Colour tattoo of a blond man's torso on a black horse body, set against rainbows and purple clouds, realistically shaded on the leg.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Centaur with rainbows on a leg

Realism · Thigh · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a man in a sleeveless white shirt and bow tie, with a horse's body and tail in black, forming a centaur-like figure. Two rainbows arc behind the figure against a purple, cloudy sky, and the horse and man are shaded with smooth, realistic tones. Colour ink dominates, and the design fills the outer leg as a single composition.

Realism Thigh Man Horse Rainbow Cloud Bow tie

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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

The rain has been coming down on Carrow Street since before the fish stalls opened, and you are standing under the tin awning of Maud Orrin's stall with your horse half steaming like a kettle. Maud is wrapping a cabbage in newspaper and telling no one in particular that nobody will come out in this. You do not argue. You have been trading in this market for eleven winters, and you know the weather is only the weather until somebody needs something from it.

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Under the trestle table sits a biscuit tin with a faded picture of a Scottish lighthouse on the lid. Inside, folded like silk ribbon, are the bands of colour you have gathered over the years: a red one from a hedge in Dorset, a yellow one from the top of a bus shelter, a blue one you pulled off a drowned kite. People come to you when the grey gets into their bones. You never ask them why. You only ask them to bring the tin back empty when they have finished with it.

A girl in a yellow mac stops at the edge of the awning, a red umbrella tipped back so the rain runs off it in a neat ring. She stares at the tin, then at your tail, which is dripping on the cobbles. "How much for the one at the bottom?" she asks. You tell her the price is a promise to keep the colour out of the gutters, and she nods as if that is a fair deal.

The clouds begin to split above the chimney pots, a bruised purple lifting off the slates like a sheet pulled from a bed. You unroll the last band across the puddles, and it lays itself down from the lamp post to the fishmonger's door. The girl steps onto it in her wellies, grinning, and her shadow runs ahead of her all the way to the corner.