Small colour tattoo of a watercolour-style paint splash in red, yellow, green and blue on the inside of a wrist, with the hand visible above.

Watercolour splash on the wrist

Forearm · Colour · Photo

The tattoo is a loose splash of paint with a red blot on the left, a dissolving trail of yellow and green in the centre, and a blue streak extending to the right. The edges are soft and feathered, with a few small droplets scattered around the main shape. The design sits on the inner wrist against a plain grey background, and the colour is fresh and saturated.

Forearm Paint splash Brush stroke Abstract

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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 red tin went over the balcony on a Tuesday, the only thing to fall from Flat 9 that anyone on Harrow Court still talks about. I was nine and holding it because Dad had gone back in for the rags, and the wind off the car park took the lid clean away.

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It hit the bonnet of a silver hatchback four floors down and burst like a dropped jam jar. By the time Dad reached the stairs the red had started to run, and under the security light something yellow was sliding into it, then green, as if the car had caught every colour from the stairwell wall we'd been painting all week. Dad stood in his socks and said nothing for a long time.

The owner was a woman called Sunita who worked nights at the depot and had kept that car eleven years without a scratch. She came up the stairs with her keys in her fist, ready to shout, and stopped at our open door to look down at the bonnet. "Well," she said. "That's the first thing on it anyone's ever wanted to look at."

Dad asked if he could finish it. He fetched a brush from the bag, dipped it in the blue, and drew one long stroke from the car's wing across the wall behind it, then stepped back to judge the line. The paint was dry by morning. Sunita still parks under it. Every night after that I leaned over the rail to check the streak was there, and it always was, pointing away from the estate as though it knew the way out.