Young Woman in Greenhouse Potting Glowing Flowers

La Serre

418

108

Artist
eryn
DDG Model
ChatGPT 2
Access
Public
Created
6d ago
Similar Try
Public
418

3

108
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- Info
  La Serre
  
  Model: ChatGPT 2
  
  Size: 2224 X 1664 (3.70 MP)
  
  Used settings:
  
  Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, wonder in seed trays. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Semées à la main. Bright mid-morning inside a small Victorian glasshouse against the wall of the old southern stone house: white iron ribs and old glass, sun pouring through, vines shading one corner, the hills hazy beyond the panes. On the wooden benches, in rows of terracotta pots, dreams are being grown from seed: tiny dream-bubbles budding on slender green stems, soap-thin and iridescent, each no bigger than a grape, opening from small green calyxes like impossible flowers. They are sorted in rows by colour, each row with a hand-written label on a wooden stake, the writing too small to read. On a shelf, cuttings root in glass vials of tinted water. Up under the roof ribs climbs one grand old dream-vine, woody and patient, hung with a few big mature bubbles glowing softly among its leaves, ready for the night's deliveries. A copper misting can stands by, its water faintly rainbowed. At the potting bench she is at work, repotting a seedling dream with soil-dusted fingers, easing the root ball free with the tenderness of long practice, the tiny bubble on its stem trembling but holding: a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French; auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) pinned up messily with strands escaping, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling, a smudge of dark earth on one cheekbone; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, absorbed and content; ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. She wears summer work clothes: a linen apron over a thin camisole, sleeves nonexistent, bare shoulders and arms warm in the glasshouse light, a long light skirt, bare feet on the warm brick floor. The ornate dark hat hangs on a nail by the door, its tiny wooden door closed, supervising loosely. Through the sun-hazed glass behind her, out in the vegetable garden, a slim, thin figure with short cropped bright red hair waters the tomatoes, soft-focus through the old panes, face never visible: two gardens, one morning. A butterfly has gotten inside and is torn between the seedlings. Dust and pollen drift gold in the light. Bright glasshouse palette, sun through glass, the seedling bubbles, the vine's ripe dreams and the rainbowed mist carrying the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Industrious, tender, quietly miraculous: wonders start small, and somebody waters them. Masterpiece, by eryn.
  
  Using base image: No
  
  Aspect Ratio: landscape
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Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, wonder in seed trays. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Semées à la main. Bright mid-morning inside a small Victorian glasshouse against the wall of the old southern stone house: white iron ribs and old glass, sun pouring through, vines shading one corner, the hills hazy beyond the panes. On the wooden benches, in rows of terracotta pots, dreams are being grown from seed: tiny dream-bubbles budding on slender green stems, soap-thin and iridescent, each no bigger than a grape, opening from small green calyxes like impossible flowers. They are sorted in rows by colour, each row with a hand-written label on a wooden stake, the writing too small to read. On a shelf, cuttings root in glass vials of tinted water. Up under the roof ribs climbs one grand old dream-vine, woody and patient, hung with a few big mature bubbles glowing softly among its leaves, ready for the night's deliveries. A copper misting can stands by, its water faintly rainbowed. At the potting bench she is at work, repotting a seedling dream with soil-dusted fingers, easing the root ball free with the tenderness of long practice, the tiny bubble on its stem trembling but holding: a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French; auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) pinned up messily with strands escaping, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling, a smudge of dark earth on one cheekbone; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, absorbed and content; ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. She wears summer work clothes: a linen apron over a thin camisole, sleeves nonexistent, bare shoulders and arms warm in the glasshouse light, a long light skirt, bare feet on the warm brick floor. The ornate dark hat hangs on a nail by the door, its tiny wooden door closed, supervising loosely. Through the sun-hazed glass behind her, out in the vegetable garden, a slim, thin figure with short cropped bright red hair waters the tomatoes, soft-focus through the old panes, face never visible: two gardens, one morning. A butterfly has gotten inside and is torn between the seedlings. Dust and pollen drift gold in the light. Bright glasshouse palette, sun through glass, the seedling bubbles, the vine's ripe dreams and the rainbowed mist carrying the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Industrious, tender, quietly miraculous: wonders start small, and somebody waters them. Masterpiece, by eryn.

Modifiers:

8k very attractive beautiful dynamic lighting wallpaper award winning very cute by eryn

Prompt

Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, wonder in seed trays. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Semées à la main. Bright mid-morning inside a small Victorian glasshouse against the wall of the old southern stone house: white iron ribs and old glass, sun pouring through, vines shading one corner, the hills hazy beyond the panes. On the wooden benches, in rows of terracotta pots, dreams are being grown from seed: tiny dream-bubbles budding on slender green stems, soap-thin and iridescent, each no bigger than a grape, opening from small green calyxes like impossible flowers. They are sorted in rows by colour, each row with a hand-written label on a wooden stake, the writing too small to read. On a shelf, cuttings root in glass vials of tinted water. Up under the roof ribs climbs one grand old dream-vine, woody and patient, hung with a few big mature bubbles glowing softly among its leaves, ready for the night's deliveries. A copper misting can stands by, its water faintly rainbowed. At the potting bench she is at work, repotting a seedling dream with soil-dusted fingers, easing the root ball free with the tenderness of long practice, the tiny bubble on its stem trembling but holding: a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French; auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) pinned up messily with strands escaping, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling, a smudge of dark earth on one cheekbone; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, absorbed and content; ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. She wears summer work clothes: a linen apron over a thin camisole, sleeves nonexistent, bare shoulders and arms warm in the glasshouse light, a long light skirt, bare feet on the warm brick floor. The ornate dark hat hangs on a nail by the door, its tiny wooden door closed, supervising loosely. Through the sun-hazed glass behind her, out in the vegetable garden, a slim, thin figure with short cropped bright red hair waters the tomatoes, soft-focus through the old panes, face never visible: two gardens, one morning. A butterfly has gotten inside and is torn between the seedlings. Dust and pollen drift gold in the light. Bright glasshouse palette, sun through glass, the seedling bubbles, the vine's ripe dreams and the rainbowed mist carrying the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Industrious, tender, quietly miraculous: wonders start small, and somebody waters them. Masterpiece, by eryn.