Black and grey geometric dotwork sleeve tattoo covering a woman's arm from shoulder to wrist, with mandala patterns and a winged sun motif.

Geometric dotwork sleeve on arm

Dotwork · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A full arm sleeve of mandala-like geometric patterns, built from fine stippled dots and clean linework, runs from the shoulder down to the wrist. Lower down, a central sun with wing-like forms and a large triangular design sit among denser radiating rings. The tattoo is in black and grey only, with the image cropped above the chin and shot against a dark background.

Dotwork Geometric Upper arm Forearm Mandala Geometric pattern Sun Wing Triangle Sacred geometry Sleeve

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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

We found the sketchbook wedged behind the gas bottle locker when we hauled the Mabel out at Braunston. Its pages were soft as cloth, and every one was a circle inside a circle, dotted so finely that the pencil had worn a grey shine into the paper. Dad said the man who drew them had been a lock-keeper too, and had counted the rings the way other men counted pints.

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Mum wanted the book given to the museum at Stoke Bruerne. Dad wanted it kept dry. I wanted to copy the winged sun on the last page, the one with a triangle beneath it like a keel, because it looked like the lock gate seen from above once the water had gone down. I spent every night at the table with a fine nib and a magnifier, dotting until my wrist ached and the paraffin lamp hissed.

In March the ice broke early and the towpath flooded. I took the book to the lock at dawn to check the paddles and found the gates already open, the water pouring out and circling the drain in exactly the spiral I had been copying for a month. I stood on the beam with the book under my coat and understood the drawings were not decoration. They were the lock's own plan, a ring for each chamber and the triangle for the stop beam.

I put the book back in its locker that morning and never told Mum. The sun is still on the last page, dotted dark, and when I shut the cabin hatch at night the brass dividers tick against the tin like a clock that has decided to be patient.