Close-up of a fine line black script tattoo reading liefde across the inner forearm of a person with blonde hair in a dark knit jumper.

Fine line script word on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black fine line tattoo in joined cursive script spells the word liefde across the inner forearm and wrist. The linework is thin and even with no shading, and the ink is a crisp, dark grey-black against pale skin. The arm is held up against a dark navy knit sleeve, with the wrist and hand at the top left of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sjoerd had been lettering shop fronts along the Prinsengracht long enough to know that a word in joined script needs room to lean. At ten past eleven on a wet Thursday he was still up his stepladder outside the closed haberdashery, the lamp above him buzzing, finishing the last loop of a single word in gold leaf.

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The owner, Mevrouw Anneke Brouwer, stood on the pavement below with an umbrella that kept turning itself inside out. "Not too big," she said. "It's for the window, not for the street." He had pencilled it three times on the glass first, a long line that rose and dipped like handwriting learnt at a kitchen table. The word was liefde. Her husband had written it on the lid of a tea tin forty years earlier, she said, and the tin had survived two floods and a move across the city.

When the last stroke was dry she did not pay him at once. She went inside, came back with the tin wrapped in a tea towel, and held it up beside the window so he could compare. His letters were taller and more certain than the ones on the tin. Hers were smaller, a little uneven, the loops closed where his were open. He had been trying to make the word look right, and she had only wanted it to look like her husband's hand.

He climbed down with the paint still tacky on his fingers. Behind him, in the dark glass, the word floated over the black water of the canal, the right way round, and it was not his.

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