Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Woman profile with rose and diamond

Neo-trad · Black and grey · Flash

A woman's profile faces right, with long hair flowing into scrolling swirls and a rose tucked into her hair beside a jewelled headpiece. Behind her is a radiating mandala, with leaves and ornate scrollwork framing the figure and a faceted diamond at the base. The design uses clean, even black outlines with fine hatching and no shading or colour, arranged in a symmetrical oval composition.

Neo-trad Botanical Woman Profile Rose Diamond Mandala Leaves Flower Hair Necklace Scrollwork

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 stone came out of the forest edge in March, wrapped in a rag that had once been somebody's Sunday shirt. Old Tobiah the miller carried it up to our workshop at the end of Coldharbour Lane and set it on the bench without a word. My father turned it under the lamp for a long time. It was the colour of weak tea at the edges and clear as frost at the heart, with eight faces, each cut so true that the lamp showed in all of them at once.

Keep reading

We argued about it through the spring. My father wanted to sell it whole to the wool merchant from Thrapston. I wanted to set it in silver with a rose beside it, the way the old women drew the forest mother who blessed the barley. He said roses were for weddings and funerals and neither paid well. So I cut it my way at night, the wheel humming under my palms and grey dust settling on my eyelashes.

When it was done I carried it out past the last hedge, where the beeches gave way to firs and the path forgot itself. I hung it from a low bough and stepped back. Light came through the leaves and broke across the facets in a hundred small pieces, and for a moment the whole wood seemed to lean in to look. A woodcutter's boy came whistling down the track, so I hurried home before he could see.

The merchant came in June. My father showed him the empty velvet tray and then, very quietly, my drawing of the rose in the account book. The merchant did not ask about the stone. He understood it was never ours to sell. Now we keep the tray on the bench, and each evening I tell my father the diamond is still out there, catching the last of the sun.