Rain or sun, colour or black and white

click photo to enlarge

One section of the bookshelves in my study consists entirely of volumes about the history of architecture. As you would expect, most of these are illustrated with photographs. Interestingly, the majority of these photographs were taken when the sun was shining, and it's not hard to work out why this should be so. Sunlight can be used by photographers to model a building in such a way that the overall massing and the details are accentuated by the contrast between the lit areas and the shadows. The smooth, shiny modern buildings of today and the old, sculpturally ornamented buildings of the past benefit from this effect.

But, whilst sunlight is good for revealing the structure of a building it doesn't do so well when it comes to the building's character. Some architectural photographs can resemble those portraits that are taken with a camera-mounted flash directed straight at the subject that makes them look like a rabbit caught in a car's headlights. Such shots show us details, but often much more than is usually apparent. Photographs taken on overcast days rely much more on colour, tone and line for their effect. In regions where sunshine doesn't represent the prevailing weather an image of this sort can be much more representative of a building.

I recently visited the ruined country house of Kirby Hall in Northamptonshire on two successive mornings. On the first day there was light drizzle, and the main photograph is one of the shots I took at that time. On the second morning the sun was shining, enabling me to take different kinds of images that, for example, allowed me to use the shadows that were cast on the lawns. When I came to review my photographs it seemed to me that the fact they were taken under very different skies meant they collectively told more of the story of the building. For example, the sunlit shots say more about Inigo Jones' borrowings from Italian Renaissance architecture than does the shot taken in drizzle: and that one prompts in me thoughts about how much more suited to our climes is the Gothic style with its steeply pitched roofs.

The other interesting thing about books of architectural photographs is the way that they are now largely (though not entirely) books with colour photographs. Only if they are a cheaper production or have an "artistic" bent do they lean more heavily towards black and white. The merits of black and white versus colour in architectural photography will have to wait for another blog post, but as several of my previous images, and the conversion shown above suggest, I think it still has its place.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

(Main photo)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 55mm (110mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Summat an' nowt

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When I was growing up in the Yorkshire Dales the phrase "summat an' nowt" could often be heard, frequently as a dismissive term. "Ay lad", a grown up would say, "I saw that programme last night on t' telly. It were a bit o' summat an' nowt." The literal translation of the phrase is "something and nothing", and the meaning leans heavily towards the final word of those three. "Devoid of substance" is too grand a conversion, but that comes pretty close to what most users of the phrase intend.

"Summat an' nowt" is a phrase I associate with photographs such as today's, or shots like this beach scene, this crow, and this number and boat. They are images that have a small amount of a not very interesting subject and a seemingly large amount of very little. "Something and nothing" is the phrase I've heard used a couple of times to describe such photographs, and when I do my Yorkshire-raised mind supplies the vernacular version. And yet this kind of minimalist image frequently provokes longer and deeper thought on the part of the viewer than does a nominally more interesting subject such as a landscape, portrait or architectural shot. There's not only the "why" of it to consider, but the spare composition invites attention too, and the space concentrates our attention on the details of the "subject". Take my chair on the stairs at Kirby Hall, Northamptonshire. Is it about the chair? Is it a record of this part of an old, mainly ruined building? Neither really. What interested me here was the arrangement of lines in the frame's rectangle that are anchored by the chair. This photograph of part of a school building was also taken mainly for the arrangement of lines. Something else I liked in today's photograph was the washed out, muted colours. There's nothing in the photograph that jumps out and grabs you, everything is calm, still, serene. But not entirely devoid of substance I hope.

photograph and 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: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Hard times for horse chestnuts

click photo to enlarge

The horse chestnut (Aesculus hippocastanum) is thought to have been introduced into England in the sixteenth century, probably from its native haunts of south-east Europe. In our country it has rarely been put to any practical use. Early planters were often rich landowners, and they valued its appearance and its seeds which are a source of food for deer. The wood of the tree is soft, white and easily cleft, with no strong heartwood. Consequently it has few uses apart from firewood or cheap boxes, and its great popularity stems from its value in ornamental planting. Its majestic shape and size, the big, "fingered" leaves, the "candle" flowers of spring, and the prickly seeds with their mahogany coloured seeds (conkers) are the reason for it being so widely seen across our islands. It is found in parkland and on playing fields, along streets, on village greens, in copses and clumps, and intermingled in woodland, a delight for children and adults alike.

The photograph above shows an avenue of horse chestnuts at Kirby Hall, Northamptonshire. It was planted by the county's Girl Guide Association in 1935 to commemorate the Silver Jubilee of George V. A typical autumn photograph you might think, the conkers littering the drive, the leaves turning brown and orange. But all is not quite as idyllic as it looks. Those conkers are small, have fallen early, and the leaves shouldn't be quite so shrivelled and brown on the first couple of days of October. In years gone by they would be a multicoloured display of green, yellow, orange, red and brown. The reason for their premature fall and crisp, dark appearance is the horse chestnut leaf miner moth (Cameraria ohridella). The scourge of this species advanced rapidly across Europe, and was first detected in Britain in Wimbledon, London in July 2002. Since then it has spread throughout much of southern and central England as is advancing northwards and westwards at a rate of 40-60km a year. Unlike bleeding canker, the other principal disease of the horse chestnut, a leaf miner moth infestation is not terminal, merely an aesthetic problem. Nonetheless, research is being undertaken to try and control the disease.

My photograph was taken with the camera somewhere below the level of my knees. I felt the need to get away from shots taken from eye level.

photograph and 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: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On