Colour realism tattoo of a woman with blonde hair, blue eyes and red lips, with pink roses below, on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic woman portrait with roses on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A large colour portrait of a woman with wavy blonde hair, blue eyes and dark red lips, shown from the front and shaded to look lifelike. Dark ornamental swirls sit beside the eyes and cheek, and large pink roses fill the lower part of the design. The tattoo wraps around the upper arm, with soft pink and red tones at the edges of the composition.

Realism Upper arm Woman Portrait Rose Flower Blonde hair Lip Swirl

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Rain had been falling on Lantern Street since dusk, and Eddie Marsh had been on the scaffold since six, working a brush the width of a finger over the cheekbone of a woman twice the height of the cinema doors. The hoarding had gone up on Tuesday. By Thursday the whole block knew her face, or the idea of it, because the manager of the Regal had insisted on blonde, on lips the colour of claret, and on roses at her feet so the queue would have something to look at while it waited.

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Eddie had never met the woman he was painting. He had a photograph pinned to a board, creased where someone had folded it into a handbag, and a tin of pink from the chemist on Harrow Road that the chemist sold him at a loss. The swirls were the part he liked, black scrolls curling out from her eye like smoke off a dying match. Nobody had asked for those. He put them there because the face looked lonely without something moving near it.

At half eleven a girl in a mac stopped below the scaffold and stared up. She had a torn ticket in one hand and a folded umbrella in the other. 'Is that her,' she said, 'or is that how she wanted to be remembered?' Eddie laughed, then stopped, because she wasn't joking. He told her the photograph had been taken the summer before the fire at the Palace, which was not true, and she nodded as if it were.

When he climbed down the drizzle had thinned and the lamps along the street had gone the colour of weak tea. He looked back up. Someone had brushed past the bottom edge and smeared the nearest rose, a streak of pink across its petals where a sleeve had caught it. He left it there. The street had earned a hand in the thing too.