Young Woman Dancing in a Rustic Room with Light Streaks

she dances so the light stays

253

109

Artist
eryn
DDG Model
ChatGPT 2
Access
Public
Created
1mo ago
Similar Try
Public
253

3

109
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- Info
  she dances so the light stays
  
  Model: ChatGPT 2
  
  Size: 1664 X 2224 (3.70 MP)
  
  Used settings:
  
  Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, a waltz for one and the house. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Elle n'a jamais cessé de danser. Deep night in the big kitchen of the old southern stone house, everything asleep except her: thick pale walls, the long scrubbed wooden table pushed a little aside, copper pans catching stray light, one lantern lit low on the sill, ivy at the dark window, the hills outside barely there. On the shelves near the glass door the glass and metal artefacts from ages gone or yet to come are glowing from within, many colours, and tonight they are pulsing very softly, gently brightening and dimming in a shared slow rhythm, like a house humming under its breath. There is no music. There does not need to be. She is dancing, alone, barefoot on the cool stone floor, mid-turn: a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French; auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) loose and lifted by the turn, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face; ice blue eyes half-closed, lashes low, 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 a thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze under an open gothic steampunk waistcoat left unlaced, delicate and a little mismatched, the way one dresses for nobody; the gauze and her hair still carry the turn she has just made, drifting a half-beat behind her. One hand is raised holding the hand of no one, the other rests lightly on an absent shoulder: the frame of a waltz, kept perfectly, danced with the empty air. The ornate dark hat watches from the table, its tiny wooden door closed. Her expression is the secret one people wear when they are certain they are unobserved: soft, faraway, a small private smile with an old ache folded inside it, remembering a rhythm rather than inventing one. Where her bare feet have touched the stone, faint traces of colour bloom and fade, a step behind her, like the floor keeping the memory of each step just long enough. Warm night palette, the lantern, the pulsing artefacts and the fading footprints carrying all the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Intimate, unwatched, unbroken: she has never once stopped dancing, and the house keeps time. Masterpiece, by eryn.
  
  Using base image: No
  
  Aspect Ratio: portrait
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Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, a waltz for one and the house. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Elle n'a jamais cessé de danser. Deep night in the big kitchen of the old southern stone house, everything asleep except her: thick pale walls, the long scrubbed wooden table pushed a little aside, copper pans catching stray light, one lantern lit low on the sill, ivy at the dark window, the hills outside barely there. On the shelves near the glass door the glass and metal artefacts from ages gone or yet to come are glowing from within, many colours, and tonight they are pulsing very softly, gently brightening and dimming in a shared slow rhythm, like a house humming under its breath. There is no music. There does not need to be. She is dancing, alone, barefoot on the cool stone floor, mid-turn: a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French; auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) loose and lifted by the turn, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face; ice blue eyes half-closed, lashes low, 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 a thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze under an open gothic steampunk waistcoat left unlaced, delicate and a little mismatched, the way one dresses for nobody; the gauze and her hair still carry the turn she has just made, drifting a half-beat behind her. One hand is raised holding the hand of no one, the other rests lightly on an absent shoulder: the frame of a waltz, kept perfectly, danced with the empty air. The ornate dark hat watches from the table, its tiny wooden door closed. Her expression is the secret one people wear when they are certain they are unobserved: soft, faraway, a small private smile with an old ache folded inside it, remembering a rhythm rather than inventing one. Where her bare feet have touched the stone, faint traces of colour bloom and fade, a step behind her, like the floor keeping the memory of each step just long enough. Warm night palette, the lantern, the pulsing artefacts and the fading footprints carrying all the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Intimate, unwatched, unbroken: she has never once stopped dancing, and the house keeps time. 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, a waltz for one and the house. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Elle n'a jamais cessé de danser. Deep night in the big kitchen of the old southern stone house, everything asleep except her: thick pale walls, the long scrubbed wooden table pushed a little aside, copper pans catching stray light, one lantern lit low on the sill, ivy at the dark window, the hills outside barely there. On the shelves near the glass door the glass and metal artefacts from ages gone or yet to come are glowing from within, many colours, and tonight they are pulsing very softly, gently brightening and dimming in a shared slow rhythm, like a house humming under its breath. There is no music. There does not need to be. She is dancing, alone, barefoot on the cool stone floor, mid-turn: a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French; auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) loose and lifted by the turn, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face; ice blue eyes half-closed, lashes low, 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 a thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze under an open gothic steampunk waistcoat left unlaced, delicate and a little mismatched, the way one dresses for nobody; the gauze and her hair still carry the turn she has just made, drifting a half-beat behind her. One hand is raised holding the hand of no one, the other rests lightly on an absent shoulder: the frame of a waltz, kept perfectly, danced with the empty air. The ornate dark hat watches from the table, its tiny wooden door closed. Her expression is the secret one people wear when they are certain they are unobserved: soft, faraway, a small private smile with an old ache folded inside it, remembering a rhythm rather than inventing one. Where her bare feet have touched the stone, faint traces of colour bloom and fade, a step behind her, like the floor keeping the memory of each step just long enough. Warm night palette, the lantern, the pulsing artefacts and the fading footprints carrying all the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Intimate, unwatched, unbroken: she has never once stopped dancing, and the house keeps time. Masterpiece, by eryn.