Thin black handwritten script reading you are art. across the inner wrist and forearm, in fine line style.

You are art lettering on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Thin black handwritten script reads "you are art." across the inner wrist and forearm. The linework is fine and even, filled with solid black ink and no shading. The arm rests against a grey sweater sleeve, with the lettering sitting near the centre of the frame.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Quote Word

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 sorting hall at Quine Reach had no windows, only a row of lamps that hummed the same flat note from one shift to the next. Mara Tesk sat at the far end of the bench with a fine brush and a pot of soot ink, copying the dead clerk's hand onto bills of lading. Ferrin had written everything in a slanting script that made the old machines sneeze, and the council wanted every line of it kept, even the crossings out.

Keep reading

One wet morning a boy came up from the repair yards carrying a sealed tin. Inside, folded small, was a scrap of grey wool with four words in pencil: you are art. Nobody in the hall could read it without laughing. Ferrin had written it the winter before he died, on the inside of a cuff, and the boy had found it in a coat he was told to burn. Mara turned the scrap over. The pencil had bled through the weave like thin roots.

She asked the foreman what it meant. He said it meant nothing that paid, so she kept the scrap and practised the letters on the back of spoiled forms until her hand stopped shaking. Then she copied them onto her own wrist, small and even, so the inspectors at the gate would see only a clerk's ordinary ink. Each shift after that she showed a new apprentice the line and said nothing about it.

Years later the council burned the old hall for a cleaner one. The lamps went out, and the bills went with them. But the first bill through the new hatch had a faint script in its corner, unstamped, signed by a girl who had been told she could only ever sort. Mara, bent and grey, read the corner twice and said, "Well, there you are." The girl kept that bill. The line is still in the hall, and every clerk there writes their own name in that same hand.