Black and grey realism tattoo of a bald, mottled face with dark eye sockets, wearing a dark suit and tie, on the calf.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Suited skull figure on a calf

Realism · Calf · Black and grey · Photo

A large tattoo of a bald figure with a mottled, decayed-looking face and dark eye sockets, shown from the chest up in a dark suit jacket, collared shirt and tie. The shading is soft and smudged in grey and black, with fine highlights on the forehead and cheeks. The tattoo fills the centre of the frame on a hairy lower leg, with a wooden floor visible behind.

Realism Calf Skull Figure Suit Tie Portrait

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, the lot of you, and leave the spoons alone, because this is the bit my mother always made me tell at weddings. You'll have noticed the chair by the window at the Pelham wedding was empty through all the speeches. That was Ambrose Tull's seat, and he'd been sitting in it since before the marquee went up.

Keep reading

Nobody had invited him. Nobody could remember anyone inviting him. He came up the gravel in the same charcoal suit he'd worn to every christening and funeral in the village for forty years, collar stiff, tie knotted so tight it looked painted on. His face had gone the colour of old candle wax, with the bone showing where the cheeks should have been. He didn't eat or drink. He just watched the bride's mother sway through the first dance with enormous patience, as if he'd already seen how it ended and was waiting for the rest of us to catch up.

Gran Pelham was the only one brave enough to go over. She had buried two husbands and didn't frighten easily. She sat down opposite him, folded her napkin, and asked him plainly what he wanted. He said he had come to see whether a promise had been kept, the one made in the church hall in 1952, when a young man stood up in front of the whole parish and then walked straight out of the door and never came back. Gran had been the bride. She'd waited an hour in her veil. She had never forgiven him, and she had never forgiven herself for waiting so long to stop caring.

Then Ambrose stood, buttoned his jacket, and looked across at the groom, who was red in the face and trying not to cry into his champagne. Ambrose nodded once, the way a man does at a graveside, and walked out onto the gravel. The next morning the chair by the window held a single white rose, dry as paper. Gran kept it in her Bible until the day she died, and she always said that was the only wedding gift she ever got that actually arrived on time.