Full arm sleeve tattoo in realistic colour showing an eggplant, tomatoes, broccoli and corn on the cob across the upper arm and forearm.

Vegetable sleeve with eggplant, tomato and corn

Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A woman in a grey vest top shows a full sleeve tattoo of garden vegetables running from the upper arm to the wrist. An aubergine, a ribbed red tomato, a romanesco style brassica, orange tomatoes and an ear of dark corn are shown with soft shading, highlights and leaves. The colours are rich and mostly natural, with purple, green and orange tones dominating the arm.

Realism Upper arm Forearm Vegetable Leaves Sleeve

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Brother Anselm had been told twice by the prior to leave the south wall alone, so on the third morning you found him on his knees between the beans with a trowel, lifting a single purple aubergine the size of a fist and cradling it as though it had been christened. "It came in on the wrong side of the wall," he said, not looking up. "The bees brought it. Nobody planted it. That is either a miracle or Mrs Pargeter's compost heap, and I am not going to tell the prior which."

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The house had grown vegetables on this bit of silt for six hundred years, and the rule about them was older than the cloister roof: nothing wasted, nothing hurried, nothing sold before it was ready. You learned that by digging. You learned it from the romanesco the brothers called the little cathedral, which would not be rushed by a single day of sun, and from the red tomato, ribbed like a ledger, that split if you watered it on a whim. Anselm taught you to pick corn by the silk, dark as the stuff on a cassock hem, and to leave it on the stalk one day longer than felt sensible.

Two weeks later the prior came down the path with his sandals in his hand, because the lane had flooded, and stood at the bed with his mouth open. Every row was heavy. The tomatoes had gone the colour of old brick, and the cabbages stood up in green spirals like something from a chapel window. Anselm didn't gloat. He simply handed the prior the aubergine, still warm from the sun, and said, "Wait for it. It knows when."