Photograph of a realistic colour tattoo of a tiger's face with orange, black and white fur on a forearm, with a printed tiger reference photo behind it.

Realistic tiger head on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A large tiger head fills the forearm, facing forward with its eyes, nose and whiskers rendered in fine detail. The striped fur uses soft shading and blended orange, brown and black ink to create depth and texture. A printed tiger photograph is visible behind the arm on a dark surface.

Realism Forearm Tiger Big cat Whiskers Stripe Eye

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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

Sit closer, children, the fire is low and my voice has worn thin with age. Brother Dorje had never seen a tiger. Nobody in our valley had, not for three generations, but the abbot wanted the gate guarded by something that would make the herders think twice before they climbed the hill with their complaints.

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A trader brought a torn picture up from the lowland market, a tiger's head pressed flat on glossy paper, its eyes gold and its whiskers printed as a fine white blur. Dorje pinned it above his desk and painted for a month. He mixed ochre with umber, then a little more umber, and each stripe he laid down was lamp-black thinned on a brush he had cut down to three hairs. The paper went soft under his thumbs. On the wall, the tiger grew heavier than it had ever been on the paper.

When the gate was finished, the abbot came out with his tea and stood a long time before it. Where did you find this one, he asked. Dorje pointed at the picture. The abbot shook his head slowly. That creature is looking at the man who took the photograph. Your tiger is looking at whoever walks through the gate. Dorje said nothing. That night he went out with a lamp and found a line of prints in the frost by the gate, wide as dinner plates, climbing towards the pass.

Nobody brought complaints up the hill after that. The herders said the gate had grown eyes. Dorje still keeps the torn picture folded under his pillow, and in the mornings the frost by the gate is always marked, though the door has never once been opened in the night. Some mornings I go up and look at those prints myself, and they still point the same way, up towards the pass.