Fine line black and grey tattoo of a vintage camera with dotted construction lines on the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Camera tattoo on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A fine line tattoo of a vintage film camera with a large lens sits on the inner forearm. The camera is drawn in thin black linework with light shading on the lens barrel and body, and faint dotted guide lines frame it like a technical drawing. The ink is black and grey on pale skin, and the subject is centred against a plain light background.

Fine line Forearm Camera Lens

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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

Frank Dunning had the back off the camera before the kettle boiled, the little brass parts laid out on a square of green baize in the order he would need them. Outside, Halewick's high street was grey with drizzle, and the bell over the shop door had rung twice that morning with nobody coming in.

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The camera belonged to Mrs Agnes Pryce, who had carried it in a shoebox wrapped in a tea towel and asked him, very politely, to make it take a picture again. Her husband had bought it in 1938 for a honeymoon in Scarborough and used it, she said, perhaps eleven times. The lens barrel had a scratch like a fishing line. Frank drew the guide lines on his sheet first, the way his old master had taught him, a box and a centre cross, so that every part would sit square when it went back together.

Inside the film chamber he found a roll that had been wound on but never developed. He took it through to the darkroom behind the shop, pinned the strip to the drying line and waited with the red lamp humming. The first frames were a wedding, then a pier, then a clock tower with its hands at twenty to four. Frame nine showed the same clock with its hands at quarter past, and a man in a braced coat running from the post office door.

Mrs Pryce came back at five. Frank handed her the strip without a word, and she held the ninth frame to the window for a long time. "That's Walter," she said. "He always said the clock was wrong." She paid for the repair and left the camera on the counter. Frank found himself lining his dotted guides up against the tower in the print, one more time, to see whether the numbers agreed.