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Prompt by 812c6bbb11a

and thin lips FLUX prompts

hundreds of results

8 months ago

Abstract Full-Body Portrait of a Prostitute – Salvador Dalí (Late-Life Style, Singular Focus & Pure Surrealism) (Surrealism:1.7, Salvador Dalí late-life style:2.0, Dreamlike distortion:1.6, Hyperreal textures:1.5, Chiaroscuro contrast:1.4, Oil-painting brushstrokes:1.5, Organic fluidity:1.6, Metaphysical realism:1.4) A full-body surrealist portrait of a prostitute, painted in the unmistakable late-life style of Salvador Dalí, where dream logic dictates form and reality bends into its own subconscious reflection. She stands alone in the void, a lone figure frozen in motion yet melting into time itself. Her body is elongated but coherent, her limbs refined into one singular, fluid, organic motion, as if she is a sculpture made of half-formed candle wax, melting at the edges but never fully dissolving. Her face remains untouched by distortion, hyperreal and melancholic, eyes darkened with kohl, staring directly outward, unblinking, as if confronting time, fate, and the fabric of reality itself. A single strand of jet-black hair escapes from her carefully pinned curls, swaying in an invisible breeze. Her lips—painted a deep, blood-red—drip slightly at the edges, as if smeared by unseen hands, caught between seduction and sorrow. Her dress, a relic of the past, is a contradiction of luxury and decay, the hem transforming into thin wisps of smoke, curling and dispersing into the canvas. The fabric is stretched unnaturally, its folds elongating like the melted forms of Dalí’s classic clocks, one shoulder slipping in an eternal descent, never quite falling. The setting is an infinite, surreal landscape—a lonely street with no visible end, where shadows stretch longer than their owners, and the cobblestones appear to melt into liquid mercury. In the background, a large, antique pocket watch, twisted and partially submerged in the air, hangs frozen at an uncertain hour, its hands warped into elongated spirals. A single red rose, impossibly large and impossibly alive, hovers just behind her, its petals peeling away like fragments of forgotten love letters. The air feels thick, painted with visible brushstrokes, where light and shadow do not obey the laws of physics—instead, they bleed into one another, wrapping around her body in soft, liquid chiaroscuro, mimicking the curvature of a dream. She is not merely a woman but a symbol—of desire, of loss, of something slipping through time like sand through Dalí’s own fingers.

ElectricL
8 360

8 months ago

(Full-body shot, dramatic film-noir lighting, vintage 1960s aesthetics, ultra-detailed fabric and skin rendering, cinematic depth, alluring yet enigmatic presence) The femme fatale stands with her back to the camera, exuding an air of refined mystery. She is enveloped in a luxurious fur boa, its plush texture draping over her shoulders and cascading down her arms, concealing just enough to leave an aura of intrigue. She gazes toward an antique vanity mirror, her reflection revealing a captivating expression—lips slightly parted, eyes shadowed with a knowing intensity. The dim, amber glow of a mid-century bedside lamp casts long, seductive shadows, accentuating the contours of her poised figure. A sleek silk slip peeks through the embrace of the fur, tracing the lines of her form in soft highlights. Stockings shimmer subtly in the low light, held in place by delicate garters, adding a touch of elegance. In one hand, she holds a vintage cigarette holder, its unlit tip resting between her fingers as a thin wisp of smoke lingers in the air—a remnant of past indulgences. The room is an opulent mid-century dream, with a velvet chaise lounge partially visible behind her. An old rotary phone, its receiver off the hook, lies beside an untouched glass of whiskey on the vanity—silent witnesses to an untold story. The atmosphere is thick with timeless intrigue—she is a woman of untold secrets, a vision of vintage glamour and quiet power. With each carefully placed shadow, she remains an enigma—captivating, untouchable, and forever etched in the lingering haze of a noir dream.

ElectricL
7 210

8 months ago

(Surrealism:1.7, Salvador Dalí late-life style:2.0, Dreamlike distortion:1.6, Hyperreal textures:1.5, Chiaroscuro contrast:1.4, Oil-painting brushstrokes:1.5, Organic fluidity:1.6, Metaphysical realism:1.4) A full-body surrealist portrait of a prostitute, painted in the unmistakable late-life style of Salvador Dalí, where dream logic dictates form and reality bends into its own subconscious reflection. She stands alone in the void, a lone figure frozen in motion yet melting into time itself. Her body is elongated but coherent, her limbs refined into one singular, fluid, organic motion, as if she is a sculpture made of half-formed candle wax, melting at the edges but never fully dissolving. Her face remains untouched by distortion, hyperreal and melancholic, eyes darkened with kohl, staring directly outward, unblinking, as if confronting time, fate, and the fabric of reality itself. A single strand of jet-black hair escapes from her carefully pinned curls, swaying in an invisible breeze. Her lips—painted a deep, blood-red—drip slightly at the edges, as if smeared by unseen hands, caught between seduction and sorrow. Her dress, a relic of the past, is a contradiction of luxury and decay, the hem transforming into thin wisps of smoke, curling and dispersing into the canvas. The fabric is stretched unnaturally, its folds elongating like the melted forms of Dalí’s classic clocks, one shoulder slipping in an eternal descent, never quite falling. The setting is an infinite, surreal landscape—a lonely street with no visible end, where shadows stretch longer than their owners, and the cobblestones appear to melt into liquid mercury. In the background, a large, antique pocket watch, twisted and partially submerged in the air, hangs frozen at an uncertain hour, its hands warped into elongated spirals. A single red rose, impossibly large and impossibly alive, hovers just behind her, its petals peeling away like fragments of forgotten love letters. The air feels thick, painted with visible brushstrokes, where light and shadow do not obey the laws of physics—instead, they bleed into one another, wrapping around her body in soft, liquid chiaroscuro, mimicking the curvature of a dream. She is not merely a woman but a symbol—of desire, of loss, of something slipping through time like sand through Dalí’s own fingers.

ElectricL
4 170

5 months ago

A captivating woman sits in the dimly lit room, her style radiating through every detail of her appearance like a work of art that's been carefully crafted by the finest hands. Her pale skin seems to glow in the soft light, accentuating the dark brunette hair styled in a messy low bun. A few strands fall loose around her face, framing her features and adding a touch of elegance to the scene. Her eyes seem to hold a secret, with smoky colors blending black and violet that add a sense of mystery like a whispered promise that's been shared with no one. A delicate gold bracelet rests on her wrist, shining softly in the dim light like a hint of luxury that's been carefully crafted by the finest hands. A dark-red velvet slip dress clings to her body, revealing just enough to spark curiosity and adding a touch of sensuality to the scene. Thin straps hang loose around her shoulders, seeming to be made for comfort rather than style like a whispered promise that's been shared with no one. Her legs are crossed, one foot tucked under her, barefoot like she's been lounging in the room all day like a secret that's been shared with just one person. Deep burgundy lips seem to hint at a mystery, adding a sense of allure and sensuality to the scene like a whispered promise that's been shared with no one. Soft shadows dance across her face, accentuating the curves of her body and adding a moody atmosphere to the room like a work of art that's been carefully crafted by the finest hands. Every detail of this image feels alive and tangible, like a moment that's been captured at its very best.

Luv2Grill
3 110