Once upon a time, in a land over-filtered and underwhelmed, there lived a peculiar artist named Lermont—a project dreamed into being by Timothy Vanlerberghe, who had clearly skipped a few family dinners to make something interesting for once. 
 

Lermont was not just a man. He was many things: a visual artist, a photographer, a videographer, and—most crucially—a tattooist. But not the kind who'd give you a butterfly because you had a spiritual awakening during Tomorrowland. No. Lermont was in the business of something far rarer, more mythical:

Giving you the tattoo that would finally make your mother proud.

Now, this wasn’t the proud where she’d knit you a sweater with your face on it. No. This was the gritted teeth, blink twice if you’re being ironic kind of proud. The kind she would bring up at brunch in between praising your cousin Megan’s dental practice and asking why you still don’t eat meat.
 

Each tattoo whispered: I may have disappointed you in 99 ways, but look—I have taste. Edgy, curated, deeply misunderstood taste.

Timothy, behind the veil of Lermont, just kept creating—clicking shutters, editing footage, inking skin. He never promised transformation. He offered something better: aesthetic absolution with just enough sincerity to keep the sarcasm tasteful.