St Denys, Sleaford, Lincolnshire

click photo to enlarge
Architectural historians know St Denys in Sleaford, Lincolnshire, as a beautiful, interesting and intriguing parish church. The stone broach spire is one of the earliest to be found anywhere, dating from around the beginning of the thirteenth century (see also Frampton, Lincolnshire.) The blank arcading with rounded arches and circular windows above the west door show that the tower base is earlier still.

However, the aisles to the left and right of the tower, with their big, flamboyant (in the sense of "flowing" or "flame-like") windows are fourteenth century, and it is the way that later builders brought these forward, virtually level with west wall of the tower that prompts disagreement. Some see it as awkward, this large flat area at the "front" of the church overlooking the market place. They say it prevents the tower from being seen in all its beauty, and that the multiplicity of gable ends, and pinnacles is visually confusing. Others like it, valuing its different approach to composition compared with most other English churches, and revelling in the richness that the fourteenth century work (Decorated period) brings to the more austere early twelfth century structure (Early English period.)

What all agree on is the beauty and innovative variety of the fourteenth century aisle windows - "some of the finest Decorated tracery in England", says Betjeman: "the great Sleaford windows", Pevsner calls them, and adds that, "their detail varies infinitely...it is a prolonged delight to follow the mason's inventiveness along the building." I agree with both on the windows but I'm with Betjeman on the composition of the west end: I like it. Pevsner's observation that "it makes the old tower look glum" is something I don't see. But his criticism of the fifteenth century clerestory - that it isn't an effective contribution to the existing architecture - is something with which I can concur. Their mechanical regularity and repetition sit uneasily with the tower and the imaginative fourteenth century windows below.

The roofscape view was taken on a visit to Sleaford in late February. I've taken this shot many times, but finally (and unexpectedly) got this one that I like on a dark, overcast day. The photograph of the west front was taken in January when the square was filled with cars rather than the small market that is still held weekly.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo 2)
Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.) (12.8mm (60mm/35mm equiv.))
F No: f4 (f2.8)
Shutter Speed: 1/640 (1/60)
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -0.66 (-0.33) EV
Image Stabilisation: On

British, Americans and the problem of names

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People get confused about the name of the group of small islands off the western edge of mainland Europe. Geographically speaking they are known as the British Isles, though people in Eire (The Republic of Ireland) might wish for a name that doesn't emphasise Britain quite so much. The political name for the majority of the area of the islands is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (UK), a term that embraces the constituent countries of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. Great Britain is a name that covers the first three of these but excludes Northern Ireland. The Republic of Ireland (Eire) is an independent country in its own right. This isn't properly understood by many in the UK, so it's not surprising that people from other countries struggle with it.

There is further confusion about how to term a native of the UK. "British" (not the hideous modern term, "Brit") is used to describe anyone from the four countries. However, people who should know better - journalists especially - often use England and English instead, much to the annoyance of the Welsh, Scottish and Northern Irish. Is there any wonder that the other day the Argentine foreign minister made the same mistake when some of the natives of these islands aren't sufficiently precise in their usage.

But it's not only in the UK where these kind of problems are found. Take the United States of America. The people of that country refer to themselves as Americans; and so they are. But they use the name in such a way that suggests it applies only to natives of the U.S.A., something that doesn't go down well in Canada, Mexico and the myriad countries of Central and South America who also see themselves (quite rightly) as Americans because that is the continent on which they reside. Perhaps the people of the United States need a second name in the way that the people of Canada, Chile and all the other countries on the American continent do. I have heard Usanian put forward as a possible answer! How does that sound, or would it be as unwelcome as Brit is to me?

What has this got to do with a small water-course among the trees at Woodhall Spa, Lincolnshire? Not a great deal. In fact nothing at all.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2
Shutter Speed: 1/30
ISO: 160
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Methodist Church, Bourne

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Non-Conformist chapels and churches come in a greater variety of forms than their Church of England counterparts. The earliest seventeenth century examples, such as the Friends (Quaker) Meeting House, Settle, North Yorkshire, (1678) are basically converted houses. Others such as the Methodist chapel at Walsingham, Norfolk (1791) are simple brick boxes with a porch attached, semi-circular headed windows and a single galleried room inside. Others, especially in the nineteenth century seem to vie with nearby C of E building, adopting a Gothic persona of pointed windows, stained glass, tracery, buttresses, towers and spires (though usually unconvincingly): a United Reformed Church building that I know in the Lancashire village of Elswick could easily be mistaken for the local Church of England parish church. Then there are the large circular, octagonal or other odd shaped buildings with multiple annexes, that put the visitor in mind of a court room or theatre, such as North Shore Methodist church, Blackpool (early 1900s), or the Methodist Central Hall, Westminster (1912).

The other day, during a trip to Bourne I came upon a Methodist church building of 1839 designed by the architect Thomas Pilkington. It was set back from the road and fronted by flat, green lawns and a path. All the nearby buildings were red brick, so the clean, white facade impressed itself upon the passerby, with its simplicity and purity. Perhaps that was the intention. However, behind this elegant face the same red brick that is used by the neighbouring buildings prevails. During the nineteenth century Non-Conformist churches flirted with classical forms to a greater extent than did the established church, and here Pilkington uses giant Doric pilasters and a triangular pediment to give an impression of the facade of a Greek or Roman temple. Many churchmen thought classical architecture pagan, and spurned it for that reason, but not this group of Methodists in Bourne. In fact, the building is recorded as having acroteria angularia on the two flat plinths at each side of the pediment, and undoubtedly had an acroterion on the similar surface at the apex, so the full panoply of classical architecture was obviously applied.

With this photograph a black and white conversion made more of the composition than did colour. I particularly liked the way it emphasised the building, giving it an ethereal look, and how it gave greater prominence to the outline of the gate in the foreground.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Black swans and natural colour popping

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How ironic that a few days after offering my first and probably last photograph featuring "colour popping", I should take a colour photograph that looks for all the world like it has been colour popped!

That didn't occur to me when I was taking the shot of this black swan in a public park at Bourne, Lincolnshire, but when I brought it up on the computer the comparison was obvious. I took the shot on a fairly dull, overcast day, with the bird near the water's edge under some trees. The water, despite the disturbed reflections of the overhanging branches, was sufficiently light for me to see that I could make a silhouette of the curve of its black neck and head. And I certainly wanted the red beak and eye to be the visual focus of the image. However, I hadn't noticed that the water was, to all intents and purposes, black, white and grey. If you look closely, both the neck and water have a hint of brown to them, but at first glance everything is monochrome with the single splash of colour.

Just out of interest I copied the photograph, converted everything but the red beak and eye to black and white, and set it side by side with the colour original: there was a difference, but it wasn't very large. So, here we have it, a new photographic departure and technique - "natural colour popping" without the intervention of Photoshop, in this case featuring a striking antipodean bird captured on a cold day in Lincolnshire.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Birds, man and the plough

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Today I was looking at the bird box in my willow tree. I placed it there two years ago in the hope that a blue tit (Parus caeruleus) would nest in it. Unfortunately it has been spurned each season; as was the other one I put in the cherry tree. So I've decided that I'll enlarge the hole to make it suitable for the slightly larger great tit (Parus major): I've had better luck with that species in the past.

Those thoughts prompted a short reflection on the way in which birds have adapted to man. Our obsessive tidiness has reduced the number of naturally occurring holes that the blue and great tits formerly used, and nest boxes now provide a significant number of the sites favoured by these species. House martins (Delichon urbica), as their name suggests, have also found man to be a useful provider of nesting places. They get their name from the habit of building their cup-shaped mud nests under the eaves of houses. Before man built houses with eaves these birds built their nests under overhangs on cliffs. I'm only aware of one location in England where that still happens - Malham Cove in Yorkshire; everywhere else man-made structures are preferred. So too with swallows (Hirundo rustica), a bird that I've never seen construct its nest anywhere other than in a building. In the UK one of the key bird habitats is the man-made suburban garden, those that naturally frequent woodland edges finding it particularly to their liking. The food that friendly households put out for them is also a big incentive to hang around dwellings, especially in the leaner winter months.

Of course birds aren't infinitely adaptable to the activities of man, and many species - particularly those of open farmland - are in steep decline. However, today I saw a scene that must have been replayed every year since a farmer first ploughed a field: black-headed gulls (Larus ridibundus) (and rooks) following the tractor, picking up the morsels revealed in the turned soil: a symbiotic relationship if ever I saw one. It being February a few birds were showing their breeding plumage of a full head cap of chocolate-brown feathers, though none would be ready for nest building for another three months. I took a couple of shots of the tractor and plough working the Fenland field, one as it headed towards me, and this one that shows the birds to better effect after it had turned away and started its next set of furrows.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Showing, interpreting and explaining

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One of the things that every photograph says to a viewer is, "Look at this" because photography is a way of showing and interpreting the world. Many of the earliest photographs emphasised the medium's ability to bring accurate images from across the world into the eye and mind of people who had never ventured abroad. In November 1839, less than three months after Daguerre's invention became available, the painter Horace Vernet was using it to record scenes in the city of Alexandria in Egypt - a remarkable example of the quick implementation of new technology. The images Vernet made enabled European audiences to see what had previously been depicted only in words, engravings and paintings.

But, when the novelty of the photograph had worn off people began to see that cameras could do more than simply show the world; they could interpret it in something like the way that painters did. It was this important step that made some see photography as a medium capable of producing art. Today the field of photography is still divided up in this way, with amateurs and professionals producing images that either show or interpret.

Today's photograph is one that I took at the Boathouse Business Centre, a new and striking looking building at Wisbech in Cambridgeshire. It is a partner to the image I posted a couple of weeks ago. But, where that photograph was essentially "show", this one has an element of "interpret". How? Well, firstly I deliberately tilted the camera for the shot, and in such a way that the central column of the spiral staircase (and the vertical wind turbine) form a diagonal across the square frame. In doing that I could use the treads of the stairs as a curving diagonal across the square in the opposite direction, making a balanced, dynamic composition. And, in emphasizing the pattern of the segments of the underside of the stair treads I'm inviting the viewer to not only look at a possibly overlooked part of the building, I'm also saying look at it the way I saw it. My image, therefore, is as much about form and composition as it is about the subject.

Describing my photograph in this way makes it sound a rather fine and grand image: it's not. But that's always a danger when you describe the how and why of a photograph or painting. I think my shot's O.K., but no more than that. The act of putting into words the how and why of image making is something that photographers (and painters for that matter) are reluctant to do. Perhaps they think it robs their work of some of its magic and mystery, and makes it too accessible! Whatever the reason, it shouldn't be only critics and academics doing this sort of thing, and I try to offer a little explanation every now and then.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

An obsession?

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Sometimes you have to be honest with yourself. You have to acknowledge your weaknesses. You have to face up to your obsessions and the fact that you have an unwholesome fixation. Today is my Tiger Woods moment, my time to come clean and admit that I have a compulsion that leads me to ... photograph public seating.

Where this comes from I don't really know, but if I was to place the blame anywhere (rather than on myself that is) it would be on seaside promenades. I first got hooked at Blackpool in Lancashire. When I went further up the coast to Morecambe I found I couldn't escape the dependency. Even a relocation to Lincolnshire on the other side of the country didn't allow me to elude my desire to make images of street furniture, and I found myself photographing examples in Heckington and Sleaford. Like everyone who has such a craving I thought I could kick the habit. It was only when, during a visit to Wisbech in Cambridgeshire, I found myself spurning the photogenic marina and further shots of interesting buildings old and new, and was focussing on a row of ridiculously uncomfortable stainless steel benches that I knew my problem was long term, and I needed to do something about it.

Today I take the first step in my rehabilitation. Instead of posting the original shot of the Wisbech benches for its own sake, I've included it only as the source image for today's colourful flight of fancy. This consists of the same image copied four times, rotated (and flipped), then coloured (with complementaries at opposite corners), all with the aim of turning the focus of my obsession into something quite different - a vibrant, symmetrical, radial pattern. I quite like it. The trouble is it has a sort of psychedelic feel to it, and is the sort of image that might have been projected as part of the light show at a concert by Traffic, Jefferson Airplane or some such 1960s rock band, and I wonder if I'm simply swapping one obsession for another. Don't know what I mean? See here, here and here!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 16mm (32mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/1250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Foggy day photography

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I like to convert colour photographs to black and white. I'm not one who does it all the time, nor can I say that I do it with the majority of my images. But, when I have a subject that I think suits the treatment, I have no hesitation about going monochrome. People, buildings, some landscapes, shots with shadows or large areas of darkness and occasional highlights, are the subjects I favour. The Black and White gallery in my "Best of PhotoReflect 5" features many such images.

However, there is one subject that, I think, particularly lends itself to a black and white treatment and that is fog. Many photographs that are taken in fog (as opposed to above it from a hill) have very muted colour. Consequently the step to monochrome is smaller than it would otherwise be. Furthermore, the gentle gradations that foggy images feature are emphasised when they are in shades of a single colour rather than broken up by the complication of several. In addition, black and white often has the effect of giving a foggy image a more sombre or mysterious mood; something that can be very appropriate for the right subject.

Today's photograph is, to my mind, the best of the three foggy photographs that I'm posting following my recent morning expedition. The simplicity in terms of composition and subject make it for me. The road, hedge, two areas of grass, sky and the pair of pine trees would be complicated by a backdrop of more trees and a distant farm in clearer weather, and the image would be much busier. When I composed it I also liked the way the trees were near, but not at the intersection of the converging lines. It's probably not a shot that will have particularly wide appeal, but I do think it's one of my better recent photographs.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 12mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Colour popping

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I'm not a fan of colour popping, the trick of converting a colour photograph to black and white and deliberately leaving an area of (usually bright) colour. It seems to be a technique of the digital era: I certainly don't remember seeing it in the days of film. Image editing software such as Photoshop make it a fairly straightforward thing to do, and boy, has it been done in recent years. In fact it's been done to death.

I see it regularly on photography websites. Clearly some people are very taken by the technique, however I'm not. It has always struck me as "gimmicky", and I can't recall a single image that was improved by having this done to it. That said, I imagine you're wondering why I've done it to today's photograph. The answer is, "because the subject suggested it."

I was passing Quadring church in the fog, and stopped to take a photograph of this fine medieval building. I've photographed it a few times - see here, and here - but lately I've avoided doing so because that scaffolding on the spire has been there for months, an abcess on a thing of beauty. During my visit the fog was giving the scene a drab grey look, and I thought it was sufficient reason to overcome my dislike of the enduring scaffolding. But as I walked to my favourite position for photographing this church I came upon a bunch of the brightest, pink roses that I've ever seen. My first thought was that they were artificial flowers made of silk or some such material, but they proved to be the genuine article. The roses had been placed near a newly dug grave (just out of shot), probably yesterday, and their fresh, bright, summery radiance looked very out of place on a cold, foggy, February day. "Colour popping!" I thought, and took this photograph which I then converted. My first essay in the style is likely to be my last.

Looking at my image, and digging deep for justification, I suppose I could say that the colour popping device emphasises the unseasonal incongruity of the bright, fresh roses in this dull, dank, setting. What do you think?

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Foggy winter pond

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Today when I woke up there was a dense blanket of fog over the countryside, and a temperature that was flirting with freezing. So, after I'd re-fuelled and warmed up with my morning breakfast of porridge and a cup of tea, I set off to look for photographs.

Usually when I photograph in the fog I'm searching out the simplification and flattening that this atmospheric condition brings. Simplification happens because the background to objects fades quickly into invisibility, leaving them highlighted against a clean backdrop. Simplification comes about through the thick atmosphere masking the detail of things, giving them the appearance of faded silhouettes. I got some of those kind of images. However, today's post isn't one of them because it's full of detail.

It shows a pond opposite a farm at Quadring Eaudike. I took the shot for the silhouettes of the leftmost trees that gradually fade into the distance, their reflections in the pond, and the reddish brown of the dead reeds. The branches of the tree in the right foreground add a layer of dark sharpness that contrasts nicely with the bluer, more distant trees. This whole package appealed to me in the fog. However, it will also offer something different when the fog has gone so I'll probably return in a week or two to see what other shots I can harvest.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/20
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

St Nicholas, Sapperton, Lincolnshire

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English churches are often a reflection of the settlement in which they stand. Large town churches were usually built with not only the offerings of a large congregation, but also the riches of a local guild. Small villages and hamlets frequently have small churches, the best that could be afforded by a limited community.

But often these generalities don't apply. The village of Skirlaugh in the East Riding of Yorkshire has a large and fine C15 church of a much higher quality than might be expected in such a place. It came about because one of its inhabitants, Walter Skirlaw, became Bishop of Durham, a position that enabled him to fund the building. The village of Hoar Cross in Staffordshire has a large, lavishly built Victorian church by Bodley that was built in commemoration of Hugo Ingram of Hoar Cross Hall by his wife.

What then of St Nicholas at Sapperton in Lincolnshire. Well, this small church had no fabulously rich benefactor, and its modest size reflects its modest parish consisting of farms, cottages and seventeenth century hall. It dates from the late twelfth century (the north arcade), and has further work of the C13 and C14. The exterior, which is very crisp and neat, has all the hallmarks of a Victorian restoration that was a bit too enthusiastic. However, St Nicholas does sit very nicely in the unpretentious churchyard, with its mixture of stone and slate gravestones. I photographed the church on an afternoon when the shadows were lengthening and the low sun was saturating the colours of everything it fell upon. Snowdrops were peeping through the drifts of decaying leaves that had been blowing around the churchyard all winter. I composed my shot using the path as a lead in to the slightly off-centre building, and balanced the shot with the prominent gravestones and trees to the right.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/640
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Here comes the sun

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The Beatles' Abbey Road album is a particular favourite of mine. Just about every song is a masterpiece, from the driving blues/rock of I Want You (She's So Heavy), to the chug of Come Together and the 1950s-inspired swoop of Oh Darling. For me the inventive brilliance and contrasts wrapped into the 16 minute medley of You Never Give Me Your Money, Sun King, Mean Mr. Mustard, Polythene Pam, She Came in Through the Bathroom Window, Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight and The End are the highlight of the album. However, I also like it for George Harrison's two contributions -the peerless Something and the only slightly less well known Here Comes The Sun.

I read somewhere that Harrison wrote Here Comes The Sun when he was staying with Eric Clapton, and it certainly has some similarities to Badge, the song they co-wrote for Cream. Incidentally, the chiming guitar part on the latter song is Harrison not Clapton, and the Abbey Road song features a guitar figure with a similar feel. For an English-born listener the title and words of this song perfectly summarise the feeling you have when, on a bright, March day you feel the warmth of the sun on your back, you take your jumper off, and you know that spring has finally arrived, banishing the unremitting cold of winter.

But, it's only February, and we have yet to experience that feeling. I'm not usually one who yearns, in the way that some do, for the arrival of spring: in fact I find lots of pleasures in an English winter. However, after this year's extra helping of frost, snow and rain, I too am ready for spring. In the absence of the real sun I thought I'd engineer it through a photograph of a single bloom from the vase of yellow chrysanthemums that curently decorates our hall. To give the flower a spring-like glow I lit it from behind and from the side, and put the LX3 on a tripod so that I could use a slow shutter speed and therefore a low ISO. When I compose a shot like this that has a very obvious compositional centre (the flower's middle) I really have a struggle to put it anywhere but the bottom left corner because that location seems so "right." However, on this shot I forced myself to overcome my predilection and put it towards the top right.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2
Shutter Speed: 1/4
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

St Leonard, Kirkstead, Lincolnshire

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The tiny church of St Leonard, Kirkstead, lies a few hundred yards down a bumpy farm track in the middle of pastures, hedges and trees, a mile or so south of Woodhall Spa in Lincolnshire. As you bounce along the pot-holed lane on the way to the church you pass a very tall, irregular pile of stones in a rather undulating field. Closer inspection of this reveals a slender, twelfth century angle shaft, the remains of windows and other architectural details. This is the only standing remains of Kirkstead Abbey, a Cistercian foundation of the late 1100s.

St Leonard's church was probably the chapel ante portas of the abbey, perhaps a chantry in memory of Robert de Tattershall (d.1212), who was the grandson of Hugh de Breton, the founder of the abbey. As such it would have been used by travellers and by the local community who rarely had access to the religious offering of a monastic house. The small, limestone building is a single, rectangular room measuring about 42 feet by 20 feet. The west end (shown) is decorated in the Early English manner with a central doorway with stiff-leaf capitals and dogtooth ornament. Above is a string course and three similarly decorated lancets, the outer two blank and the central one with a vesica window. The north and south walls are divided into three sections by buttresses, with pairs of tall lancet windows in each part. At the east end is a common arrangement in buildings of this date: three lancets, the central one being taller than the outer pair. Restoration work was undertaken in 1967 and the present roof, bell-cote, weather-boarding and octagonal window date from that time: it is a good, simple job that doesn't take the spotlight away from the details of the original building The interior is something of a surprise: it is stone vaulted - quadripartite, except in the chancel area where it is sexpartite. Dogtooth and stiff-leaf abounds. The font is a re-used abbey mortar. It is likely that the wooden screen, a simple affair with trefoil arches, dates from the time of the building, making it one of the earliest wooden screens in the country. A marble knight, whose armour suggests he dates from about 1250, must be one of the earliest military effigies in England.

I visited Kirkstead on a fine, cold day with blue skies and soft cloud. The light was making deep, sharp shadows, modelling the building, the churchyard cross and gravestones, and casting dark pools of shade across the ground from the holly and yew trees. I took this shot imagining that it would be suitable for converting to black and white, and so it proved.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 13mm (26mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Feeding the blog

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When you have a blog to feed you're always on the look out for photographs. The drive to find enough shots to fill the week's quota sharpen's one's eye tremendously and images can rear up before you in the most unlikely places. Today's offering is an example of this that I came upon when I was dusting in the living-room.

Several years ago my youngest son was a member of the team that won a national competition called "Target 2 Point 5 Challenge." This was organized by the Bank of England, and was for 6th form students studying economics. As well as a couple of prizes, each member of the team was presented with a trophy by the Bank's governor. It was this that I was dusting, a tall, engraved, prismatic piece in very hard plastic/glass, proudly displayed in my house. When I picked it up the sun caught it, throwing a spectrum on to the shelf. Curious, I raised the trophy to my eye and looked through the base. My view of the room was instantly fractured into multiple planes. I made a mental note to do that again, but with a camera, and continued about my domestic duties.

A couple of days later, in the evening, I took the trophy, placed it under a bright light source and examined it from every angle, pointing the LX3 at it with the lens set to macro. I eventually settled on the shot I've reproduced above. It involves reflections and distortions of, mainly, the trophy itself. It was taken by aiming the camera at the base and features quite a bit of text, as well as areas of light and dark, that made quite a good composition. When I came to process it on the computer it occurred to me that the image has something of the look of a Cubist painting. I don't imagine that Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso, the two premier exponents of Cubism, ever looked through prisms to find ideas for their fractured paintings. But, after my experience with my son's trophy, I wouldn't be surprised to find that they did.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Carnations and the language of flowers

click photo to enlarge
Flowers have been used symbolically throughout human history. The ancient Egyptians used the lotus flower (water lily) to represent Upper Egypt and the papyrus Lower Egypt. The ancient Greeks saw the daffodil as a symbol of death and imagined that Hades, the underworld and abode of the dead, was covered in them. In contrast the Romans saw roses as symbolic of death and rebirth, and planted them on graves. The early Christian religion used the lily as a symbol of purity and it can often be seen on Byzantine icons and in Renaissance paintings being handed to the Virgin Mary by the angel Gabriel. It's a moot point whether members of the early Christain church appropriated this idea from the Greeks and Romans who linked the lily with their respective queens of the gods, Hera and Juno.

Early nineteenth century and Victorian writers such as Charlotte de la Tour (Le Langage des Fleurs, 1818), Kate Greenaway (The Language of Flowers, 1885) and John Ingram (Flora Symbolica, 1887) popularised the notion that many flowers can be used to convey meaning through the ideas associated with them. Thus, a woman receiving anemones from a man, on consulting one of the books about the "language of flowers", would read the gift as a tribute of unfading love (or forsaken, or sickness, depending on the tome referred to.) Orange lilies, however, were a symbol of the giver's pure hatred for you, though candytuft implied mere indifference.

With that in mind I wondered what the symbolism of the carnations that fill a vase in my house at the moment might be. In the language of flowers they mean fascination and devoted love (in general), I'll never forget you (if pink), admiration (red), alas for my poor heart (deep red), capriciousness (purple), no (striped), innocence (white), rejection (yellow). Phew, I thought, that's too complicated for me; the possibilites of pitfalls are much too great for me ever to take the language of flowers seriously. I mean, what might I be inadvertently saying with these white carnations edged with red? I could hand them over to my true love and receive a slap on the face for my pains without ever knowing why!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro, (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/15
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: +1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Looking down, or is it up?

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Parishes with medieval churches have to make considerable efforts to maintain their old buildings. The religious fervour and wealth that produced these marvellous old buildings is not there to the same extent today. As congregations dwindle, so too does the size of the steady income that they donate to the church. Individual benfactors, often through wills and bequests, do leave money to churches, and a small number of parishes still have land and property that provide regular funds. But, on the whole, the situation is a difficult one.

Very large parish churches such as St Botolph in Boston - a member of the Greater Churches Group - have particular problems because they do not have the prestige and drawing power of cathedrals, yet in some cases are bigger and more costly to maintain than those more celebrated structures.

As I do the rounds of churches and cathedrals, gathering my photographs, enjoying the art, craft, history and culture that they offer the visitor, I often make a contribution. Sometimes it's a small donation in a wall-box, frequently I buy the brochure that details the history of the church, and now and again we buy a tea-towel, a book, or - where it's available - have a cup of tea and a snack to go with it. Such offerings and purchases are never going to be the mainstay of a fund-raising drive, but they're given in the hope that, added to the small amounts from other sources, they combine to make a more significant and useful total.

Today's photograph was taken as we warmed up with a cuppa in Boston's famous church. I say warmed up, but in truth the hot tea didn't have much impact on how we felt. As is sometimes the case with old churches, the temperature in the building felt as low - and maybe lower - than that outside. I usually call this the "cave effect" of churches because, like caves, these cavernous buildings seem to maintain a temperature that varies much less than one experiences outside. Which is fine in summer: churches are a welcome relief from the heat of the day. But in winter? Well, let's just say that if steaming hot soup was offered with the cup of tea they could make a killing!

Today's photograph is taken with the camera pointing into the slightly inclined mirror that enables visitors to admire the tower vaulting without getting a cricked neck.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -1.00 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Sensor aspect ratios and reeds

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The Lumix LX3 camera, in common with a few others in the Panasonic range offers the photographer different aspect ratios. A switch on the lens barrel allows the user to select 4:3, 3:2 and 16:9. What makes Panasonic's offering particularly useful is that the angle of view doesn't change when you make your selection. So, APS-C users are catered for with the 3:2 setting, Four Thirds (and MicroFT) users will be familiar with 4:3, and widescreen (16:9) is there for anyone wanting to either fill such a display with an image, or who fancies a landscape or other shot with this aspect ratio. I find myself using the 4:3 and 16:9 a lot, and the 3:2 only occasionally.

However, a firmware update intoduced a fourth option - 1:1, that is to say, square. Because it's an afterthought it has to be accessed through the menu system. However, for this photographer it is very welcome despite this inconvenience. There are those who cannot see the point, possibilities or aesthetic value of the square format: but there are others who use it exclusively or regularly. The latter group often includes former medium-format photographers who cut their teeth on square viewfinders and square film. And then there are people like me, who see 1:1 as offering the ideal shape for some subjects. If I were a portrait photographer I'd use it a lot. But even for landscapes, semi-abstracts, urban scenes and the like, it has its place.

You're perhaps wondering why I'm mentioning this in the context of a photograph taken with an Olympus DSLR with a 4:3 aspect ratio that has been cropped to square. Well, many argue that cropping obviates the need for hardware settings of this sort. I disagree. It is difficult (though not impossible) to visualise a square composition when you're framing a shot with a different aspect ratio. I did it here, but I'd love to have been able to place a square frame over the viewfinder rectangle or close it down until it was square. But thats not an option.

Today's shot is a black and white semi-abstract with, I like to think, a Japanese watercolour feel to it. I selected a group of dead reeds around a narrow water-course, including one that arches into the water (with its reflection), others that exist only as motion-blurred reflections, and some nearer ones that are out of focus. The delicate lines traced across the square frame, that look like they have been applied with a brush, appeal to to me, though I think they won't be everyone's cup of tea.

photograph & text (c) T.Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/200
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The megapixels wars and dynamic range

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The rise in the megapixel count of compact cameras has become ridiculous. Models are routinely being sold boasting sensors with 14MP, and consumers are buying them thinking that they offer better image quality than the models with a lower number. Manufacturers know this isn't the case. Enthusiast and professional photographers do too. But, the camera makers, years ago, embarked on the "more is better" method of selling new models and seem unable (or unwilling) to depart from it. This has also started to infect DSLRs: witness the concerns over the Canon 50D (15MP) and the 7D (18MP).

Anyone who is confused by all this needs to know that the main factors in image quality are the lens (just as it always has been) and the processor that works on the image in the camera, but that possibly the most important factor is the density of pixels on the sensor. The lens on an inexpensive camera is usually fairly basic, but given that it's small is usually adequate. In-camera processors improve year on year, so that the images from this year's 10MP camera are likely to be better than the equivalent sensor/MP size of three years ago. Now, what about pixel density? Here are some examples from cameras available today:

Samsung TL240 - 14.1MP - 50MP/sq.cm.
Canon Powershot S90 - 10MP - 23MP/sq.cm.
Olympus E510 DSLR - 10MP - 4.1MP/sq.cm.
Pentax K-7 DSLR - 14.6MP - 4.0MP/sq.cm.
Nikon D3S DSLR - 12.1MP - 1.4MP/sq.cm.
Go to this page of DPReview to find out the pixel density of your camera.

The best image quality in that list will come from the Nikon (the one with the biggest sensor) and the worst from the camera with the highest megapixel count, the Samsung (which has the smallest sensor.) I could have chosen 5 different cameras and, by and large, the image quality would have been directly related to the sensor size and pixel density. Of course, when people ignore the megapixel count they tend to buy within a price range, and that's when choice and comparisons become more complicated. However, the truth is that usable detail, dynamic range, visual noise and all the other factors that make for a good image is closely related to the sensor size and pixel density, not the number of megapixels. In fact, most compact consumer digital cameras would today be producing better images if the manufacturers had stopped at 8MP.

Today's photograph was taken with my LX3 (10MP, 24MP/sq.cm.) and illustrates the second theme in today's "reflection." I'd trade dynamic range for megapixels any day. This shot was difficult for the camera because of the dark shadows of the street near the bright, sunlit clouds. I had to set the EV to -1.33 to control the highlights, and that introduced quite a bit more noise into the shadows which I had to clean up afterwards at the expense of detail. If digital camera manufacturers put less effort into increasing the number of megapixels and more into enabling their products to record the detail in both bright highlights and darker shadows, then images would be sharper and closer to what our eye/brain sees. Cameras that could do this would be easier to expose, and, most helpful of all, images would require less post-processing.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 7.9mm (37mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5
Shutter Speed: 1/800
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -1.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Jack Frost

click photo to enlarge
"Look out, look out,
Jack Frost is about,
He's after our fingers and toes,
And all through the night
The gay little sprite
Is working where nobody knows.

He’ll climb each tree,
So nimble is he,
His silvery powder he’ll shake.
To windows he’ll creep
And while we’re asleep
Such wonderful pictures he’ll make.

Across the grass
He’ll merrily pass,
And change all its greenness to white.
Then home he will go
And laugh ho, ho ho!
What fun I have had in the night."
children's poem by C. E. Pike

On more than one occasion recently, when talking to friends of my sort of age, the subject of ice on windows has cropped up. Most people who grew up in the United Kingdom in the 1950s, and even the 1960s, unless they were very well-off or raised in modern houses, remember waking up on cold winter mornings to find ice on the inside of their single-glazed bedroom windows. It's something that my children find barely credible, and yet we thought nothing of it: that's just the way it was, and we appeared to be none the worse for it. Of course, it's not something I'd like to return to, and it's a phenomenon that these days I rarely see anywhere. But I did the other morning.

As I stood at the kitchen window watching the birds eating the seed and scraps that I'd put out for them I noticed my unheated greenhouse (glasshouse) was iced up. At a distance it looked like the ice had formed the sort of feathery patterns that I remember from my childhood. So, I grabbed the LX3 and went to investigate. There were patterns, and they were best seen from inside the greenhouse. Those on the roof were the most elaborate and, remarkably, each pane of roof glass had a quite different pattern. Some were more foliage-like, in a very William Morris chintz way, others resembled feathers that were either very fluffy or quite sparse. I took a few shots then I found one feathery pane with good contrast and light that displayed the patterns in a way that the camera could better record - see above.

The other thing I remember from these cold childhood mornings is my mother reciting the first few lines of the "Jack Frost" poem (above) as she pointed out the frost patterns. I know some schools still teach these verses to young children, but do parents? Perhaps there is less cause now that central heating and cars have all but banished the "wonderful pictures" and the need to experience cold from our lives.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Reflecting on mirror balls

click photo to enlarge
In a small sea-front garden, off the Tower Esplanade, in the Lincolnshire resort of Skegness is a diminutive pavilion with a ridged, blue hexagonal roof. At the apex of the roof is a spike, on top of which is a mirror ball. As mirror balls go it's a respectable size. As seaside, promenade mirror balls go, especially compared with the 20 feet (6m) diameter of Blackpool's (the largest in the world), it is fairly insignificant.

However, as I passed it the other day I thought I'd try a shot similar to the one I'd taken in 2006 of the whopper at Blackpool. The resulting photograph of some of the thousands of tiny mirrors on part of the sphere has an abstractish, pixellated quality that pleases me. At the top of the image is the blue sky with an aircraft's ragged, wind-blown vapour trail. On the horizon are the varied and colourful buildings of Skegness's promenade. Below them is the green of the lawns and the grey/brown of the paths in the small garden where the pavilion is located. The very bottom of the shot shows a segment of the ridged, blue roof.

One of the virtues of visiting a glitzy seaside resort such as Skegness is that even in winter a photographer can guarantee to go home with a memory card packed with shots exhibiting the sort of vibrant colours that you can only usually get in the other three seasons of the year.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Best of PhotoReflect 5

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I've updated my Best of PhotoReflect gallery to version 5 (use this link or the permanent link on the right). Each time I make a revision I remove some of the older shots and replace them with recent images that I think are better. This time I've also added a couple of new folders - London and People. Anyone new to this blog may wonder why it's taken over 4 years to amass this tiny number of "people shots". Well, that's just the way I am, I don't take many photographs of people!

Once again I've used the free utility called JAlbum, but this time I've swapped "skins", replacing "Chameleon" (included with JAlbum) with "FotoPlayer" (separately downloaded.) This seems to be quite good, though it does have one or two quirks that I hope the author changes, not least the blank start-up page and the menu that has to be called up each time you change folders/galleries. JAlbum has moved on since I last used it, and now offers 30Mb of web space for your galleries and built in FTP that links to it. It also has a set of useful widgets - page counter, comments, etc. If you've ever thought of putting photographs on the web, in a location other than Flickr or its competitors, this is a quick and relatively easy way of doing it.

>>>>> Go to Best of PhotoReflect 5 <<<<<

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Photographing Aswarby church

click photo to enlarge
The church of St Denis (also known as St Denys) at Aswarby in Lincolnshire is a favourite of mine. There are many churches that are more beautifully arranged and proportioned, and it doesn't have the wealth of small architectural details and fine tombs that some churches can boast, but it is certainly both handsome and interesting. However, what makes it stand out for me is the way it sits in its setting.

It's a building that looks like an estate church because the village of Aswarby is nothing more than a collection of a few houses and farms strung along a bend in the road: and most of those houses are in a Tudor style and were erected around 1850 by the lord of the manor at the time, one Sir Thomas Whichcote. However, parts of the church date from around 1200 A.D., and much else is of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, so it pre-dates by a long time, the remains of the hall's estate. And it is this that, for me, that marks it out from other churches in this part of Lincolnshire; the sheep-filled pastures dotted with trees, the arching avenues with branches that reach over the road, and the remains of walls, ponds and sculptures that dot the fields. They make a pleasing backdrop to this fine church, and one that changes delightfully with the seasons. Other blog photographs of Aswarby church can be seen here, here, here and here.

My most recent visit to the church was on a cold day at the end of January when the sky was the clearest, deepest blue and the sun was throwing long, dark shadows. In theory the light was perfect for photographing the church, except that from my favoured position, using the road as a leading line, the sun was directly behind me and hence flood-lighting rather than modelling the architecture. So, I circled the building like a sculptor eyeing up his block of marble, and was pleased to find an image at this position towards the east end. At this point not only did the branches of the trees add interest to the boring blue of the sky, but I got a shot of the church that is very three dimensional, especially when contrasted with the relatively flat gravestones. It was a photograph that in colour was mainly green, blue and buff and I knew it would be better in black and white. And so it proved.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The "Kitchen Sink" photographer

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A couple of days ago I was reading a piece by a photographer. It was reasonably interesting until I got to the part where he mentioned the importance of "finding your own voice". At that point I gave up on him, because it's something I've never been able to take seriously. The idea of developing until you create your own unique and identifiable style is promulgated by those who like to see themselves as the gatekeepers of the higher levels of photography - bodies such as The Royal Photographic Society - as well as by many photographers, photographic critics, and writers on the subject. For those who aren't familiar with this concept I discussed it briefly in a post in early 2008. Here's what I wrote then:

"This idea is adapted from fine art criticism, and goes something like this. When you start out in photography you take snaps, then as your interest and skill grows you re-create technically sound well-known genre (some would say cliche) images, and finally, if you make the ultimate leap, you produce artistic, original images each including an element of a style that you have created: your work becomes recognisable by your particular "signature".

I don't rubbish this theory lightly, or from a position of ignorance - I have a lifelong interest in art, the history of art, and photography, and even have academic qualifications in these areas. I am scathing about it because, whilst it might be a theory that can be, retrospectively but artificially, applied to many painters and photographers, and it undoubtedly does accurately describe the progress of others, it is nonetheless very easy to find eminent practitioners whose career zenith involves producing very disparate pieces of work, for whom the idea of a single identifiable "signature" style is anathema. It is not a "one size fits all" description of a photographers development, nor should it be held up as a model to consciously emulate.

The other week, as I was reading about Britain's "angry young men" in David Kynaston's "Family Britain 1951-57," the seed of an idea was planted that has a bearing on on what I've just written. The novelists and playwrights of that period, people such as John Osborne, Kingsley Amis, Terence Rattigan and Alan Sillitoe, were seen as producing work rooted in anger, alienation, the feeling of being an outsider, and this phrase was coined to describe them. I recalled that in the 1960s the angry young men's view of the world, and the low-key, domestic and provincial subjects that they addressed in print, was transferred to television plays that became known as "kitchen sink drama". And that phrase strongly resounded in my head. Perhaps, I thought, I could find my own voice as the "kitchen sink photographer"! After all, I'd already started down that road with the triptych that I posted on the last day of 2009. That very same evening, as I washed up the dishes, my second "kitchen sink" image appeared before my eyes. I'd splashed some water on a metal tray that had the residue of olive oil on it, and as the two liquids fought each other, the light bouncing off the water's irregular convex meniscus, I saw the shot.

So, when I burst upon the photographic scene as the chronicler of the drama, light, shade and essential dampnessness that is the kitchen sink, you'll know that I've succumbed to that dreaded theory, I've finally "found my own voice", and I am condemned to photographing nothing but soap suds, gravy stains and pan scrubs. Until that disconcerting day arrives you'll have to put up with the usual mixed and motley rubbish!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2
Shutter Speed: 1/30
ISO: 125
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The "Boathouse", Wisbech

click photo to enlarge
The Cambridgeshire settlement of Wisbech still retains much of its character as a Georgian market town. Many of its historic buildings have escaped the attentions of the improvers and developers, and it has a very high number of listed buildings - about 270 - for such a comparatively small place. However, this relative bounty in terms of eighteenth century architecture seems only partly the result of conscious conservation: the decline of the town from its glory years, with the attendant lack of development, is also an important factor.

However, Fenland District Council and the people of this part of Cambridgeshire are clearly taking steps to revitalise the area, and I came across one such example on my recent visit. The "Boathouse" Business Centre is a landmark office and services building next to the River Nene, the latest development in an area that already includes a marina, and promises more commercial space and riverside flats. The idea of "landmark" buildings as the focus of development seems widespread in Britain today, with museums (Manchester, Bradford), galleries (Salford, Liverpool, Gateshead), aquaria (Hull), and many other iconic, often cultural, structures being pressed into service. It seems to work: the failures - such as Manchester's Urbis (many say it didn't fail) which is to become the National Museum of Football - seem to be few.

This modest example in Wisbech has a shape that seems a little too obvious for its location: the pointed ends that echo a bow and stern, the white paint, the "bridge" balcony and the mast-like vertical wind turbine and street light all seem to proclaim too loudly, "I'm next to a marina - geddit!" That criticism notwithstanding, it is a good addition to the area, an interesting subject for a visiting photographer, and I hope it succeeds in bringing jobs and life back to this part of the town's riverside.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 13mm (26mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Sunset woods

click photo to enlarge
When I lived in the north west of England woodland was not hard to find. Deciduous woodland was common on the slopes of the Pennines, most of it the result of planting, and today managed for timber or shooting to a greater or lesser extent. However, there was some vestigial woodland, a natural continuation of that which grew there thousands of years ago. On the uplands conifer plantations were fairly common on thin, acidic soil, dense green swathes of woodland with brown scars where felling or new planting was taking place. Where I live now, in Lincolnshire, there is significantly less woodland, and what there is is largely the result of deliberate planting. On the Fens trees are most common around villages, and around farms as wind-breaks, with the odd plantation and copse to be found among the vegetable and cereal fields. However, if one goes on to the low hills or the higher Wolds of the county you find that woodland established for timber or sporting reasons is fairly common.

Todays' photograph shows a view at the edge of a small wood near Aswarby, Lincolnshire. On the particular estate where these trees grow there is a sawmill, and timber is cropped for the wood it produces. But, pheasant are a lucrative crop in this area too, and the woods are dotted with the pens and feeders that support the rearing of this "game bird". I took this shot towards sunset, and deliberately chose these three trees to be in the image. It would have been perfectly easy to have included a lot of trees, but I felt the composition and the imapct of the shot would be better served by a small number. Incidentally, this is another photograph taken with the 16:9 aspect ratio of the LX3, a format that I particularly like for landscapes.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 10.2mm (48mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Colour or black and white?

Click photos to enlarge
Many people question the relevance of black and white photographs in our world of colour. "What's the point?" they say. "We see in colour, we can print and view in colour, why do we continue with this limited palette that derives from old technology and the need for inexpensive reproduction?" It's not just the man in the street that holds this view, but many amateur photographers and quite a few enthusiasts and professionals. Of course, within photography we also have the contrarians who use nothing but black and white, seeing it as a "purer" form, untainted by the glitz of colour, and seduced by its association with "art photography" and some of the medium's masters.

I started my photography in the late 1960s when colour processing for home-produced snaps was widespread but black and white was still readily available as an option. I usually had my prints processed in black and white and when I wanted colour chose transparencies (slides). By the 1970s I was having mainly colour prints when I paid for processing, but I developed my own black and white shots and my own transparencies. Of all the images that I have from those years the black and white prints are the ones that have lasted best, followed by the transparencies (there's no difference between those that were commercially developed and the ones I did myself), with the colour prints a poor third. In fact, so concerned was I by the deterioration of the latter that I scanned them all several years ago in an attempt to keep something of their original qualities.

However, digital files in colour and black and white have equal longevity - and who knows how long that will be? - so that's not a reason for me continuing to convert shots to black and white. Why then do people do it? Well, some see it as the classic form of photography and others like its elegance. Some prefer its simplicity, and there's no denying that there are compositions that work in black and white that wouldn't in colour - often because a patch of a bright hue throws the shot out of balance, or clashes with another colour. Then there's the evocative nature of the medium; the way it can be used to cast the viewers mind back into a recent (or fairly remote) past. Many like the way it changes the emphasis of an image, concentrating our minds on the essentials of a portrait or an urban landscape. Then there's the drama that can be more easily realised through a monochrome photograph.

I often do a quick conversion of a colour shot that looks like it might have more potential in black and white. Sometimes I'm right, sometimes I'm wrong, and other times I just can't make up my mind, which was the case with this image. It shows some houses in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire that date from about 1800. The terrace - called Union Place - forms one segment of part of a circular arrangement of houses that is bigger than a crescent but not quite a circus (both those words being used in the architectural sense). The shadows falling on the buildings from the circular garden that all the houses face adds drama to a shot that I thought would benefit from a black and white conversion (with the addition of the digital equivalent of a yellow filter). But, the complementary nature of the blue sky and orange/brown brickwork also has its attractions. So, as a departure from my usual practice I include both versions for your consideration. Which do you prefer?

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17mm (34mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/640
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The intelligence and vanity of rooks

click photo to enlarge
It is said that among the birds of the world some of the most intelligent are members of the crow family (Corvidae). New Caledonia crows (Corvus moneduloides) have been observed whittling twigs and leaves then using them to poke into holes to extract insects and grubs which they then ate. They've even been fitted with "tail-cams" and had their activities filmed. Some researchers claim that crows can count up to 3 or 4, though since they also think parrots can count to 6, that isn't quite the ringing endorsement of their intelligence that it might at first appear. However, experiments have shown that crows can equate certain sounds with types of food, and though they aren't quite up there with Pavlov and his dogs, it does indicate a rudimentary intelligence. As does the action of Swedish crows that follow the fishermen who fish through holes in frozen lakes. The crows tug repeatedly on lines left at the holes until a caught fish is brought out on to the ice to be eaten.

But, whilst there is plenty of documented evidence of the intelligence of crows, there is little concerning their vanity. I do know that jackdaws (Corvus monedula) will steal gold rings, jewels, silver paper, in fact any small shiny object, and that collections of such stuff are often found near their nests. But that excepted I'm not aware of any other narcissistic activity. Except for one that I stumbled upon the other day. When I was in Sleaford, Lincolnshire, walking past an old cinema - the Picture Drome that dates from 1920 - I looked up and noticed a rook (Corvus frugilegus) perched on the top of the remains of a weather vane. "Why was it there?" I wondered. Then it dawned on me. On its flights around the town it must have noticed the brass cockerels on top of the weather vanes of the churches. Being an intelligent (and aspirational) species it clearly felt that rooks would look so much better at the pinnacle of a building than a common farmyard fowl, so it was demonstrating this incontrovertible fact to all who cared to look. It had a friend with whom it had obviously been sharing this theory (see it lower down in the photograph), and when one grew tired of gripping the top of the metal pole, the other bird took over the modelling duties.

So there we have it, this photograph of a weather vane is concrete proof that crows are not only intelligent but vain!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On