Abstract watercolour-style tattoo on an upper arm and shoulder, with black brushstrokes, concentric circles and purple and teal splashes.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Abstract brushstroke tattoo on upper arm

Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A large abstract tattoo covers the upper arm and reaches toward the shoulder, built from heavy black brushstrokes, drips and a rounded shape with concentric rings. Purple, teal and blue splashes spread around the black forms, with a small pink rectangle as an accent. The composition runs vertically along the arm, with a fine dotted line curving across the lower half.

Upper arm Abstract Brushstroke Splatter Concentric circle Rectangle Drip

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Ivy, the gramophone at Seacrest has finally given up, so the evenings are quiet and I have had time to watch Mr Hallam work. He came in on Tuesday with a canvas roll under one arm and a tin of ink that smelled of tar, and he has taken the back room over the bay window for a studio. Mother would have had something to say about the ink on the eiderdown. I have said nothing, because he pays the week in advance and tips the girls in pennies wrapped in brown paper.

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Last night the storm came in off the Wash and he stood at the window with the lamp out, letting the rain run down the glass. Then he began to paint with a broom handle, not a brush. Black strokes, long and heavy, dragged down the page in one pull. He dropped the tin on its side and let the blue and violet bleed into the wet. I thought he had ruined the sheet. He only laughed and said the sea does the same thing to a chart.

This morning the sheet was pinned to the drying line. In the middle of the black there was a round shape with rings inside it, like the grooves of a record or the ripples a stone makes, and a small pink square he said was the one bright thing a storm leaves behind. He would not say what it was. He said it was the lighthouse lamp turned sideways, or possibly a door. I asked whether he would finish it before the season ends. He said it was finished the moment the rain stopped, and that the dotted line running under all of it was the tide mark he never bothered to wipe. Then he gave me the sheet, still damp, and asked me to take it to the post. Tell Father I am well, and that the painter is not nearly as mad as we feared.

Love, Maud