Colour realism tattoo of a blonde woman with her hair in a bun and red-framed sunglasses, on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic portrait of a woman in sunglasses

Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A photorealistic portrait of a woman with blonde hair pulled into a bun and red-framed tinted sunglasses, shown from the front with her lips closed. The shading is smooth and detailed, with soft gradations across the skin, hair and lens reflections. Warm skin tones sit against muted blue and grey background tones, and the portrait fills the upper arm and shoulder.

Realism Upper arm Woman Portrait Sunglasses Hair bun Blonde hair

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

The snow came over the Varra Gap faster than the radio had promised, and by four o'clock the only thing moving on the switchbacks below the refuge was a red hatchback with its hazards blinking. I walked down with a shovel over my shoulder, because that is what the keeper's son does when the cloud drops. The driver wound her window down two inches, no more, and looked at me through tinted lenses that had the whole grey valley folded into them.

Keep reading

"The pass is shut until Thursday," I said. "There's a bed in the hut."

"I have a booking in Sallen tonight," she said. The hire agreement on the dashboard gave her name as Marit Olsen, and she had the patience of someone who had argued with mountains before and lost gracefully. She pushed the sunglasses up, then down again, as if the light had changed its mind. "How far does the lower road go?"

"As far as the quarry at Dunmere. After that you're on your own." She asked whether I had ever been to Sallen. I told her my father drove the milk lorry there every Tuesday until the bridge went, and that he used to sing the whole way over the bad stretch so the cows wouldn't panic. She laughed, a short surprised sound, and I found myself telling her about the river, the frozen troughs and the lamps still lit at six in the morning.

When she finally eased the car into reverse, the last light off the snow caught in her lenses, and I could see a small version of myself standing at the bend with the shovel, the refuge behind me, the road running down into the cloud. I stood there until her brake lights were gone, and then a while longer, because the snow kept coming and nobody had told me the road was closed to me too.