Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Eiffel Tower tattoo on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A forearm is held up in the foreground with a small black Eiffel Tower tattoo drawn in a fine, open lattice outline. Behind it, the real Eiffel Tower rises over a park with trees, grass, a path and several small, distant people. The tattoo is in black ink on pale skin, and the blurred background gives the photo a warm, slightly faded look.

Fine line Forearm Eiffel tower Tower Tree Sky Silhouette

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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 postcard came in the second week of August, bent at one corner where the postman had forced it through our letterbox. My father read it standing at the sink, then handed it to me, because I was the one who could draw. Uncle Len had got as far as Paris with his paint-box and a suitcase of borrowed shirts. On the front the tower rose out of the picture like a pencil stood on its point. On the back he had written only: Tell Ada I have found the iron tree. Bring your ruler, Pip.

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Halsey Cross had one bus a day and a bakery that shut at two, so nobody in it had seen a lattice of girders taller than the church spire. I borrowed a ruler from Mr Thorne at the school and spent three evenings on squared paper, copying the crossed braces from the photograph. The trick, I found, was leaving gaps. A solid line looks like a wall. An open one looks like the air is being held up by something very patient. I inked the finished drawing with my father's pen and pinned it above the workbench in the shed.

In October the chestnut in the square dropped its leaves, and Ada Pryce, who had taught me my letters, came up the lane with her sleeve pushed back and asked for the tower. Small enough to hide under a cardigan, she said. I had never worked on skin, and my father's needle set was rusty, but she laid her arm flat on the bench as steady as a girder and told me to stop fussing and count the braces aloud.

When it was done she studied it for a long time, then pulled her cuff down and said Len had sent her a postcard too, with the same words on the back. We never did get to Paris. Every October after that she came up the lane to have the lines checked, and I would hold her wrist to the window and say they were still open. Neither of us needed the picture any more.