Black and white photo of a fine line city skyline tattoo with a tall spire running along the outer side of a foot, with a small figure eight tattoo on the second foot.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line city skyline tattoo on foot

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A thin black line traces a city skyline with a tall spire rising from a low, uneven outline, running along the outer edge of a bare foot. A small black figure eight sits on the top of the other foot near the toes, and both feet rest on a textured grey carpet. The photograph is black and white, with clean, even lighting and a close framing that keeps the focus on the linework.

Fine line Other Skyline City Skyscraper Spire Foot

Find an artist for this

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

Dorota had the spire wrong three mornings running. It came out fat at the base, like a cake stand, and Mr Okonedo kept standing under the ladder with his tea going cold, saying a proper skyline was a thin, nervous thing, the sort of line a pencil makes when it is frightened of the paper. She was on the top-floor ledge of the old lamp works on Haddock Street, hung in a bosun's chair from a bolt that had been there since the war, painting the city backwards onto the window so it would read right from the pavement.

Keep reading

The chair was tied off with a figure of eight, the knot my father taught me on the Margate trawler, where he said a rope that loops twice and tucks back will hold a grown man's weight and a bucket of cadmium yellow without complaint. I checked it every morning with my thumb. Mr Okonedo sells lamp shades and wind-up clocks, and he never once asked why a sign-writer with a bad left wrist would climb up for five pounds an hour and a view.

On the fourth morning the sea fog came up Haddock Street and swallowed the buildings from the bottom up, so that only the tops of the towers floated above it like masts. I could not see the pavement and could not see my brush. I worked from memory of the skyline the way it had stood before the flood, the one Mr Okonedo's brother had photographed, and I drew the spire thin and a little uneven, each tooth of the roofline where it belonged.

When the fog lifted at noon, a boy with a satchel was standing right under the window, looking up. He said the city had come back wet and was drying itself on the glass. Mr Okonedo bought the first shade I ever painted for him, and when he paid he tapped the window twice with his knuckle, as if the spire might hear him.