Pencil Sketch of a City Street Scene on Paper

6:09

Artist
eryn
DDG Model
ChatGPT 2
Mode
Pro
Access
Public
Created
19h ago
Similar Try Try style
Public
69

2

41
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- Info
  6:09
  
  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 redouble. 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 dawn in high summer, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the early light already warm and white, dappled leaf shadows on pale dry pavement, heat-haze in fine trembling strokes far down the street, poplar fluff drifting, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the pale street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. Dressed simply for the heat: a soft crop top, loose light trousers, sandals, a gauzy loose-woven chale slipped half off one shoulder, its ends stirring, dark hair tied low and lazy, strands loose at the temple. Canvas bag on her shoulder, weight on one hip, a cold drink in a plain cup in her right hand, condensation running down its side; her left hand hangs bare at her side, and at that wrist a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, the palest thing on her. At her feet one long puddle where someone hosed the stones at dawn, still and mirror-flat, and her reflection hangs straight down from her soles, upside down, in soft wet lines, unfinished. In the water at the reflection's left wrist, and only there, the band's colours: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, wider and brighter than the band itself, the only colour on the page, and one white petal drifting across it. Beyond her, sparse of line, early commuters without coats, a dog walker far off, a pigeon small and far, dusty trees in full leaf, the bus approaching faintest of all, a pale shape with two lights. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand enters, real and slightly out of focus: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, honey-pale skin lightly warmed by the sun, a bare wrist, two rings in all: 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 on the middle finger a ring of undyed knotted thread. Her pencil goes back over the reflection's outline, a second pass, doubling the line this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, warm, unhurried: whoever she is, she is taking a little of a dream through the summer morning, and only the light 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 redouble. 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 dawn in high summer, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the early light already warm and white, dappled leaf shadows on pale dry pavement, heat-haze in fine trembling strokes far down the street, poplar fluff drifting, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the pale street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. Dressed simply for the heat: a soft crop top, loose light trousers, sandals, a gauzy loose-woven chale slipped half off one shoulder, its ends stirring, dark hair tied low and lazy, strands loose at the temple. Canvas bag on her shoulder, weight on one hip, a cold drink in a plain cup in her right hand, condensation running down its side; her left hand hangs bare at her side, and at that wrist a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, the palest thing on her. At her feet one long puddle where someone hosed the stones at dawn, still and mirror-flat, and her reflection hangs straight down from her soles, upside down, in soft wet lines, unfinished. In the water at the reflection's left wrist, and only there, the band's colours: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, wider and brighter than the band itself, the only colour on the page, and one white petal drifting across it. Beyond her, sparse of line, early commuters without coats, a dog walker far off, a pigeon small and far, dusty trees in full leaf, the bus approaching faintest of all, a pale shape with two lights. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand enters, real and slightly out of focus: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, honey-pale skin lightly warmed by the sun, a bare wrist, two rings in all: 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 on the middle finger a ring of undyed knotted thread. Her pencil goes back over the reflection's outline, a second pass, doubling the line this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, warm, unhurried: whoever she is, she is taking a little of a dream through the summer morning, and only the light 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 redouble. 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 dawn in high summer, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the early light already warm and white, dappled leaf shadows on pale dry pavement, heat-haze in fine trembling strokes far down the street, poplar fluff drifting, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the pale street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. Dressed simply for the heat: a soft crop top, loose light trousers, sandals, a gauzy loose-woven chale slipped half off one shoulder, its ends stirring, dark hair tied low and lazy, strands loose at the temple. Canvas bag on her shoulder, weight on one hip, a cold drink in a plain cup in her right hand, condensation running down its side; her left hand hangs bare at her side, and at that wrist a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, the palest thing on her. At her feet one long puddle where someone hosed the stones at dawn, still and mirror-flat, and her reflection hangs straight down from her soles, upside down, in soft wet lines, unfinished. In the water at the reflection's left wrist, and only there, the band's colours: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, wider and brighter than the band itself, the only colour on the page, and one white petal drifting across it. Beyond her, sparse of line, early commuters without coats, a dog walker far off, a pigeon small and far, dusty trees in full leaf, the bus approaching faintest of all, a pale shape with two lights. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand enters, real and slightly out of focus: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, honey-pale skin lightly warmed by the sun, a bare wrist, two rings in all: 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 on the middle finger a ring of undyed knotted thread. Her pencil goes back over the reflection's outline, a second pass, doubling the line this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, warm, unhurried: whoever she is, she is taking a little of a dream through the summer morning, and only the light and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.