Colour realism tattoo of a man's face with dreadlocks, moustache and beard, across the upper chest and shoulder, with green, yellow and red bands behind.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic portrait of a man with dreadlocks on chest

Realism · Chest · Colour · Photo

A large portrait of a man's face with dreadlocks, moustache and beard, shown in a detailed realistic style. The shading gives soft skin tones, fine strands of hair and visible skin texture, with a slight tilt of the head and eyes looking to one side. Bands of green, yellow and red sit behind the portrait and extend across the upper chest and shoulder.

Realism Chest Shoulder Portrait Face Man Beard Moustache Stripe

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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

The lorry is still idling at the top of the Hallam Pass when you climb down from the cab, and the wind tears the tarpaulin off the load before you can reach it. Underneath is a hoarding panel, six feet by four, that Dilys bought from a shut petrol station in Llanwrtyd for a pound and a bacon sandwich. You have been painting it for three days in the cold, paint tins stacked against the wheel and a thermos of tea going lukewarm on the bonnet.

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The face is your father's idea, though he never saw it finished. He wanted a man looking off to the left, as if someone had called his name from the valley, and hair that fell like rope left out in the rain. You spend the first morning on the hair alone, a thousand fine strokes of black and midnight blue, until the panel looks like a hedge in moonlight. Dilys comes up the track with a flask and says the eyes are wrong. You tell her they are supposed to be tired.

By afternoon the sky has gone the colour of wet slate and you lay the bands across the bottom: green at the top, then yellow, then red, sharp as a flag sewn by someone in a hurry. The wind keeps lifting the masking tape, so you pin it down with stones from the verge. A coach of walkers slows to watch, and a child presses her palm flat to the back window.

When the last stroke of the mouth is done, the cloud splits over the ridge and the whole panel catches the light at once. The eyes seem to find the valley road, the one you will drive down tomorrow with the portrait strapped to the flatbed. Dilys says nothing, just pours you the last of the tea. You think about your father's hands, how he never could draw a straight line, and decide that is probably why he wanted you to do it.