Neo-traditional tattoo of a woman's profile in a beaded headpiece within an art deco fan and checkerboard design, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Art deco woman profile on a forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A woman in profile wears a beaded, scrolled headpiece and has short, curled hair, set against a fan-shaped backdrop of green and gold panels. Below her, a black and white checkerboard pattern, a gold finial and dangling beaded drops complete the symmetrical art deco composition. Bold black outlines, flat fills and soft shading in yellow, green, pink and black give the piece a modern traditional look.

Find an artist for this

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

The lamps of the Hall of Glass have been burning for three nights, and still the Queen's milliner has not received the headpiece. You sit at the bench with a tin of pearl drops and a spool of gold wire, the last commission of the season, and you know the fault is yours. Every bead you have threaded hangs a fraction too heavy, so the scroll sags when it should rise like a wave cresting over the brow.

Keep reading

Your apprentice, Teodora, brings tea and says the fan panels behind the throne are already gilded in green and ochre, waiting for a crown that will not sit straight. She asks whether you intend to sleep. You tell her you will sleep when the checkerboard in the marble is laid, because the architect insists the black and cream squares must echo the hem of the ballroom gown exactly, and you have promised him the same precision in silver.

At midnight you unpick the scroll and begin again, lighter this time, the drops cut from thinner wire so they will swing when the Queen turns her head. Teodora watches you shape the finial, the small gold spike that will crown the whole design, and asks why it matters so much. You tell her that a headpiece is only a frame, and that the face inside it decides what the city remembers.

At dawn the wire holds. You carry the crown across the courtyard in both hands, past guards who have stopped pretending not to yawn, and you do not look back at the bench. The drops are still chiming faintly against one another in the cold air, and no one in the palace will ever know how many times you nearly gave up.

More like this

From the plentytattoo archive, uploaded by a user. Is this your work? Ask for credit or removal.