Small fine line tattoo of an umbrella with raindrops over a blue watercolour cloud, on the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Umbrella and raincloud on the forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A small tattoo of an open umbrella with three raindrops, drawn in thin black linework. Behind it sits a soft blue watercolour wash shaped like a cloud, with a lighter purple tint at the lower edge. The tattoo is centred on pale skin, with the arm running diagonally across the frame.

Fine line Forearm Umbrella Raindrop Cloud Rain Watercolour

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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

The rain came in off the Channel at four, the way it always did in September, and by the time you had carried the last tea urn up from the kitchen the sky over Hollis Parade had gone the colour of wet slate. Mrs Pargeter had the guest register open on the hall table and her spectacles pushed up into her hair. "Room six wants a towel and an umbrella," she said. "The gentleman in six has been asking since Tuesday."

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The umbrella lived in the cupboard under the stairs, a black gent's brolly with one spoke bent like a broken finger. You took it up three flights, past the damp patch shaped like Ireland, and knocked. The man who opened the door was holding a sketchbook against his chest. He looked at the umbrella, then at the window, where the rain had begun drawing grey lines down the glass. "I was going to walk to the pier," he said. "I suppose I'll walk to the pier under that."

He did not go to the pier. He sat on the windowsill with the sketchbook open across his knees and drew quickly, the way people draw when they are trying not to think. You stood with the towel over your arm and watched a small cloud take shape on the page, three drops falling from it, an open umbrella hanging beneath them. "Every day I come to paint the sea," he said, not unkindly, "and it rains on the sea instead."

The next morning the sky was clear and the blue wash had dried on the paper. He had left the umbrella by the door with a note tucked under the handle: Keep it, the spoke is only bent. Mrs Pargeter never did find out who had ruled the little cloud in the margin of the register. You kept the umbrella anyway, and when the squalls came over the bay you opened it on the front step and held it out over the gulls, dripping, pleased with yourself.