Realism tattoo of the Joker on a forearm, shown in black and grey with green accents on his grin and hand.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Joker portrait on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A realistic portrait of the Joker, with a green-haired figure in a jacket leaning forward and smiling, filling the forearm from elbow towards wrist. The shading is soft and smooth in greys and black, with bright green used for the mouth, chin and a hand. The image is taken straight on, with a wooden floor and a person in a red top in the background.

Realism Forearm Joker Portrait Comic character Jacket Smile

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The man came up the pier on the third Tuesday of October, the same as he had the year before, and the year before that, and asked for the same plate. Alfred Pennock had the camera set on its brass legs before the gentleman had finished brushing rain from his lapels. Grey light off the Channel, grey backdrop, a grey stool. Sit as you like, Alfred said, and the man leaned forward over his knuckles and grinned like a conjuror who had just shown the audience an empty box.

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Alfred had never told his daughter how the plates came out. In the dark room, under the ruby lamp, the gentleman's coat was ordinary wool and the hair was ordinary wax, and the face was only a face until the developer took hold of it. Then the mouth came up on the glass as though someone had poured a little light into it, a sharp green that would not fix, and the chin and one long hand bloomed the same colour. He tried washing the plate. He tried a stronger bath of hypo. Each time the green only grew more particular.

Sixpence was the price, and the man always paid in farthings, counted out on the varnished bench with a small clicking like teeth. Last October he paid with a single coin, warm to the touch, with a pale face stamped on it that Alfred did not recognise. Keep the change, the man said, and on the boards outside his umbrella opened with a sound like a laugh caught in a throat.

When Alfred's daughter Edie cleared the studio that winter, she found the plates stacked in a tin marked MARINE VIEWS. Every one showed the same grey stool and the same grin, green as a bottle held up to a lamp. The last had no man in it, only the stool and a damp coat folded over its back, and the mouth, still smiling, lit like a lantern in an empty room.