Army Spc. Anthony Keylon modestly displays 18 works of art pouring over the muscles of his arms, back and thighs.

There are overt Scottish national symbols, representing his heritage.

There are gorgeous fantasy women - eye candy, purely and simply.

And there are blossoms and dragons, which appeal to him aesthetically but also seem fitting for an Army chaplain assistant who had two fingers severed by shrapnel (and subsequently reattached) yet who spends much of his time counseling fellow soldiers.

"Every one of my tattoos has a meaning to me," he said, though he concedes they might not have reflected his intentions had he not discovered Augusta's Aces and Eights a year and a half ago. Several years after his first tattoo, he felt he had finally met artists who take the time to develop his ideas and who possess the skill to execute them.

Such relationships between artist and client are becoming more common in an art form once associated exclusively with seedy port cities and criminal proclivity but having grown in popularity since hitting the mainstream in the 1990s.

Nowadays, nearly a quarter of Americans ages 18-50 have spent time under the needle, according to the Journal of the American Academy of Dermatology.

Last March, the Army, citing tattoo ubiquity among potential job candidates, lifted its longstanding ban on art-festooned hands and necks, so long as the tattoos are inoffensive.

Popularity has brought new scruples to an industry that in many ways is still old-fashioned, with tattoo machines employing the same basic century-old design and new artists cutting their teeth in traditional apprenticeships.

Increasingly rare are the old parlors where patrons cue up to choose ready-made pictures, called "flash," and resign themselves to the finished product.

Rather, many tattoo studios are professional clinics practicing hospital-grade sanitation and businesses that cultivate consumer loyalty. Moreover, steady improvements in tattoo inks have produced vivid, longer-lasting pigments; and artists must accommodate demands for sophisticated work, such as flowing tapestries or even photorealistic portraits, which balance personal symbolism with body aesthetic.

"A lot of people don't realize that you can get a lot of really beautiful work done - not just the same flag or eagle," said Casey Campbell, who has done extensive work for Spc. Keylon.

Jeffrey Smith (aka "Fro"), one of two artists at downtown Augusta's First Amendment Tattoo, says that tattoo artists prefer to demonstrate their creative abilities and that much of the work in his shop is inspired by clients' ideas. Frequently, he drafts preliminary sketches and urges clients to spend a few days contemplating the appearance and placement of their work.

Paul Schultz is a regular in the studio.

"It's a canvas," Mr. Schultz said of his epidermis. "You might as well cover it with art."

Tattoo studios abide by the maxim that a happy customer is the best advertisement, but many artists exercise standards over what and where they tattoo. For example, few reputable studios do racist or drug imagery, says Robert Twilley, a principal artist and co-owner of Aces and Eights. He contends such images perpetuate negative stereotypes about tattoos and reflect an unprofessional attitude on the artist.

Many artists are reluctant to tattoo the neck or hands of an untattooed person, especially those barely legal (18 in Georgia; 18 with a parent in tow in South Carolina, 21 otherwise).

"I tell them they're flat out stupid," Mr. Twilley said.

Mr. Smith, who at 26 is already decorated along his neck and temples, said he counsels those customers also.

Both acknowledge that increased tattoo prevalence hasn't diminished widespread stigma. The tattooed still endure stares. Sometimes parents pull their children closer. Both artists want people to appreciate the sacrifices personal expression exacts.