Black tribal tattoo covering the chest, shoulder and arm of a shirtless man, with a sun-like face at the centre of the chest piece.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Tribal sun chest and arm sleeve

Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A shirtless torso shows a large black tribal tattoo across the chest, shoulder and upper arm, continuing down into a sleeve on the forearm. The central chest motif is a sun-like face framed by radiating bands, zigzags and spirals, with bold solid black fills and clean edges. The ink is entirely black and grey on skin, photographed against a plain dark background with the figure's head cropped out of frame.

Chest Shoulder Upper arm Forearm Sun Face Tribal pattern Sleeve Spiral Zigzag Chest piece

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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

You have been told the sun carved into the sea wall at Skarra is older than the lighthouse, and you believe it because your grandmother never lied about anything else. The tide is already turning when you reach the rocks, the ink pot wrapped in oilcloth and the needle case knotted to your belt. Gulls squabble over a crab. The face in the sandstone has worn down to a grin, and its rays are cut deep enough to hold seawater.

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Nobody on the island will say who made the zigzags. They say the spirals are whirlpools off the north point, and that the bands are the seven channels a boat must cross before the ferry bell rings. You trace them with a wet thumb, counting under your breath. Your cousin Ruan laughs from the boat and says the sun is only a stone with opinions. You keep counting. Fourteen zigzags, then the spiral that always loses its end somewhere under the weed.

By the time the light lifts off the water you have copied the whole face onto the back of a seed packet and a ledger page, darkening the rays where the grooves run deepest. Ruan rows you back with the packet tucked inside his coat. The spiral is still open at the bottom. You have decided to leave it that way, because a line that closes tends to stop being useful to the sea.

On the quay the next morning you press the packet flat against the bench and begin again, drawing the sun from memory. This time you let the face look a little bored, as if it has seen every boat that ever left. Nobody needs the story. They need the channels, the bands that carry you out and bring you home. You leave the spiral open.