Colour realism tattoo of a man with a wide-eyed, grimacing expression and a dark headband, on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic portrait tattoo on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A large, detailed portrait of a man with a dark headband, wide eyes and a tense, open-mouthed expression fills most of the frame. The face is shaded with smooth gradients and fine highlights, with warm reds, oranges and skin tones dominating and a dark band and shadowed background behind the head. The portrait sits on the upper arm and is cropped close, with a few other dark shapes visible at the edges.

Realism Upper arm Portrait Man Face Headband

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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

Tuesday, 14 October. Twenty to one in the morning and Mr Pryce from the chemist's has been standing on the roof of the Co-op for an hour with a bucket of sand and no clear idea what it is for. I have told him twice that the sand is for the incendiaries, not for the ones that have already gone off, and twice he has nodded as though I had said something about the weather.

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The glow came up over the timber yard on Mill Lane just after midnight. From the parapet it looked like the whole of Hessle Road was alight, and Pryce's face went the colour of the sky, his eyes so wide I thought he might be taken ill. He kept saying the word 'proper' under his breath, as if the fire had broken some promise. I took his arm and walked him down the ladder one rung at a time, the way my father used to walk the horses past the railway cutting.

By half past one we had it. It was not the timber yard at all but the bakery behind it, where Mrs Oddie had left the ovens banked and the lid off the coal scuttle. Nobody died. Nobody even lost a loaf they hadn't already been paid for.

I wrote it all in the log at the station, in my best capitals, the way the inspector likes. Then I went back out to find Pryce. He was still on the roof, sand gone to paste in his cuffs, watching the last of the smoke drift east over the river as if it might still come back and ask for an explanation.