Digital Painting of a Woman in a Sunlit Meadow

on quiet mornings

155

Artist
eryn
DDG Model
ChatGPT 2
Access
Public
Created
5d ago
Similar Try
Public
155

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- Info
  on quiet mornings
  
  Model: ChatGPT 2
  
  Size: 1592 X 1192 (1.90 MP)
  
  Used settings:
  
  Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, the gentlest harvest. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Avant que le soleil ne les boive. First light in the meadow below the old southern stone house: the sky pale gold at the hill's rim, the sun not yet risen, everything grey-green and drenched. The night's dreams have left their residue: the dew this morning carries colour. Every droplet strung on the tall grass and along one great spiderweb between two fennel stalks is faintly prismatic, and inside each droplet, small and bent, a tiny picture floats: a spire in one, a wing in another, a fragment of somebody's night caught in curved water. When the sun crests the hill it will drink them all. She is out early to save what she can. A woman in her end twenties early thirties, French, barefoot in the soaked grass: auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) sleep-mussed and loose, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks, cheeks cool with morning; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face still half in sleep; ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner faded from yesterday, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. She wears her thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze with a knitted shawl thrown over her shoulders against the chill, the hem soaked dark to the knee, bare arms and calves wet with grass. The ornate dark hat sits on the low garden wall behind her, its tiny wooden door closed, off duty until breakfast. She works with a glass dropper and a small vial, bent close to the spiderweb, catching one coloured droplet at a time with the concentration of a jeweler: the vial already holds a finger's depth of gathered dew in soft layered colours. One droplet hangs mid-fall between web and dropper. A snail commutes along the wall unbothered. The first birds are starting. At the hill's rim the light sharpens: minutes left. Dawn palette, grey-green and gold, the prismatic droplets and the vial carrying all the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Hushed, patient, quietly urgent: what the night spills, the morning may keep, if someone is up early enough. 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, the gentlest harvest. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Avant que le soleil ne les boive. First light in the meadow below the old southern stone house: the sky pale gold at the hill's rim, the sun not yet risen, everything grey-green and drenched. The night's dreams have left their residue: the dew this morning carries colour. Every droplet strung on the tall grass and along one great spiderweb between two fennel stalks is faintly prismatic, and inside each droplet, small and bent, a tiny picture floats: a spire in one, a wing in another, a fragment of somebody's night caught in curved water. When the sun crests the hill it will drink them all. She is out early to save what she can. A woman in her end twenties early thirties, French, barefoot in the soaked grass: auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) sleep-mussed and loose, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks, cheeks cool with morning; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face still half in sleep; ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner faded from yesterday, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. She wears her thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze with a knitted shawl thrown over her shoulders against the chill, the hem soaked dark to the knee, bare arms and calves wet with grass. The ornate dark hat sits on the low garden wall behind her, its tiny wooden door closed, off duty until breakfast. She works with a glass dropper and a small vial, bent close to the spiderweb, catching one coloured droplet at a time with the concentration of a jeweler: the vial already holds a finger's depth of gathered dew in soft layered colours. One droplet hangs mid-fall between web and dropper. A snail commutes along the wall unbothered. The first birds are starting. At the hill's rim the light sharpens: minutes left. Dawn palette, grey-green and gold, the prismatic droplets and the vial carrying all the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Hushed, patient, quietly urgent: what the night spills, the morning may keep, if someone is up early enough. 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, the gentlest harvest. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Avant que le soleil ne les boive. First light in the meadow below the old southern stone house: the sky pale gold at the hill's rim, the sun not yet risen, everything grey-green and drenched. The night's dreams have left their residue: the dew this morning carries colour. Every droplet strung on the tall grass and along one great spiderweb between two fennel stalks is faintly prismatic, and inside each droplet, small and bent, a tiny picture floats: a spire in one, a wing in another, a fragment of somebody's night caught in curved water. When the sun crests the hill it will drink them all. She is out early to save what she can. A woman in her end twenties early thirties, French, barefoot in the soaked grass: auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) sleep-mussed and loose, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks, cheeks cool with morning; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face still half in sleep; ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner faded from yesterday, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. She wears her thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze with a knitted shawl thrown over her shoulders against the chill, the hem soaked dark to the knee, bare arms and calves wet with grass. The ornate dark hat sits on the low garden wall behind her, its tiny wooden door closed, off duty until breakfast. She works with a glass dropper and a small vial, bent close to the spiderweb, catching one coloured droplet at a time with the concentration of a jeweler: the vial already holds a finger's depth of gathered dew in soft layered colours. One droplet hangs mid-fall between web and dropper. A snail commutes along the wall unbothered. The first birds are starting. At the hill's rim the light sharpens: minutes left. Dawn palette, grey-green and gold, the prismatic droplets and the vial carrying all the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Hushed, patient, quietly urgent: what the night spills, the morning may keep, if someone is up early enough. Masterpiece, by eryn.