Pencil Sketch of Winter Scene with Figure and Reflection

8:47

Artist
eryn
DDG Model
ChatGPT 2
Mode
Pro
Access
Public
Created
19h ago
Similar Try Try style
Public
55

0

34
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- Info
  8:47
  
  Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)
  
  Size: 2224 X 1664 (3.70 MP)
  
  Used settings:
  
  Prompt: Sketchbook drawing, realistic and loose. Moody, ethereal. Masterful composition, the ten thousand strokes spent on someone nobody sees. Tout en gris, sauf ce que l'eau garde. Seen straight down onto a large open sketchbook, the page several hands wide, the drawing filling almost the whole frame, the page edge barely visible: a city morning in deep winter, snow falling fine and slow, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the snow left as untouched paper, the street half-finished and fading into blank page toward the edges, the figure finished. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the white street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. A fitted wool coat cut close to her body, belted at the waist, collar up, a chunky scarf wound high, a knitted hat with snow gathering on it, snow dusted on her shoulders, a few dark strands frozen-curled at the nape, her breath a long slow plume. Canvas bag on her shoulder, a paper cup held low in one mittened hand at her side, steam thick in the cold. Over that dark mitten's cuff, worn outside everything, a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, pale against the dark wool, a ghost of pattern. A line of her footprints stitched across the fresh snow, stopping where she stands. At her feet a frozen puddle, frost-feathered at the rim, swept clean, and sealed under the ice her reflection is held, upside down, hanging straight down from her soles, slightly blurred by the frozen depth, and under the ice at the reflection's wrist, and only there, the band's colours are kept: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, the only colour on the page. A pigeon puffed round near her feet, muffled commuters sparse of line, the bus approaching faintest of all, pale halo lights, sign unreadable. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand rests, real and slightly out of focus, the pencil lifted, pausing: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, palest winter skin, faint blue veins at the wrist, a grey fingerless knit glove, two rings in all, worn over the glove: on the index finger a thin silver ring set with one small round cabochon opal, milky white, faint flickers of blue, green and rose inside it, and a thick plain silver band on the middle finger. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Deep, kept, hushed: whoever she is, she is carrying a little of a dream through the coldest morning of the year, and only the snow and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.
  
  Using base image: No
  
  Aspect Ratio: landscape
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Prompt: Sketchbook drawing, realistic and loose. Moody, ethereal. Masterful composition, the ten thousand strokes spent on someone nobody sees. Tout en gris, sauf ce que l'eau garde. Seen straight down onto a large open sketchbook, the page several hands wide, the drawing filling almost the whole frame, the page edge barely visible: a city morning in deep winter, snow falling fine and slow, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the snow left as untouched paper, the street half-finished and fading into blank page toward the edges, the figure finished. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the white street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. A fitted wool coat cut close to her body, belted at the waist, collar up, a chunky scarf wound high, a knitted hat with snow gathering on it, snow dusted on her shoulders, a few dark strands frozen-curled at the nape, her breath a long slow plume. Canvas bag on her shoulder, a paper cup held low in one mittened hand at her side, steam thick in the cold. Over that dark mitten's cuff, worn outside everything, a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, pale against the dark wool, a ghost of pattern. A line of her footprints stitched across the fresh snow, stopping where she stands. At her feet a frozen puddle, frost-feathered at the rim, swept clean, and sealed under the ice her reflection is held, upside down, hanging straight down from her soles, slightly blurred by the frozen depth, and under the ice at the reflection's wrist, and only there, the band's colours are kept: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, the only colour on the page. A pigeon puffed round near her feet, muffled commuters sparse of line, the bus approaching faintest of all, pale halo lights, sign unreadable. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand rests, real and slightly out of focus, the pencil lifted, pausing: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, palest winter skin, faint blue veins at the wrist, a grey fingerless knit glove, two rings in all, worn over the glove: on the index finger a thin silver ring set with one small round cabochon opal, milky white, faint flickers of blue, green and rose inside it, and a thick plain silver band on the middle finger. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Deep, kept, hushed: whoever she is, she is carrying a little of a dream through the coldest morning of the year, and only the snow and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.

Modifiers:

8k Ultra filigrane texture of fine lines by eryn will it get better? the gentlest nudge

Prompt

Sketchbook drawing, realistic and loose. Moody, ethereal. Masterful composition, the ten thousand strokes spent on someone nobody sees. Tout en gris, sauf ce que l'eau garde. Seen straight down onto a large open sketchbook, the page several hands wide, the drawing filling almost the whole frame, the page edge barely visible: a city morning in deep winter, snow falling fine and slow, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the snow left as untouched paper, the street half-finished and fading into blank page toward the edges, the figure finished. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the white street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. A fitted wool coat cut close to her body, belted at the waist, collar up, a chunky scarf wound high, a knitted hat with snow gathering on it, snow dusted on her shoulders, a few dark strands frozen-curled at the nape, her breath a long slow plume. Canvas bag on her shoulder, a paper cup held low in one mittened hand at her side, steam thick in the cold. Over that dark mitten's cuff, worn outside everything, a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, pale against the dark wool, a ghost of pattern. A line of her footprints stitched across the fresh snow, stopping where she stands. At her feet a frozen puddle, frost-feathered at the rim, swept clean, and sealed under the ice her reflection is held, upside down, hanging straight down from her soles, slightly blurred by the frozen depth, and under the ice at the reflection's wrist, and only there, the band's colours are kept: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, the only colour on the page. A pigeon puffed round near her feet, muffled commuters sparse of line, the bus approaching faintest of all, pale halo lights, sign unreadable. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand rests, real and slightly out of focus, the pencil lifted, pausing: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, palest winter skin, faint blue veins at the wrist, a grey fingerless knit glove, two rings in all, worn over the glove: on the index finger a thin silver ring set with one small round cabochon opal, milky white, faint flickers of blue, green and rose inside it, and a thick plain silver band on the middle finger. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Deep, kept, hushed: whoever she is, she is carrying a little of a dream through the coldest morning of the year, and only the snow and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.