Bold portrait with script lettering on thigh
Blackwork · Other · Black and grey · Photo
A bold, solid black silhouette-style portrait of a bald older man with glasses, a goatee and a bow tie sits above a black script phrase. The linework is thick with flat black fills and little shading, set against a close crop of skin. The image is in black and grey with no colour ink.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mind the stairs, love, the lift's been out since the winter, so you'll have to take them slow and sit down before I start, because my knees have opinions of their own. Fourteenth floor of Carrow House, the one with the blue doors. Down on the ground floor, under the walkway, there was a chicken shop called Dunmore's, and the man who ran it wore a white shirt, a black bow tie and spectacles he never once took off to wipe his hands.
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Alf Dunmore would not sell. The council men came with their clipboards and their talk of regeneration, and each time they named a figure he said the shop was not for sale, nor the batter, nor his face. So one Saturday he took a tin of black gloss and painted himself onto the metal shutter: bald head, round glasses, goatee, bow tie, every line thick enough to read from the bus stop. The lads from the fourth floor drew a moustache on it in marker. Alf wiped it off on Monday and said nothing.
Then the lift went for good, and the council men stopped coming up, and the old boys stopped coming down. Alf started carrying shopping up fourteen floors himself, two bags in each hand, bow tie straight, telling everyone the stairs were good for the heart. He never once said which heart he meant. Mrs Okafor on the ninth floor used to leave her bag outside her door with a fiver folded inside, and he'd leave it there again with the change, every Thursday for three years.
When the demolition notice finally went up, the block emptied in a fortnight. I went down on the last morning for my mum's radio, and the shutter was up, the counter bare, and that black face was still staring out from the metal. Alf had gone. Nobody ever painted over it, and I don't think anybody wanted to. Pass me that cup, would you? Now, where was I?
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