Colour tattoo of a man's head broken into angular red, orange and brown facets with a teal line, in Geometric style on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Geometric portrait of a man's head on an upper arm

Geometric · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A man's head in profile is rendered as a portrait made of angular, faceted shapes, with one open eye visible through the fragments. Black shading fills the short, swept hair and the background, while the face is built from red, orange, brown and mauve triangles with thin teal lines crossing it. The design fills the frame on smooth skin, with a small dot and a teal line adding accents to the composition.

Geometric Upper arm Man Head Portrait Eye Hair Triangle Geometric shape Face

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Pell had given me the back room at Harbour View because it looked over the bay, and for three weeks I measured that bay from the headland and never once slept through the gulls. My work was triangulation: a brass theodolite on a tripod, a pencil worn to a stub, a ledger of bearings. Every station I fixed went into the book as a point, and every point had to agree with the three before it, or the coast was lying.

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The trouble began with the hall mirror. It was an old glass, speckled at the corners, and it had cracked clean through the middle so that anyone passing saw themselves in pieces, each shard tilted a few degrees off true. On the Thursday I came in wet from the cliffs and caught my face four times over, and in one of the shards an eye had stayed whole while the rest of me slid sideways. I stood dripping on the mat and worked the figures in my head. The bearings did not close. Somewhere out on the water, one of my stations had moved.

I took the line back to the headland the next morning, a thread of teal silk pulled taut from my chalk mark to the lighthouse on Gull Rock. The lighthouse had not moved. My sighting had been off by a hair at the first station, and a hair at that distance was a mile of lying coast. I corrected the point with a dot of ink, redrew the sand bar where it truly ran, and sat on the wet grass until the tide turned the rocks black.

Back at Harbour View I wrote the figure in the ledger and went down to breakfast. Mrs Pell had laid out kippers and said nothing about my boots, and when I glanced at the cracked glass on my way past, the eye in the shard was only my own, looking back at me without any tilt at all.