White ink geometric mandala tattoo with feather motifs and dotwork covering the upper arm and shoulder, worn by a person in a purple top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

White ink mandala on upper arm and shoulder

Geometric · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A large white ink tattoo covers the upper arm and shoulder, built from a symmetrical mandala of feather-like shapes, scrolls and a circular pattern filled with fine dots and geometric lines. The linework is fine and the stippled shading is delicate, with the design appearing as a raised, pale pattern against the skin. The photograph is taken from an angle, with a purple top at the edge of the frame and framed artwork on a green wall in the background.

Geometric Dotwork Upper arm Shoulder Mandala Feather Circle Scroll Geometric pattern Dot

Find an artist for this

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

Sit down on the cold side of the wall, where the wasps can't find you, and I'll tell you about Old Mab Tennant and the pear tree that wouldn't bear. Her husband had planted it the spring before the flood took the lower field, and it grew tall and green and proud without giving a single fruit. The village called it the orchard's shame. Mab said it was only waiting for someone to ask it properly.

Keep reading

So one evening at the end of August, when the windfalls were soft in the grass and the air smelled of cider and dust, she walked out with a bucket of lime wash and a brush made from horsehair. She painted the trunk white, then the lowest branches. Then she drew on the bark with a bone-handled needle dipped in the wash: little feathers and spirals, a ring of dots like seeds in a dandelion clock, and a circle of fine lines that looked like the spokes of a wheel turning slowly.

Every morning after that she went out and added one more curl. The neighbours laughed. Then a magpie came and sat on the top bough and tilted its head at the pattern for an hour, and the next morning a single pear hung where the magpie had been perched, pale as the lime and heavy as a fist.

The pear was never sweet, and nobody ate it. Mab kept it on her windowsill until it shrivelled. When she died they found the white markings had flaked away in the rain, leaving only the ghost of a feather on the bark, and the tree kept it, growing slowly around the mark year after year.