Drawing of a Woman at a Bus Stop on a Rainy Day

7:04

122

Artist
eryn
DDG Model
ChatGPT 2
Mode
Pro
Access
Public
Created
19h ago
Similar Try Try style
Public
122

2

54
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- Info
  7:04
  
  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 recommence. 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 full spring, the rain just ended, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the washed light almost too bright, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. Trees in first leaf drawn in the finest lightest strokes, blossom on two of them left as white paper, petals down on the wet stone, drops still falling from the leaves. 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 light cardigan open over a simple dress, sleeves pushed up, the year's first bare forearms, dark hair in a low knot, strands curling in the damp air. Canvas bag on her shoulder, a paper cup in her right hand, lid off, a thin thread of steam; 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 a brand new puddle, still rippling in concentric rings, and her reflection is assembling in it, hanging straight down from her soles, upside down, arriving in pieces as the water calms, loose blurred strokes, unfinished. Along the rings at the reflection's left wrist, and only there, the band's colours are coming back: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, smearing along the arcs, the only colour on the page. Beyond her, sparse of line, blurred people shaking out umbrellas, wet benches, a pigeon at middle distance, 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, pale skin with the first warmth of the year, a loose cardigan 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 thin twisted silver band on the middle finger. The pencil held loose, one fingertip faintly tinted rose and blue, smudging the colour along the ripple rings this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, rinsed, beginning: whoever she is, she is carrying a little of a dream into the new year of the world, 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 que l'eau recommence. 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 full spring, the rain just ended, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the washed light almost too bright, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. Trees in first leaf drawn in the finest lightest strokes, blossom on two of them left as white paper, petals down on the wet stone, drops still falling from the leaves. 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 light cardigan open over a simple dress, sleeves pushed up, the year's first bare forearms, dark hair in a low knot, strands curling in the damp air. Canvas bag on her shoulder, a paper cup in her right hand, lid off, a thin thread of steam; 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 a brand new puddle, still rippling in concentric rings, and her reflection is assembling in it, hanging straight down from her soles, upside down, arriving in pieces as the water calms, loose blurred strokes, unfinished. Along the rings at the reflection's left wrist, and only there, the band's colours are coming back: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, smearing along the arcs, the only colour on the page. Beyond her, sparse of line, blurred people shaking out umbrellas, wet benches, a pigeon at middle distance, 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, pale skin with the first warmth of the year, a loose cardigan 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 thin twisted silver band on the middle finger. The pencil held loose, one fingertip faintly tinted rose and blue, smudging the colour along the ripple rings this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, rinsed, beginning: whoever she is, she is carrying a little of a dream into the new year of the world, 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 que l'eau recommence. 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 full spring, the rain just ended, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the washed light almost too bright, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. Trees in first leaf drawn in the finest lightest strokes, blossom on two of them left as white paper, petals down on the wet stone, drops still falling from the leaves. 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 light cardigan open over a simple dress, sleeves pushed up, the year's first bare forearms, dark hair in a low knot, strands curling in the damp air. Canvas bag on her shoulder, a paper cup in her right hand, lid off, a thin thread of steam; 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 a brand new puddle, still rippling in concentric rings, and her reflection is assembling in it, hanging straight down from her soles, upside down, arriving in pieces as the water calms, loose blurred strokes, unfinished. Along the rings at the reflection's left wrist, and only there, the band's colours are coming back: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, smearing along the arcs, the only colour on the page. Beyond her, sparse of line, blurred people shaking out umbrellas, wet benches, a pigeon at middle distance, 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, pale skin with the first warmth of the year, a loose cardigan 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 thin twisted silver band on the middle finger. The pencil held loose, one fingertip faintly tinted rose and blue, smudging the colour along the ripple rings this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, rinsed, beginning: whoever she is, she is carrying a little of a dream into the new year of the world, and only the rain and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.