Small black fine line tattoo of an angel wing with a halo on the side of a torso, shown in a warm-toned phone photo.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Angel wing and halo on the side of the torso

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of a single angel wing with a halo above it sits on smooth skin along the side of the torso. The linework is dark and fairly fine, with feather detail shaded in grey and the halo drawn as a simple double outline. The warm, reddish tones of the photo come from the lighting, and the tattoo is centred in a tight crop with bedding visible at the edges.

Fine line Ribs Angel wing Halo Feather

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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

Mr Lowe had been up his ladder since dawn, and by the time I brought his tea the Whitsun angel had a left wing and no right one. The pageant committee had decided the Co-op's painted angel was too plump for the bandstand, so he was making a smaller one for Pearl Dacre's float, out of chicken wire and a pillowcase stiffened with size. He worked each feather with one stroke of his sable brush, dipping it in ink that smelt of pear drops, and told me to hold the pot steady.

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"Why only one wing?" I asked. He said the other had gone to the lost property office at the railway station in March, and nobody had ever claimed it, which was how he liked things. A single wing can't lift anything, he said, so it has to keep looking up. Then he took a length of wire from his apron, bent it into a ring, and set it above the feathers. The sun came through the workshop window and caught the ring, and for a moment it threw a thin gold line across the floorboards.

On Whit Monday the float went down Station Road with the angel on it, and the halo was not on the wire frame. I found it that evening on the hook behind the workshop door, still warm from somebody's hand. Mr Lowe had gone home early with a cough, and the back door was unlatched, and there was a pencil note on his bench in his careful capitals: THE FEATHERS ARE YOURS TO FINISH IF YOU WANT THEM.

I picked up the brush. My first feather came out crooked, the second worse, and by the time the lamps were lit I had filled half a board with ink wings that looked like they had been dragged backwards through a hedge. I left them to dry, put the wire ring in my coat pocket, and walked home past the cinema, where the hoarding still said CLOSED FOR REPAIRS in faded red.