Black and grey realism tattoo of lilies, a rose, a daisy and clustered blossoms covering the shoulder and upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Black and grey floral sleeve on upper arm

Realism · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

A three-panel view of a half sleeve of flowers on a shoulder and upper arm, with a lily and a rose at the top, a large daisy-like bloom in the centre and small clustered blossoms below. The petals are shaded with smooth grey gradients and fine detail, set against dark negative areas that give depth. The image is shown on a coral background with the wearer's face not visible.

Realism Botanical Shoulder Upper arm Lily Rose Daisy Flower Blossom

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 flour was still settling in the sacks when Ada Pell found the lily. It had pushed up through a crack in the bakehouse step, a single white stem no thicker than a knitting needle, its petals grey in the lamplight as if frost had got into them. She had come down at four to light the oven, as her father had done for thirty-one years, and she stood with the poker in one hand and did not know whether to fetch the priest or the bread.

Keep reading

Walter Pell had never taken coin from the widow Hale, nor from anyone who came to the back door with an empty hand and a sorry story. They paid him in whatever the hedges and gardens gave. The widow had left a rose cutting wrapped in wet sacking, and it was that rose which climbed the wall after the funeral, its heads opening one by one as the loaves went in. The village said every debt paid at Pell's came up somewhere in the lane. Nobody said it kindly or unkindly. It was simply so.

Ada put the lily in a jug of water on the shelf above the cooling racks. By the time the first batch came out, a daisy had broken through the boards beneath the flour bin, and small white blossoms stood thick along the sill where Tom Garrow had left his purse the week before. She counted them. Nine. She wrapped the first loaf in a clean cloth and walked it up the lane to the mill, and behind her the daisy opened its gold heart to the morning, all at once, the way an oven door gives up its heat.