Joker holding a camera on a forearm
Neo-trad · Forearm · Mixed · Photo
A split-face Joker character holds a camera up to one eye, with the grinning half of his face and a gloved hand gripping the camera body. The figure is rendered in greyscale with smooth shading and dark outlines. Hot pink and magenta wash through the background and cuffs, giving the piece a bold, graphic finish.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Tuesday, late. The developing tank still stinks of vinegar and I can't get it out of my cuffs. Eleven plates from the Quayside fire, and every one of them has him in it. Not the flames, not the fire crew, not the widow on the fish-market steps. Him. Half a painted face turned to the lens, the other half split open in a grin you could hang washing on.
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Editor Harrow wants him on page one. I told him the man doesn't pose, he performs, and performers ruin plates. Harrow said the readers pay for a face and I should give them one. So this morning I went down to the harbour with the old box camera and a roll of cheap stock, and I waited by the chandler's with my back to the wall. He came at nine in a plum waistcoat and lavender gloves, a camera already raised to one eye before I'd got my own lens level.
He photographed me. That is what I keep turning over. The shutter in his hand clicked, the gulls scattered off the rail, and the whole quayside went quiet, the way a room does when someone has pulled out the chair you were about to sit in. He tipped his hat, said nothing, and walked off towards the lighthouse, whistling a music hall tune my father used to sing.
Back in the dark room the plate came up slowly in the tray. Crates, rope, a dead gull on its side. And in the bottom corner, the sharpest thing on the sheet: my own face, mouth open, caught mid-sentence as though I were about to tell someone the truth. I've pinned it above the sink. Harrow can keep his fire. Tomorrow I'm loading fresh film and going back to the harbour, because I want to know which of us was taking the picture.
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