capitalism – a stage where even personal choices, like tattooing, are shaped by consumer culture. Logos and the brands they represent become part of how we define ourselves and narrate our identities.

Rae also has a Vogue tattoo from a few years ago. “I had based my dissertation around modernising the company’s diversity, inclusion and accessibility values around the same time, and got my tattoo to celebrate finishing it,” they explain. They didn’t get the tattoo out of love for the magazine — the report was a critique of Vogue, and they admit it didn’t hold much personal meaning. “I don’t dislike the brand, but I don’t feel tied to it or their actions.”  

Some logos offer connection and association, particularly when it comes to the badges and crests of sports teams, at times when a generation feels arguably more disconnected than ever. For many, the appeal lies in detaching the logo from its corporate roots. These designs are often reimagined as personal symbols, a way of separating the art from the artist. But that reinterpretation doesn’t always translate, especially to onlookers unfamiliar with the wearer’s intent. Their opinions can also change over time: take tattoos from the Harry Potter franchise, for example – many queer fans inked them before knowing about JK Rowling’s ‘gender critical’ views. As her stance against trans rights became more extreme, many decided to remove them, with some tattoo artists even offering free cover-ups. 

The situation gets even more complicated when brands themselves start to recognise the cultural power of tattooing. Tattoo historian Matt Loder explains that “brands use tattoos as visual shortcuts to speak to youth culture and authenticity, even if the underlying ideas are problematic or simplified.” As tattoo aesthetics become mainstream, their rawness is packaged, stylised, and sold back to consumers. There’s nothing inherently wrong with brands borrowing tattoo visuals – Diesel, Marine Serre and Heaven are examples – but the issue arises when what’s being sold isn’t just the look, but the subculture itself. These companies market an image of ‘realness’ that promises authenticity, but often in a sanitised and commodified form. In the end, it’s not just ink that’s being copied – it’s identity, stripped down and sold back at a premium.