Two black violin f-hole tattoos sit either side of the spine on a bare lower back, shown in a black and white photograph.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Twin violin f-holes on lower back

Back · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a bare lower back with two solid black tattoos of violin f-holes, one on each side of the spine. The linework is smooth and bold, with curled ends, and the ink reads as deep black against the skin. The soft grey background and shallow focus keep attention on the tattoos at the centre of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow had closed the pass by four, and the landlady of the Hollin Fold set a candle on the sill of the back room where the fiddle lay in its case. You had been told the instrument was ruined, that the varnish had crazed and the belly had sunk, and the man from Keswick who sent it said only that his father had asked for it to be finished before the thaw.

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You worked through the first night with a gouge and a pair of dividers, marking the f-holes on the spruce top. Those two curled slits are the easiest thing in the world to get wrong: a hair too wide and the voice goes thin, a hair too narrow and it sulks. The old maker had cut his with a flourish at the lower lobe, a little hook like a question mark. You copied the curl by eye, then by lamplight, then by the feel of your thumb across the grain.

Near dawn the wind dropped and the inn went quiet enough to hear the stove tick. Mrs Ashdown came down in her coat and stood in the doorway without speaking. You strung the instrument, tuned the open A until it rang against the window glass, and drew one long bow stroke. The room seemed to lean toward the sound.

When the road was cleared she paid you in coins warm from her apron pocket and asked what the holes were for. You told her they let the air out, so the wood can sing. She nodded, as if that were the whole of a good answer, and you carried the case out to the waiting cart with the snow still falling behind you.

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