Black and grey fine line and dotwork tattoo of a compass rose over a shaded globe with continents, on the inner upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Compass rose over a globe on an upper arm

Dotwork · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A compass rose with a shaded globe behind it sits inside a dotted circle, with the letters N, E, S and W marked at the points. The compass star is rendered in crisp fine linework with light shading, while the continents are built from soft grey stippling and wash-like tones. The tattoo is centred on the inner upper arm against a plain pale background.

Dotwork Fine line Upper arm Compass Compass rose Globe Map Continent Dotted circle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Penhallow had let the back room to the cartographer for eleven weeks before she noticed he never once looked out of the window at the sea. He sat with his board across his knees and a sable brush he had sharpened with his teeth, and every evening he worked the same circle of ink until the dots bled into grey. She asked him what he was making. He said the world, though not the one on the wall of the parlour, which was wrong about Iceland.

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The compass was the first thing he drew, eight rays of a star pricked out with a steel nib, each point sharpened so fine it could have cut paper. Then he laid the globe behind it. He would not draw a continent he had not walked, so the land came slowly, one stipple at a time, the rest left as blank cream. Mrs Penhallow brought up tea and watched him press a thumb to the paper where the Atlantic should be and smudge it into a soft wash.

On the last night of the month the wind came round to the north and the lamp guttered. He did not stop. He tapped the north point with the handle of the brush and said that his grandfather had told him a compass was only honest if you trusted the hand holding it. Then he capped the ink, folded the board in a cloth, and left the rent on the mantelpiece with a note: for the room, and for the light.

In the morning the room was empty, the bed stripped, and on the sill sat a ring of dots where he had set the dividers down. Mrs Penhallow pressed a finger to them. They were still faintly warm, and when she held the paper to the window she saw that the star no longer pointed north, but at her.