Say it in one line,
get it back designed

Hand it a snapshot and it comes back graded — a named contrast curve, a named colour split, halation and grain — with every object, every shadow and the whole framing exactly where they were. Two fields.

Hand it a photograph and it takes the picture again through a pinhole — no lens, so nothing is ever truly sharp and nothing is ever more blurred than anything else, with the corners falling away because of simple geometry. Two fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back as contour lines — every line a closed loop at one depth, none of them crossing, none of them stopping in mid-air, with the spacing doing all the shading. Two fields.

A flat illustration held inside one big silhouette, with the scene breaking out through its edge — where the shape has to mean something and the crossings have to be real crossings. Six fields.

Matte black, white type, nothing else — a thin quote holding the top against one enormous rounded word below, with the three sizes fixed by ratio rather than by eye. Five fields.

A cover that lives on the face of an old television — the artwork painted onto curved glass rather than pasted behind it, and the set filling the sheet instead of floating on black. Six fields.

A mascot built as real signage — a face on a plate, one wider name plate under it, and visible hardware holding both to the pole. Six fields.

A miniature-scale poster where small figures are assembling the thing the poster is about — with one declared height rule so every object stays the same size as itself. Seven fields.

A deliberately unskilled drawing — the kind someone makes slowly in a paint program — with the clumsiness given as construction and counts instead of adjectives. Five fields.

Hand it a photograph and it takes the picture again in fog — where contrast falls away by the same fraction every few paces, so the near thing keeps every bit of its own and the far thing is simply gone. Two fields.

A value-proposition canvas — a square facing a circle, three regions each — where the two halves are written as pairs, so anything unmatched shows up instead of hiding in a list. Six fields.

Three stacked words knocked out of a photograph, filled with the picture's own colour, above the strip of image they were cut from. Three fields.

A copperplate-engraved city poster in one ink — where every tone is line density, nothing on the page is a flat fill, and the bare paper is a shape rather than a margin. Six fields.

A real photograph with one glowing hand-drawn figure living inside it — standing on a real surface, touching a real object, and placed in the quietest part of the frame. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph and it draws over the top of it — every doodle attached to a thing you named and doing one job to it, the photograph underneath untouched. Three fields.

An exploded axonometric that pulls one site apart into stacked transparent layers — kept on white and kept analytical, because the temptation is to render it dramatic and lose the drawing. Six fields.

A pixel-art day schedule where the boxes are sized by how big each thing actually is, so a reader can see the shape of the day rather than a table of equal rows. Seven fields.

Four fields in, one presentation board back — eight logo directions in four construction families, captioned, ready to argue over.

A set of eight flat scene illustrations on one sheet, held together by a constant that most sets leave unstated — every figure drawn at the same height, standing on the same line. Six fields.

Hand it a portrait and it comes back as a caricature that is still unmistakably them — because it only exaggerates what the photograph already had most of, in the order you rank it. Two fields.

A barcode poster in two colours — with the code built on a base module, guard bars and a numeral row, so it reads as a scanned object rather than a stripe field. Five fields.

A cloisonné souvenir badge — gold wire, glass enamel, and the manufacturing law that decides whether it reads as metal or as a picture with gold lines drawn on it. Six fields.

A hyper-skeuomorphic app icon of a real device, front-on — with every control carrying an indicator and every indicator agreeing about what state the thing is in. Five fields.

Hand it a photograph and it takes the picture again through a wet window — where each drop holds a small upside-down copy of what is behind it, sharp, while the scene itself goes soft. Two fields.

An industrial-design interaction study — hands operating one product, drawn in pen line — sized and separated so the hands survive being the subject. Six fields.

One word where no two letters are made of the same stuff — one is glass, one is a shell, one is a fish — floating over a road that runs to the horizon. Five fields.

A full-bleed storybook world you can actually travel through — every route joining two named places, and three sizes of thing so the eye lands before it wanders. Five fields.

A three-circle overlap diagram where every region you draw has something real in it — held to three sets, because four creates overlaps nobody can fill. Six fields.

A single-page repair or maintenance sheet in pen line — device, exploded detail, tools, numbered steps — held to the consistency check these sheets quietly fail. Six fields.

A modelled-clay poster — a hanging tag, a character, a grassy foot — held to what clay can physically do, since one glass lens or one sharp corner breaks the whole illusion. Six fields.

A pictogram sheet for anything with a repertoire — a sport, a craft, a working loop — where each figure is drawn at the one instant that names the move. Five fields.

A book cover where a figure in profile is filled entirely with a landscape — governed by the one thing that keeps it a figure rather than a stain. Six fields.

A loud cut-and-paste event poster where the materials are stacked in a fixed order — ground, shapes, photograph, ornament, type — so the noise has a structure under it. Seven fields.

A wide daylight photograph of a real place with five small pins on it, each naming something actually visible in the frame rather than floating over it. Seven fields.

A glowing 3D knot poster — one tube of constant diameter, with every crossing assigned an over and an under, so the form can actually be traced. Five fields.

One person sits in a bare studio while four frosted-glass cards hover around them — intro, skills, contact, link — with their title set enormous behind their shoulders. Six fields.

One flat colour, two hairlines crossing, a bright square at the intersection, and four corners each doing exactly one job. Six fields.

A white word with a faint prism fringe, floating on a blurred wash that runs warm at the top into deep at the middle, with a marquee of keywords across the base. Five fields.

A loud Memphis-style event poster bordered by repeating type, where each geometric texture belongs to exactly one kind of element — dots to figures, stripes to props, grid to the floor. Seven fields.

A fashion-magazine figure illustration wrapped in botanical drawing and a printed margin — with the margin counted, because 'restrained' is not a number. Six fields.

A plush creature character rendered full-length — held to the one thing that decides whether it reads as fur or as vinyl with fur printed on it: what happens where the coat meets anything hard. Six fields.

Turns five answers into a ready-to-paste Seedance prompt for a 5-second logo sting — three timestamped segments, a locked camera, and a last second that belongs to the mark alone.

A soft-3D character coming out of a screen — with the crossing proved: named parts behind the plane, named parts through it, and the surface visibly giving way. Five fields.

A travel-poster collage where a dotted field above and a real photograph below meet along one seam — and the dots cross into the picture rather than stopping at its edge. Six fields.

A soft 3D character portrait in the art-toy idiom — built around choosing a pose that cannot go wrong, because the one thing these renders always break is named and never solved. Six fields.

A brush-written phrase on paper, set as an exhibition poster — where the strokes may overlap but the words must survive it, and the empty space is weighted to one side rather than spread evenly. Six fields.

A concentric capability model — one subject, three rings, four sectors — where depth means prerequisite rather than decoration. Six fields.

A bakery-counter food poster — one dish shot large under a Didot title — with the overlap specified as a construction so the picture layers instead of stacking. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph of one thing and it gathers three to five companions from the same material world around it — wood with wood, glass with glass — all lower, all behind, none crossing it. Two fields.

Hand it a photograph and it takes the picture again on infrared film — where anything alive and green glows white and a clear sky goes almost black, because chlorophyll is a mirror at a wavelength the eye cannot see. Two fields.

A soft object-type cover — every letter of the word carried by its own little frosted lamp, stems threading the strokes, glowing in macaron colours on clean white. Four fields.

A name mounted as dimensional letters on a real building, photographed from the street — where the material, the wall and the light are chosen as one set rather than picked separately. Six fields.

A grainy dark ground with one soft light band cutting from the lower left to the upper right, and four pieces of white type hung off an asymmetric balance. Five fields.

Hand it a photograph of a thing and it takes one macro shot of the part you name — lit from the side so the surface proves the one fact you would otherwise have to touch it to learn. Two fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a full-viewport 404 screen — a giant code numeral over a drawn ground, one line of apology, and a single way back home.

A street-cool cover style — pure black, film grain, a two-voice title in heavy caps over graffiti script, ring text, orbit lines, a signature. Nine fields; all white, all loud.

A blind-embossed shopping bag photographed in raking light — where the pattern has no colour at all and exists only as shadow, so it has to fade the way real relief fades. Six fields.

A bold flat-colour conceptual poster in three inks — where every shape on the sheet is named with what it means, so nothing is there because the style has diagonals in it. Five fields.

Hand it a photograph of several people and it comes back as one stylised group portrait — everybody still themselves, because you name what tells each of them apart. Two fields.

A cinema-style poster with a proper billing block — three credits, laurel separators, a quote, a lower information band — where every name and every mark on it is invented. Six fields.

A portrait that emerges from a field of parallel lines — with every feature made by the lines themselves, so nothing is drawn across them where the modelling gets hard. Five fields.

A neon-lit night scene on near-black, where every light source is named with what it lights — so the colour lands on surfaces instead of floating as bright shapes. Five fields.

A pop-collage campaign poster — photographic cut-outs on torn paper, halftone and newsprint — where every real-world object has had its branding taken off, because collage drags brands in with the objects. Six fields.

A whole landscape built inside one silhouette on bare ground — with the container closed, so the shape still reads as itself from across a room. Five fields.

A poster built from two shaped road signs, textured and stickered — with the one rule that keeps them reading as signs instead of slabs. Seven fields.

A museum-style anatomy page for one made object — callouts, materials, and how it is built — under the rule that the page may not know anything you did not tell it. Six fields.

A vintage botanical-plate poster — an engraved specimen on aged stock with a heavy title and a script word laid across it — held to a margin, because this layout loses its own type off the top and bottom. Six fields.

A magazine-grade recipe page — hero dish, measured ingredients, numbered steps — where every number on the page came from you and nothing is estimated on your behalf. Six fields.

An avant-garde screen-print poster — flat inks, a distorted figure, and the printing fault that makes it a print rather than a picture of one. Six fields.

A mascot family running as a team, with the event's logo locked beneath them — every character built on the same body so they read as siblings rather than as a cast. Six fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a full-viewport hero that arrives in a single staggered breath — a scroll-aware bar, a mobile sheet, a headline over a ground drawn entirely in CSS.

A worm's-eye hero poster — the camera on the ground, the figure towering into an open sky, the whole world leaning toward one point. Six fields, and the geometry is the skill.

A modernist travel poster built to be the second of forty — a cut-out landmark, the city set enormous behind it, and a numbered index line that only makes sense as part of a run. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph of one thing and it takes everything away — no surface, no horizon, no props — leaving the object on one flat colour with one soft shadow under it. Two fields; the listing shot.

Pure black, one saturated colour, and a huge sharp-serif title with a glowing star burning inside a closed letter — locked into strict symmetry with information at all four corners. Six fields.

Fat wobbly hand-drawn letters, two lines, every character flat-filled in one of three clashing brights, with a curved line of small type bending underneath. Four fields.

A sunlit lifestyle poster where a single drawn curve carries the eye from a person's gesture to the thing being sold and stops there. Photographic scene, hand-drawn overlay, seven fields.

A macro poster split on a diagonal — backlit translucent matter on one side, deep shadow on the other — with every text assigned to the side that can actually carry it. Seven fields.

A photograph with type laid over it — held to one typeface, three sizes fixed by ratio, and one accent, so the poster reads as designed rather than assembled. Five fields.

A dark gallery-print style — one neon-outlined abstract figure floating on charcoal, two tilted paper prints in the corners, micro-information set like a catalogue. Six fields.

A whole icon set on one page — eighteen flat marks in a grid, sorted into three bands so the set holds together at the level of meaning, not just line weight. Six fields.

A calm event poster whose lower half is a pixel map of the site — five named zones, every edge stepped to one declared grid, with a serif title and a date run above it. Seven fields.

A doodle wordmark on clean white — plump hand-drawn letters with one letter swapped for a tiny drawing of what you do. Seven fields; two colours run it all.

A black-line concept illustration for a product page, where the connecting line is a sentence — a source, a thing carried, a destination — rather than a decorative swoop. Six fields.

Describe the mark once, and see it land on six real surfaces — screen, print and object — on one board, before anything ships.

A dense, dreamlike children's illustration — flat colour, heavy grain, hundreds of small elements — kept composed rather than chaotic by three counting rules. Six fields.

Give it a brand name, get one silent black-and-white board back — the same name set fifteen ways, in five families of typographic levers.

A black-and-gold countdown poster where one huge numeral holds the middle in clear air, and every other fact is said exactly once, in one of three bands. Six fields.

An industrial-design sheet for a translucent ribbed product, shown closed and open — with the two views held to being the same object and the size stated on the page. Six fields.

A huge two-ink type poster where the letterforms are broken by one named transformation applied identically to every character — designed, rather than shaken. Five fields.

A black-ink event poster on white — a scribbled scene, a fat brush headline, asides in the margins — with the tool count fixed so it reads as one hand. Six fields.

A contact sheet of six film frames that fills its grid completely, where the exposure printed under each frame matches the light in it. Six fields.

A place name drawn as fine line art, with one continuous view running through all its letters — a single scene clipped by the word, not one vignette per character. Five fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a single page section that rises into place as it enters the view, each card ringed by a light that follows the cursor — pick pricing, features, footer or a call to action.

Sixteen die-cut stickers scattered across one page — slogans, symbols, objects, labels — held together by two line weights and a colour budget rather than by luck. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back folded from a single square of paper — no cuts and nothing thrown away, so the paper the model does not use has to be tucked somewhere and it shows. Two fields.

A soft-3D app icon on white — one object and exactly three signs around it, counted strictly, with one accent colour and a silhouette that survives being small. Six fields.

A packaging family shot flat from above — boxes, bags, sleeves, pouches — where each piece carries a different amount of the identity depending on how big it is. Six fields.

A miniature-scene poster — tiny figures building something among real objects — anchored by an item whose true size the viewer already knows, because without one the joke never lands. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back as a neon sign — drawn only in paths a glassblower could actually bend, with every run of tube ending at an electrode and lighting the wall it hangs on. Two fields.

A very heavy word dead centre, a name and a year balanced beneath it, and a row of filled tag pills locked to the title's exact width. Five fields.

A studio poster built from flat geometric primitives with editorial type ranged around it — carrying exactly the elements you listed and inventing no extra ones, no handles and no numbers. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph with one material that reads wrong — gritty ice, plastic wool, rubbery bread — and it fixes that and refuses to touch anything else. Two fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back built out of cut paper — a countable stack of flat layers, each throwing a shadow on the one behind it, and every curve rolled in one direction because that is all a sheet can do. Two fields.

A carrier-bag mockup photographed in the street — with the physics stated, so the paper hangs, creases and takes the artwork with it instead of printing on a perfect box. Five fields.

A futurist poster built from one huge particle sculpture, ringed by six small texts that each carry a real fact instead of invented telemetry. Seven fields.

Hand it a clean product photograph and it takes the picture again as a customer would — wrong light, off-centre, a real room behind it — with the product itself unchanged. Two fields.

A faded-film scene with a big deckled card pinned over it — a clipped note, a tilted polaroid, a bold title, tape and stains where hands would leave them. Seven fields.

An 8-bit title in white on a dark pixel-grid screen, with three neon sticker tags stuck crooked underneath and a hand-drawn face in the corner. Five fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a single mobile screen inside a phone frame — a drawn media header, an identity block, a grid of glass stat cards, and a half-card that teases the scroll.

One word on matte black, poured rather than set — cream, molten metal, wet clay — with two tiny white lines above and below and nothing else at all. Four fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back inflated — the same thing sewn from panels and blown up, so every surface bulges and every seam pulls in, because that is the only shape air makes. Two fields.

A cluster of contrasting materials in one still life — where each one is proved by what it does to the thing beside it, rather than by its own surface. Five fields.

Inflated 3D letters in glossy jelly plastic, ringed with stacked outlines, floating in deep space between two sharp starbursts. Five fields.

A two-block announcement poster where something bursts out of the paper itself — governed by the one rule that separates a breakthrough from a sticker on a crater. Six fields.

A real object on the left, edged in warm light out of a dark gradient, with a huge two-line title beside it carrying a pill tag, a script word and a whisper of small print. Six fields.

A two-by-two strategy matrix where the axes actually decide the placements and no element restates another. Six fields.

A methodology loop diagram — five stages in a ring — built around the one thing that makes it a cycle rather than a list bent into a circle. Six fields.

A full-bleed poster style — one photographic scene under three rows of massive bold characters whose strokes let the scene shine through. Four fields.

A lit portrait on black, giant ghost letters behind them, a designer's selection box drawn across their shoulders and two neon callouts pointing at what matters. Five fields.

A dark keepsake-collage style — one elegant cream serif title across a grainy black ground, paper memories pasted left, bright trinkets right, three quiet info columns on top.

Hand it a photograph taken from above and it takes the picture again as though the place were a model on a table — sharp only on one plane and falling off by distance, which is the thing that actually reads as small. Two fields.

A macro photograph of a tiny built scene, with the words printed on something inside it — a card, a tag, a painted board — so the type and the set share one light. Six fields.

A blurred organic form floating in a grey gradient, with a wide-tracked title laid across its shoulder and two whispers of small type at opposite corners. Four fields.

Pure black on pure white: a bold title with a light byline under it, and a single-line creature leaning in from the right edge, only half of it in frame. Four fields.

A quiet metaphor poster where one everyday thing turns into another — with the middle of the change actually drawn, instead of the two halves being cut and abutted. Five fields.

Hand it a photograph of one thing and it puts exactly one ordinary object beside it — a coin, a hand-sized cup, a matchbox — so a viewer can read the size instead of guessing it. Two fields.

A dense black-and-white sticker illustration — a creature fused with machinery — with solid black treated as a material you place, not a colour you run out of. Five fields.

A convergence diagram — several causes funnelling into one hub and out to its effects — governed by the rule that keeps such a diagram true rather than merely tidy. Six fields.

A lanyard badge photographed flat — where the colour band across the bottom is a code rather than decoration, so one card implies a whole organisation. Six fields.

A project schedule as a proper Gantt — task rows, a time axis, milestone diamonds, dependency arrows — where each bar actually sits under the dates it claims. Six fields.

A natural-history exhibition poster — watercolour specimens, hairline leaders, a huge year across the foot — built so the labelling actually holds up. Six fields.

A risograph-style abstract poster that translates one sentence into flat colour masses — where the shapes have to perform a named relationship rather than merely avoid being literal. Six fields.

An iceberg diagram — visible symptoms above the waterline, the causes that produce them below — where every symptom is traced to a named cause instead of the two halves being separate lists. Six fields.

A chibi figure holding an oversized tool, planted dead centre with the title split around them and four corner labels — one motif rules the frame. Eight fields.

A close-in shot of somebody's stacked collection, with a huge pixelated script title over it, capsule tags scattered through the gaps, and a bad CRT signal over everything. Five fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a wall of figures that count up from zero the moment they scroll into view — each a number, a label and a small bar that fills, on a dark ground.

A centred cover on warm cream: a fat hand-drawn title where every letter fades orange into plum, a small grey line beneath, and a picture-book scene under that. Four fields.

A staged-progression knowledge card — a curve divided into phases with an annotated block under each — where the shape of the curve is treated as an assertion rather than a decoration. Six fields.

A multi-persona journey map — stages across the top, an experience curve per persona, feeling and thinking beneath — where the curves have to separate, or the second persona is decoration. Six fields.

Hand it a damaged old photograph and it mends what the print suffered — scratches, tears, staining, fading — and refuses to invent a single colour nobody alive can confirm. Two fields.

A photograph looking straight down at a working desk, with the title milled from brushed steel and laid across a gridded work mat. Seven fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back as a printed halftone — one ink, one screen angle, tone carried entirely by how big the dots are, with the coarseness set against something in the picture. Two fields.

Hand it a photograph of somebody and it comes back as a small handmade collectible figure of them — you name the few features that have to survive, because a toy face has room for about six. Two fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a two-part section — a gradient call-to-action beside a stack of questions that open one at a time, each answer sliding down under a rotating chevron.

A coloured-pencil illustration held in two nested frames — a border, then an inner panel — where both are measured even on all four sides, because that is what the eye reads before anything inside them. Six fields.

A warm hand-drawn cover — a border of curling tendrils and little handmade things hugging one round white script title. Six fields; the warmth is built in.

An International Typographic Style poster — a declared column count, every edge snapped to it, and the title as the largest thing on the page. Six fields.

A flat-cartoon poster where one enormous hand is the stage and tiny figures live in the palm — with the hand's anatomy and the size ratio both stated, because both go wrong quietly. Six fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a section whose cards ride an endless marquee, drifting sideways forever until the cursor arrives — then the strip holds and the card under the cursor lifts.

Hand it a photograph and it annotates it by hand — each thing you name gets an outline, a leader line and the note you wrote, joined to the object rather than floating near it. Two fields.

One word set in heavy letterforms and filled with dense single-colour line ornament — where the outline is a boundary the pattern is never allowed to cross. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph of a thing and it comes back as a flatbed scan — no perspective at all, and everything lifted off the glass falling to black within a couple of centimetres. Two fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back as pure line — no tone anywhere, and depth carried entirely by which line stops where two things overlap, because that is the only thing a line drawing has left. Two fields.

One brief in, one self-contained index.html out: a whole landing page in a single file — a scroll-aware nav, a hero, a highlighted statement, a feature grid, a closing call and a footer, every section rising as it comes into view.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back as a cut silhouette lit from behind — no interior anywhere, so every part that has to be recognised must reach the edge and show itself against the light. Two fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back as a thickly painted picture — where the paint stands off the canvas far enough to throw its own small shadows, all leaning the same way, whatever the scene is lit by. Two fields.

A giant ticket standing up out of the page, its lower half turning from printed card into real landscape — held to the rule that decides whether that is one object or two. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph and it takes the picture again on a wet collodion plate — an emulsion blind to red and wide awake to blue, so lips go black, a sky goes blank white, and the whole look follows from that one fact. Two fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: an editorial portfolio hero — a name set huge, a role line, a drawn portrait medallion, and a short row of work links, all on a warm editorial ground.

A worn kraft folder half-pulled open, a creased white card resting on it carrying the copy, and two polaroids tipped across both. Six fields.

A torn-scrap title on blueprint black — every character cut from a different paper, tilted and overlapped, held inside a live dashed selection. Five fields.

Hand it a photograph of one thing and it builds the room that thing is actually used in behind it — out of focus, overlapping nothing — while the object and the camera stay exactly where they were. Two fields.

Hand it a photograph of one thing and it relights the frame — another hour, another direction, another hardness — leaving the object, the surface and the background exactly where they were. Two fields.

Hand it a photograph and it returns a poster in two halves — the picture on top, the same things drawn beneath it in flat colour, countable one against the other. Three fields.

Two words stacked on rough art paper, sharing a stretched first stroke, where the lower one dissolves left to right like the ink ran out. Five fields.

Hand it a portrait and it comes back as a double exposure — a second scene held inside one tonal range of the face, with the silhouette left clean so the person still reads. Two fields.

A design-tool still life — one flourished script word on fine paper, caught inside a live selection box with anchors, crosshairs and a hovering cursor. Seven fields.

An exploded product view on white — parts strung along one axis in assembly order, with anything that passes through drawn long enough to reach everything it passes through. Five fields.

A quiet film-poster composition where a field of natural texture parts to leave one shape in the empty ground, and a single small figure sets the scale of the whole thing. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph taken in an instant and it takes the picture again with the shutter held open — where anything that moved is the sum of every place it was, and anything that stayed still comes out sharper than before. Two fields.

A cool editorial cover — one grainy image band across a pale field, cut into even vertical slivers, three sizes of black type stacked at its centre. Five fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a two-panel hero — the statement, call to action and chips on the left, a glass showcase panel of drawn cards on the right, over a ground built in CSS.

A sweet-loud journal-collage style — a tilted gadget frame with a chibi mascot, checkerboard and pinstripes, everything fat-outlined like stickers. Eight fields; pick your main colour.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back stitched — every colour a whole thread from a count you set, every shape built out of stitches that lie in a direction, and the fabric showing between them. Two fields.

A coloured-pencil cover with a torn paper border — your small hero in a soft two-layer scene, a childlike title above, everything warm and grainy. Six fields.

A product launch poster on black, where the light form is built from the product's own edges — so the picture has a thing in it rather than an atmosphere. Five fields.

Hand it any photograph of somebody and it comes back as a proper studio portrait of them — new light, new background, new styling, and a face that is still theirs down to the features you named. Two fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a living style guide on a single page — the palette as labelled swatches, the type scale set in the real face, the buttons in every state, and one sample card, all from your tokens.

Hand it a photograph of one thing and it puts that thing down on another surface — stone, oak, linen, steel — with the shadow the new material would really cast. Two fields; the background stays out of it.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a single showpiece card that tilts in 3D toward the cursor, a sheen sliding across its face while its emblem and title float at depth — a card that feels held, not printed.

A toy-shop cartoon cover — one huge slanted black title with a character window punched into it, doodads in the gaps, one loud accent colour. Eight fields.

One line in, one self-contained index.html out: a full-viewport waitlist hero — a glass navbar, one headline, an email field with a join button that turns into a thank-you, and a quiet proof row.

A botanical watercolour poster with a strict left-aligned type stack — held to the physics that separate real watercolour from an airbrush pretending to be one. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back as a woodcut — no grey anywhere, every middle tone made out of parallel cuts spaced wide or close, because a block can only print ink or nothing. Two fields.

A children's tee shot flat for a product page, carrying a one-colour line print specified the way a screen printer would specify it. Six fields.

A painterly mirrored film poster — with the reflection joined to its subject at a stated surface line, so it reflects rather than merely repeats. Five fields.

Greyscale editorial cover in three zones — a stack of tiny credits, a title broken apart with italic notes in the gaps, and a heavy word sitting on a white slab over black. Five fields.

A flat filing-folder cover: three index tabs along the top where the tallest is the one you are inside, a rounded panel below it, and a burst sticker in the corner. Eight fields.

A rainy-night shop-window poster style — the scene blurred behind real glass, a strict centred stack of sign lettering in red, green and yellow. Seven fields; the street does the rest.

Hand it an ordinary photograph and it takes the picture again at night on a direct flash — where light falls off with the square of distance, so the near thing is blown out, the far thing is black, and only the background keeps the street's colour. Two fields.

A business card in clear plastic, filling the whole frame — where the material is proved by the gap between two layers of ink rather than by anything behind it. Six fields.

Black on bone paper: one enormous geometric word with two hairlines running off its letters to the edges of the page, and everything else pushed into a corner. Five fields.

Two photographic worlds torn apart down the middle and stitched back together by a single word written across the tear. Seven fields.

A match-up poster for anything with two sides — built so the layout does not quietly pick a winner before the contest starts. Six fields.

A metaphor poster built on one enormous image that is two things at once — held to the rule that decides whether it reads as a metaphor or as a collage. Six fields.

A public-safety notice over a real weather scene, where the advice is ranked — do this now, do this today, know this — instead of listed as eight equal bullets. Seven fields.

A flat clash-colour poster where one word passes behind the figure and another passes in front, so the type and the person are interlocked rather than stacked. Six fields.

Hand it a photograph and it comes back drawn in chalk on a black board — where the darkest thing in the picture is bare board, because chalk adds light and there is no way to draw a dark line. Two fields.

A glitch poster where the damage has named mechanisms and a legible original underneath — so something has visibly gone wrong, rather than a texture that looks digital. Five fields.