Close-up of a small black fine line Eye of Horus tattoo on the side of a person's neck, with dark hair and a hand holding white fabric at the left edge.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Eye of Horus tattoo on the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A small Eye of Horus, drawn as a single black outline with a filled pupil, sits on the side of the neck below the hairline. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the design is shown in black ink against warm, softly lit skin. The composition is tight, with the tattoo at the centre and a hand holding white fabric at the left edge.

Fine line Neck Eye of horus Eye Outline

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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 barge had been my grandfather's before it was mine, and he never let anybody touch the bow without his say-so. So when the tide turned at Brentford and Danny Okonedo came along the towpath with a tin of black gloss and a brush wrapped in the Evening Standard, I told him to wait until I'd finished my tea. The eye was already drawn in my head. I'd sketched it the night before on the back of a pools coupon, the way Grandad used to, with a curl under it like a teardrop that had decided to stay.

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He told me once that the eye was a wound that got mended. A god called Horus lost his eye in a fight with his uncle, something torn out in the scuffle and flung into the dark, and a clever old god put it back together so it could see for the living and the dead again. Grandad said any boat carrying something it couldn't afford to lose needed an eye on the front, something that kept watch on the water ahead while the people below slept. He didn't believe in gods, mind. He believed in brass and rivets and the sound of a hull hitting a sunken pram.

Danny wanted to know if it was for luck. I said it was for the river. He held the brush steady for the first curve while I leaned over the rail, and his hand wobbled on the lower stroke, so the line fattened and I had to live with it. I told him that was how you knew a thing was made by people and not by a machine. He filled in the pupil last, slow as a man signing his name, and the gloss went glossy and then dull as the light went.

When the lamps came on along the Thames Path, the eye was looking straight down the river toward Kew, and I stood on the deck with my hand on the tiller and thought that Grandad would have called it daft and then gone and checked it twice.