Pencil Sketch of Rainy City Street Scene in Gray Tones

8:12

Artist
eryn
DDG Model
ChatGPT 2
Mode
Pro
Access
Public
Created
19h ago
Similar Try Try style
Public
73

0

30
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  https://deepdreamgenerator.com/ddream/azbng0ok2po COPY LINK
- Info
  8:12
  
  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 dont l'eau se souvient. 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 fine autumn rain at an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. Rain as thin aslant pencil threads, wet leaves plastered to the pavement, one tumbling past. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the wet 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, falling to mid-calf, deep hatching, collar up, chunky-knit scarf wound twice, dark hair in a low knot half undone by the wind, strands rain-curled at the nape. Canvas bag on her shoulder, stance tired and easy, a paper cup held low in her right hand at her side, a thin thread of steam. On that wrist, just past the dark sleeve, a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, pale against the dark wool, a ghost of pattern. She stands at the edge of a puddle, the toes of her boots touching the water, and her reflection begins at her soles and hangs straight down from them, upside down, same coat, same knot, a few loose blurred strokes, still unfinished. In the water at the reflection's wrist, and only there, the band's colours come back: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, along the ripples, the only colour on the page. A fallen leaf crosses the reflection. Beyond her, sparse of line, blurred commuters under umbrellas, bare trees, a pigeon small on the pavement, the bus approaching faintest of all, lights pale, sign unreadable. 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, pale smooth skin with the last of summer fading from it, a grey wool cuff at the 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 a plain oxidised silver band on the middle finger. Her pencil tip touches the colour in the water, laying it in this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, ordinary, secretly lit: whoever she is, she is taking a little of a dream to work, and only the rain 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 dont l'eau se souvient. 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 fine autumn rain at an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. Rain as thin aslant pencil threads, wet leaves plastered to the pavement, one tumbling past. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the wet 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, falling to mid-calf, deep hatching, collar up, chunky-knit scarf wound twice, dark hair in a low knot half undone by the wind, strands rain-curled at the nape. Canvas bag on her shoulder, stance tired and easy, a paper cup held low in her right hand at her side, a thin thread of steam. On that wrist, just past the dark sleeve, a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, pale against the dark wool, a ghost of pattern. She stands at the edge of a puddle, the toes of her boots touching the water, and her reflection begins at her soles and hangs straight down from them, upside down, same coat, same knot, a few loose blurred strokes, still unfinished. In the water at the reflection's wrist, and only there, the band's colours come back: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, along the ripples, the only colour on the page. A fallen leaf crosses the reflection. Beyond her, sparse of line, blurred commuters under umbrellas, bare trees, a pigeon small on the pavement, the bus approaching faintest of all, lights pale, sign unreadable. 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, pale smooth skin with the last of summer fading from it, a grey wool cuff at the 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 a plain oxidised silver band on the middle finger. Her pencil tip touches the colour in the water, laying it in this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, ordinary, secretly lit: whoever she is, she is taking a little of a dream to work, and only the rain 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 dont l'eau se souvient. 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 fine autumn rain at an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. Rain as thin aslant pencil threads, wet leaves plastered to the pavement, one tumbling past. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the wet 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, falling to mid-calf, deep hatching, collar up, chunky-knit scarf wound twice, dark hair in a low knot half undone by the wind, strands rain-curled at the nape. Canvas bag on her shoulder, stance tired and easy, a paper cup held low in her right hand at her side, a thin thread of steam. On that wrist, just past the dark sleeve, a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, pale against the dark wool, a ghost of pattern. She stands at the edge of a puddle, the toes of her boots touching the water, and her reflection begins at her soles and hangs straight down from them, upside down, same coat, same knot, a few loose blurred strokes, still unfinished. In the water at the reflection's wrist, and only there, the band's colours come back: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, along the ripples, the only colour on the page. A fallen leaf crosses the reflection. Beyond her, sparse of line, blurred commuters under umbrellas, bare trees, a pigeon small on the pavement, the bus approaching faintest of all, lights pale, sign unreadable. 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, pale smooth skin with the last of summer fading from it, a grey wool cuff at the 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 a plain oxidised silver band on the middle finger. Her pencil tip touches the colour in the water, laying it in this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, ordinary, secretly lit: whoever she is, she is taking a little of a dream to work, and only the rain and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.