Solid black silhouette of an acoustic guitar tattoo on the inner upper arm of a woman with auburn hair wearing a green top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Acoustic guitar silhouette on upper arm

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A small solid black silhouette of an acoustic guitar sits on the inner upper arm, angled diagonally with the neck pointing up and the body curving at the lower left. The design is filled with flat black ink with no shading or visible linework, and the edges are clean against pale skin. The plain light background and green fabric at the right keep the focus on the tattoo.

Upper arm Guitar Silhouette

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the draught, you, and pass that heel of loaf down before it goes cold. Right. The pass shut on the Tuesday, and Mrs Oakenshaw had three rooms let and one guest she wished she hadn't. That was Caddock Reeve, who came stamping up the valley road with his coat white to the collar and a guitar on his back, wrapped in oilcloth gone stiff with frost. He had a voice like a cart on gravel and no money to speak of. He paid for his bed with a song about a drowned ferryman, and nobody in that kitchen had heard the like.

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Three nights he sat by the grate, picking at the strings with his thumb while the wind worked at the shutters. He never played it loud. He said a guitar was a thing you leaned in toward, like a man telling you a secret. On the fourth morning the snow stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the silence was so big that Mrs Oakenshaw came down in her stockings to see who had died. Caddock was gone. He had left the instrument on the settle, its neck pointing up at the smoke hole as if it wanted to be first out into the clean air.

Here is the part that matters. Pressed into the pine beneath the strings, cut with his penknife, were the initials of every inn he had ever played, one for each village, and the last one was ours. Mrs Oakenshaw hung the guitar above the hearth, where the wall was still black from the old fires. Some say she heard it hum on frosty nights. I say the wood was simply cold and sang back to the stove. Either way, she never let a guest take it down.