Neo-traditional tattoo of a woman with dark hair beside a red rose inside an ornate gold frame, shown on the outer thigh from two angles.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Woman portrait cameo with rose on thigh

Neo-trad · Thigh · Colour · Photo

A woman with voluminous dark hair and dramatic eye makeup is framed in an oval, ornate gold cameo border, with a red rose at her left side. The linework is bold and black, with smooth grey shading on the face, hair and background, and saturated colour in the frame and rose. The image shows two side-by-side views of the same healed-looking piece on the upper leg.

Neo-trad Thigh Woman Portrait Cameo Rose Ornate frame Jewel

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

The last of the Bramleys were dropping in Mr Haddon's orchard the week Mrs Vane came to sit for her cameo, and the wasps had found the windfalls before we had. My father cut shell for a living in a back room over the chemist's, and he took one look at her through the shop window and said she would ruin his eyes. She wanted her hair built up high and dark as a rook's wing, her lashes drawn heavy with soot, and a red rose at her shoulder instead of the lily everyone else asked for. She paid in advance, in coin she counted out twice.

Keep reading

Father's hands had been shaking since the winter fever, so the carving fell to me. I worked for three evenings on a wax model, then on the shell itself, with a needle and a glass and the smell of apple rot coming through the open sash. The frame was to be gilt, with little garnet drops hung along the bottom like a row of held breaths. When I finished the face I thought it looked more like my own mother than the woman who had sat for it, and I didn't tell anyone that.

Mrs Vane never came back for it. The chemist's boy brought the cameo round in brown paper on the first frost, and tucked inside the wrapping was a single Bramley, bruised but whole, with a rose petal pressed flat against its skin. Nobody in the village could say who had left it at the gate.

I keep the piece on a black ribbon now, rose turned towards the window. Outside, the orchard is bare and the wasps have gone, but I still hear apples land in the long grass, one at a time, as if someone is counting them out.