NoOneInParticular

Ode to "Valestok"

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 1664 X 2224 (3.70 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The night arrives not as a passage of time but as a heavy, textured shroud of indigo and ash. A blizzard rages with the fevered intensity of a charcoal sketch, where the wind carves hollows into the air and the snow descends in frenetic, cross-hatched strokes. Beneath the singular, jaundiced glow of a solitary street lamp, the world dissolves into a dream of aquatint and grit. A black cat, its fur frizzled and stiffened by the frost, sits as a silent, obsidian gargoyle upon the glistening cobblestones, its eyes reflecting the dim, blurred pulse of the lantern above. Diagonally opposed, caught in the penumbra where the light surrenders to the devouring dark, stands a woman sculpted from the elegance of a bygone era. Her black winter coat, heavy with the weight of wet snow, clings to her frame as she shrinks into the sanctuary of a moth-eaten fur collar. A small hat sits precariously upon her head, a defiant dot of ink against the white cacophony. She is a figure from a drypoint etching, delicate and fractured, her boots treading upon the history of the stones while her breath blooms in the cold—a ghost of the 1920s lost in a winter that knows no century. #vintage-melancholy #noir-surrealism #winter-solitude #art-deco-ghosts #Surrealism #CosmicGrief #EtherealArt #Psychosomatic #AvantGarde
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait

The Ghost of a Sunken Noon

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 1664 X 2224 (3.70 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Use your brilliant brain to render a paragon image for a depiction of The Ghost of a Sunken Noon The light caught the edge of your smile today, a cruel reminder of the warmth I once held in the hollow of my palm. You stand there, a prism of everything I have lost, glowing with a life that no longer requires the shadow I have become. It has been an age, a geologic shift of loneliness, yet you remain the heavy gravity at the center of my thoughts, a celestial body I can no longer orbit. You look exactly as I feared you would—untouched by the rot of my absence, polished by a joy I did not author. I see the silver fence upon your finger and hear the soft heartbeat of a future I will never witness, a life blooming within you that renders my history with you a silent, forgotten ghost. I am but half a man now, a fractured sculpture of a person leaning against a wind that refuses to carry me home. The sky has turned to a permanent slate, an unyielding overcast that drinks the color from the pavement and the pulse from my veins. Without the orbit of your grace, the days are merely empty rooms I walk through, weeping for a sun that has set behind a horizon I can never cross. I am a relic of the weather we once shared, standing in the rain of a clear day, missing you with a weight that pulls the very earth from beneath my feet. #longing #nostalgia #lostlove #poeticprose #melancholy and render this image referencing these 2 artists: Illustration by Toshio Saeki Illustration by William S Burroughs
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait

the ending of a formidable hatred

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 1088 X 608 (0.66 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: A Dark Gothic tale, the ending of a formidable hatred, set against a backdrop of mixed gradient purple and white skies. A hot pink Sun, bearing thick yellow stitching from its tear down the center, sits upon the ground; its rays exhausted and cease to exist. Following in its wake rolls a hot blue Moon, in hate with the Sun; she stares with a stoic expression, dusting it with light, delicate vibrant yellow foliage, close up, Francisco de Zurbaran, Elfi Cella, El Anatsui
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Inspired by Charlie 145's dream~Views

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 1664 X 2224 (3.70 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Grant Wood, Magritte, Lowry, Botero: art lover admiring works by Calder, Klee and Miro
  • Using base image: Yes

Silence is GOLDEN~Duct Tape is Silver

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Base)

• Size: 2224 X 1664 (3.70 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: A communist as spoken by: Nori @ 21:10 I grew up under a 'dictatorship' of communism. 'Sharing' of our assets, talents and even belongings was not voluntary but something forced upon us. That, too was wrong. I'm perfectly happy to have the "Try" button removed and the Try Style feature left for the originator's use only. Perhaps there could be a whole page of style examples added. We already have the list of names of artists but most people don't know what style they are known for and even if they do, they might not like their work. Experimenting with styles is very rewarding and it is a very good learning tool. A person using AI generator is not an artist but a very clever person with words. Though, to be fair, some great images are created on minimum of text with no style mentioned, whatsoever. I'm sure we've all tried that.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

The Exhalation of Anchors

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 1664 X 2224 (3.70 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The Exhalation of Anchors The earth has always been a jealous lover, weaving its fingers through the laces of your boots and whispering of the safety found in the silt. You carry the weight of rusted anchors, each link a memory of a door you failed to open, a silence you chose over a scream. But look how the horizon bleeds gold, beckoning with a hunger that matches the hollow ache in your own chest. Gravity is a choice you have made for too long, a habit of staying small to avoid the sting of the gale. To fly is not merely to rise; it is to unmake the very foundations of your fear. It is the moment you realize the iron around your ankles was always made of paper, waiting for the first spark of your courage to turn it to ash. Spread the wings you have kept folded against your spine like a secret prayer. Let the wind hollow out your bones until you are nothing but spirit and light, a splinter of the sun breaking free from the heavy, humdrum soil. The sky does not ask for permission, and neither should you. Ascend, until the world below is but a smear of green and gray, and the only thing left is the infinite, breathless blue. #liberation #metamorphosis #aspiration #courage In-Depth Synopsis This piece explores the psychological barriers that prevent personal growth, personifying gravity and anchors as the self-imposed limitations of fear and past regrets. The transition from the silt of the earth to the breathless blue of the sky serves as an allegory for the transformative power of self-actualization. By depicting the heavy chains as paper, the narrative suggests that our obstacles are often illusions sustained by our own hesitation. The ultimate act of taking flight represents the shedding of the ego and the embrace of one's inherent potential, emphasizing that liberation requires both the destruction of old identities and the brave acceptance of the unknown.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait

FrigidAire

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Base)

• Size: 2560 X 1440 (3.69 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Lightly enhance colors on image
  • Using base image: Yes

At the strike of midnight...

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 2592 X 1456 (3.77 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: A deserted vibrant orange highway at the strike of midnight, with old, faded, multicolored, weathered and tattered highway signs, dimly lit by the eerie glow of highway lamps. A highway where speed demands one's attention and courage and a reliable automobile and only a disheveled hitchhiker dares to throw his thumb up in hopes of catching a ride. And amid this darkness and fear stands a girl of about 7 or 8, wearing a dazzling yellow trenchcoat green argyle knee high sock, platform red MaryJane's, playing “Albinoni’s Adagio” on his snare drum set. Create a beautiful vintage painting using elements of lithography, hand-coloured engraving, coloured aquatint, and drypoint. In a style reminiscent of Edvard Munch, Louis Icart, René Grou, Marc Chagall, Eugène Delatret, Auguste Raffet, Francisco de Goya, Toulouse-Lautrec and Aubrey Beardsley.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

I'm gonna swing from the chandelier

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 1440 X 2560 (3.69 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: I'm gonna swing from the chandelier From the chandelier I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist Like it doesn't exist I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night Feel my tears as they dry I'm gonna swing from the chandelier From the chandelier #MelancholyEuphoria #CrystallineNights #SelfDestruction #PoeticProse
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

Everything in it's Place...

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 1664 X 2224 (3.70 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Look carefully at the uploaded image. Do not try to preserve its original story, composition, or meaning. Use its visual elements as ingredients for an entirely new story. Select the most interesting elements, detach them from their original roles, and give them new purposes, relationships and meanings. Then invent a surprising event that connects them. Something should have happened, or be about to happen. Change scale, position, function, perspective or physical logic whenever this makes the story more interesting. You are allowed to contradict the original image. Create a surreal, minimalist, poetic and meaningful scene showing one decisive moment of this new story. The result should feel like an image from a story I have never seen before. Do not illustrate the original image. Do not explain it. Transform its ingredients into something unexpected. No dirt, no text.
  • Using base image: Yes

Muted

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 2592 X 1440 (3.73 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: lose my mind, find my soul
  • Using base image: Yes

Hmph...

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 768 X 1024 (0.79 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The Stitched Apostle of the Cellar Stairs The celestial firmament is no longer a void but a graveyard of gothic cathedral-ships, their stone arches drifting amidst lunar prophecies and neon splatters of mystical ink. Below this cosmic wreckage, in the damp sanctuary of the cellar stairs, sits Spiritus, a creature of coarse stitches and iron-bound sorrow. His face is a crumbling pile of ash, a landscape of Frazetta-shadows where a barbed wire mustache traps the remnants of a meager life. He is a voodoo effigy of a man, his fingers gnarled like ancient root wood, incapable of the grace of a human touch. In his blood, the spirits burn—not of ghosts, but of the volatile fire he pours from a bottle hidden beneath a hat of felt and filth. He balances on stilts like a spindly insect against the backdrop of a starship’s hull, a lone figure of mingled races and singular agony. When the light hits him, it is cinematic and cruel, illuminating the blood-red of his trousers as he lies by the canal of a dreamscape. He throws his wooden legs at the shadows, a violent, hopping dance of frustration, yet when the clock strikes twelve, the rage dissolves into the silver spheres of his tears. These metallic orbs roll down his stitched skin, tasting of the very ethanol that fuels his misery. He catches them with his wooden palms, drinking his own grief. In the silence of the basement, beneath the gaze of the towering masted ships of the void, he dreams of a body without pins, where the mocking cries of the world are finally silenced by the hum of the star-cathedrals. #GothicFuturism #MagicalRealism #VoodooAesthetics #SurrealistProse #SciFiFantasy
  • Using base image: Yes