Realism colour portrait tattoo of a man with swept brown hair in a pinstriped shirt, holding a metal handheld device, on the calf.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic portrait on a calf

Realism · Calf · Colour · Photo

A detailed portrait of a man with swept brown hair, wearing a pinstriped shirt and holding a metal handheld device near his face. The shading is smooth and tonal, with soft blended skin tones, sharp highlights in the hair and a pale blue glow behind the device. The figure fills the vertical frame on a lower leg, against a blue-grey backdrop.

Realism Calf Portrait Man 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

Sit down, sit down, and mind the coal scuttle, because my father never told this story without knocking it over. It was the winter the Ashgrove pit started breathing wrong. Men came up grey at the mouth, the canaries were fine, but the air had a sweetness to it that Tom Pryce did not like. He was the deputy's clerk, a neat fellow who kept his shirts pressed and his stripes straight, and he carried a brass-cased tester no bigger than a pocket watch that Mr Lunt had sent up from Cardiff.

Keep reading

Every shift he walked the north dip with that tester held out before him like a man dowsing for water. When the needle lay down, the little glass bulb behind it lit a pale blue, and that was the only colour in the whole gallery apart from the lamps. The colliers laughed at him. They called him the ghost-catcher and asked whether he'd like his tea served in a bowl of milk. He never answered them. He only checked the glow again and wrote the figure in his book.

On the ninth night the blue came up bright enough to read by, and Tom stopped dead at the junction where the old horse road ran off. Behind him a boy named Eli Strand was whistling a hymn. Tom raised one hand, and Eli stopped. They stood in the dark while the glass grew bluer, and then Tom did the thing my father always said made him the best clerk in the valley. He turned round and walked the whole crew back to the cage, one lamp at a time, and he did not open his book once.

The pit was sealed by spring. Nobody died, which is the miracle the chapel people still preach about, though my father said it was the tester that did the preaching. Tom kept it in his waistcoat until he was an old man. When they laid him out, they found the glass still faintly lit, a small blue eye that had decided to keep watch a little longer.