Kanji Works

The Only Site for Kanji Tattoos

Getting a kanji tattoo should feel like ordering a masterpiece, not rolling dice with a random font. We slow things down on purpose: first we ask what you truly want to say—strength, calm, a name, a life motto—then we shape it into short word/phrase in kanji (+ hiragana OK) that actually communicate that meaning to native readers. Every curve and pause of the brush is considered so the stroke rhythm feels alive, not printed. You’ll receive a clean, tattoo-ready PNG within 72 hours , priced simply at $39, because clarity shouldn’t require a lecture from a museum curator—though if you enjoy a little lecture, we’ll gladly explain why your chosen form balances better on skin than the other five you’ve seen on Pinterest.

Our mission is to eliminate kanji tattoo mistakes.

If you’ve ever searched “kanji for courage” and gotten five different symbols, you already know the problem: translation without taste. We cross-check meaning, tone, and context first—does this character convey moral resolve, physical bravery, or quiet endurance?—then we refine the brush style so the visual voice matches the message. We watch for classic traps: dictionary look-alikes, simplified vs. traditional forms, and those infamous “almost-kanji” glyphs that fool image generators. Before ink ever meets skin, you see a proof that reads correctly and looks intentional. The goal isn’t to impress your camera roll for a week; it’s to keep future-you from whispering, “I wish I’d checked with a human.”

We put your worldview and values into words.

Tell us the story behind your choice—the moment, the person, the promise. From that, we suggest the most truthful 1–2 characters and a brush mood to match: Bold for grounded power, Soft for restraint, Ancient for gravitas, Modern for crisp restraint. We also think about where the design will live—forearm, shoulder, ribs—because scale and negative space behave differently on each canvas. Our composition keeps counters open and strokes legible at a glance, so a stranger across the room reads “calm” and not “comb.” In short, you bring the meaning; we distill it, tune the form, and hand it back as a small design that carries large intent.

Why Human Expertise Matters

AI can imitate the silhouette of kanji, but it struggles with the heartbeat inside it: stroke order, pressure changes, breathing room, the tiny frictions that make a character feel authored rather than assembled. Our calligraphers look for balance between radicals, the arc of each hook, and the way ink would actually break on paper. That human judgment prevents common uncanny errors—a hairline where a taper should be, a cramped radical that ruins the rhythm—and keeps the design readable ten years from now when trends shift. Machines can propose; a trained eye disposes. That is the difference between “a symbol on skin” and “your meaning, living there.”