Black and grey realism portrait of a woman with long hair, a hand raised to her head and red lips, tattooed on the outer thigh, with flowers beside her.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Portrait of a woman with flowers on a thigh

Realism · Thigh · Mixed · Photo

A realistic portrait of a woman with long, loose hair, one hand raised to her head and a small dot on her brow, with flowers in her hair and a larger floral design along the left edge. The face and hair are shaded in soft greys with fine strands of hair, and the lips are the only area of colour in bright red. The portrait fills the centre of the frame, with the tattoo wrapping around the outer thigh.

Realism Thigh Woman Portrait Flower Long hair Hand Lip

Find an artist for this

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

Nobody in Harrowgate Fell had seen Ada Crane laugh since the mill shut, so when she walked into the school hall for the reunion with her mouth painted red, the women put their cups down. The paint was madder root, scraped from the tin her mother kept under the stair, and it was the only colour anyone in the room could have named. Everything else had gone to grey: the wallpaper, the benches, the rain on the high windows, the old photographs pinned above the piano.

Keep reading

She stood by the urn and tried to say hello to Tom Ashby, who had sat behind her for six years, and the name would not come. She pressed two fingers to the place between her brows, the way she did when a sum refused to add up, and felt the paper blossoms slip in her hair. Her mother had told her about the tin. Whoever wore the red to a gathering had to give back every name she had let go of, one at a time, or stay grey for the rest of her days.

So she began. Mary Pickering, who drew horses in the margins. Joseph Lund, who cried at the nativity. The boy who went to sea and never wrote. The room went quiet as she moved along the rows, and one by one the faces came up out of the grey, sharp at the edges. Tom Ashby's name was the last she found, and she gave it back to him gently.

When she reached the end she realised she had not said her own. She lifted the tin lid, dabbed the last of the red onto her fingertip and wiped it away on the tea towel. Under the paint her mouth was only a mouth again, and the hall, for the first time since the mill, was simply a hall full of people she had once known.