Black and grey realistic tattoo of an older man with long, swept-back hair and a high forehead, placed on the side of the ribs.

Realistic grey portrait of a man on the ribs

Realism · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A realistic portrait of an older man with long, swept-back hair, shown from the shoulders up and wearing a loose collar. The face is built from fine shading with soft gradients across the cheeks, brow and hair, and sharper detail in the eyes and mouth. The design is entirely in black and grey ink on lightly flushed skin, and the portrait sits centrally on the side of the torso above a waistband.

Realism Ribs Portrait Man Hair Collar

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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

You unlock the back door of Holloway Street Bakery at ten to four, the flour sacks already sweating in the cold, and the first thing you do is look up at the old engraving above the proving cabinet. Nobody knows who put it there. Ruth said it came with the lease: a grey-faced man with long hair swept back and a loose collar folded like a dishcloth, staring out as if he disapproved of the dough.

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The starter has risen overnight, domed and sour-sweet, and you feed it by feel, the way Ruth taught you before her hands gave out. You weigh the water, the rye and the salt. The oven ticks as it heats. Outside, a milk float whines past and a fox trots across the yard with something limp in its jaws. You work until the window fades from black to the colour of dishwater, and you talk to the engraving the way you used to talk to Ruth, grumbling about the lamination and the lad who never sweeps.

At half five the first loaves come out, blistered and ringing hollow when you knock their bases. For once you don't check the till or the order sheet. You stand in the steam with your palms on the cooling tin and listen to the street wake up. Ruth would have said the bread knows when you are rushing it.

When the shutter goes up, Mrs Okafor is first in the queue, as always. She buys the heel of the rye and asks whether the old fellow upstairs is still watching. You tell her he is. You tell her he has never once been satisfied with the crust.