Black and grey dotwork geometric triangle with a mandala pattern and small ornament on the stomach, shown in a black and white photo of a torso.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Geometric triangle mandala on the stomach

Geometric · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a torso, with a woman's face not shown, wearing a black crop top pulled up. A large triangle tattoo sits centrally on the abdomen, with a radiating mandala-like pattern and a small ornament at its apex. The shading is built from fine dots and linework, and the composition is framed closely on the midriff.

Geometric Dotwork Ribs Triangle Mandala Ornament

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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

Mind the gravel by the sundial, it shifts underfoot, and take the bench in the shade, not the one with the wasp's nest under the seat. There. Now listen, because I will only tell this once before the bell goes for the evening milk.

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Old Tamsin Rook kept the walled garden at Lowther Mill for forty years, and every morning before the mill wheel started she went down the rows with a bent stick and drew a triangle in the damp earth, point to the ground. Inside it she set rings, one within the other, dotted with seed the way a cook pricks pastry: marigold petals, sage leaves, the tight black beads of poppy heads. Nobody asked her why. The mill owner's daughter asked once, and Tamsin only said the pattern was in the frost on the glass, if you looked close enough, and that a body could spend a whole winter copying it and never get the same lace twice.

Then came the hard frost of the year the river froze to the weir. Tamsin walked out at dawn and found the triangle had frozen too, every dot of it standing white on the dark soil. She knelt, breath clouding, and pressed her thumb to the point at the centre, where the lines met. The ground there was soft. It was always soft. She scraped it with her nail and dropped in one stone-hard poppy seed she had been saving in her apron pocket.

By Midsummer there was a single green shoot pushing up through the apex, and nobody in that garden had sown it. Tamsin cut the bud off at the base with her little knife and kept it dry in a tin, and when people asked her what it was, she said it was the seed that had frozen to the ground, and that she was waiting to see whether it would forgive her.