Meraki script on the inner forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
The photograph shows the word Meraki written in a thin, single-weight black script across the inner forearm. The linework is clean and even with no shading, and the letters flow into one another with a slight upward slant. The skin tone and blue denim behind the arm create a plain, neutral composition.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mr Tolley wanted the new sign for the Pavilion in gold leaf and Roman capitals, the way the old one had been, and he wanted it finished by Friday because the bandleader was coming down from Leeds with forty men and a drum kit nobody could lift. I told him gold leaf keeps its own time. I climbed the ladder anyway with my sables in my apron pocket and my tin of size balanced on the rung.
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Every job I ever did had a name on it that nobody would read. The sprung floor in the ballroom was laid by a man called Arthur Coyle, and his initials were scratched into a joist under the stage where only the mice looked. I had my own habit. Beneath the gilt of the P, where the varnish would seal it, I wrote one word in the finest brush I owned, in the loose script my mother used on birthday cards. Stavros, the tile-setter who taught me to mix colour in my palm, had told me the word was Greek and meant putting something of yourself into the work until the work held a bit of you. He said it was the only reason to make anything at all.
The bandleader came on Saturday. The hall filled to the rafters, the sign glowed over the doors, and nobody looked up at the lettering for longer than it took to find the bar. On Monday a gale tore one corner loose and Mr Tolley sent for me to make the repair. He stood under the ladder with his hat in his hands and squinted at the exposed letter.
"What's that squiggle under the paint?" he asked.
"Meraki," I said.
"Sounds Italian."
"Greek," I said, and went back up the ladder.
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