Death and slate

click photo to enlarge
I was reading a piece recently wherein a writer was arguing that all mankind's actions are motivated, in some way or other, by the knowledge that we will all die. That this characteristic, one that distinguishes us from all other living beings, lies behind all that we do. Every action, no matter how important or trivial seeks to divert us from the thought of death, convince ourselves that we can transcend death, or prompts us to leave a record of ourselves that will last beyond the act of dying. I paraphrase rather crudely, but that was the gist of it.

That article came to mind when I was checking up on the progress of the repair of the spire at St Wulfram, Grantham. The usual entrance through the west door is not available due to scaffolding and a temporary path leads round to a door on the south side. This takes you through an area of the graveyard that surrounds the church where slate memorials predominate. Green Swithland slate, purple-tinged slate, grey slate and slate with a hint of blue can all be seen. Oolitic limestone is also present, but it is slate that catches the eye. The gravestones made of this material date from around 1760 through to the second half of the nineteenth century. And, the fact that they are made of slate means that they can still be easily read, the incisions almost as sharp as the day they were cut two hundred and fifty years ago. I've said elsewhere in this blog, and I'll repeat it again: if you want a tangible memorial to tell the world of your existence then it's hard to do better than a piece of inscribed slate placed somewhere that will not be disturbed.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 116mm (232mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/250 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Death, dignity and helium

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The popularity of releasing helium filled balloons and watching them float away into the wild blue yonder shows no signs of abating. It's now reasonably widely known that the earth's supply of helium is finite and dwindling (despite it being the universe's second most common element), and that more pressing uses for the gas exist e.g. in medical MRI scanners, welding and industrial leak detection. And yet, every year races involving hundreds of helium balloons are organised, often to support a charity, and millions of party balloons are inflated with the gas. It may be that mankind, one day, finds a substitute for helium, but until then many scientists advocate a more responsible husbanding of this important resource.

A while ago I came upon a shiny, red helium balloon that had attached itself to the metal fence that surrounds an electricity substation. It had clearly been snagged for some time because it was abraded and beginning to fade, the metallic coating showing grey beneath the paint. On the side facing me (upside down) I could read the word "dignity". Behind the balloon was a yellow warning sign, one of the many placed on the fence at regular intervals, warning of "Danger of Death": not unreasonable considering the high voltage apparatus inside. As I gazed on the fluttering balloon it occurred to me that this happenstance juxtaposition had put "death" with "dignity" in close proximity and that the three primary colours - red, blue and yellow - were also part of the photographic composition that was forming in my mind. So, reflecting that a "death with dignity" is something we all wish for when the end finally comes, I took my shot and continued on my way.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 20.9mm (56mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/800 sec
ISO:125
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Bright sparks and electric fences

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Is it just me that thinks its more than a little strange to protect people from the dangers of electricity by threatening to electrocute them? That's what National Grid does by erecting electric fences round their sub-stations to prevent people entering them and subjecting themselves to the danger of electric shock. I wonder which bright spark thought up that one!?

I was pondering this incongruity recently as I stood outside a Fenland sub-station with its enclosing spear-tipped palisade fence and inner electric fence, searching for a few semi-abstract photographs. I've gleaned a couple from this place before and I've learnt, over the years, that a location doesn't give up all its potential images at the first, second or even third visit. Locations change with the weather, time of day and season. People change too, with mood, recent experience, camera and focal length availability, and many other factors. These can combine and lead to a realisation that a photograph exists where before there appeared to be none. The semi-abstract nature of today's composition appealed to me. The lines of wire, circular tighteners, upright steel support and the yellow plastic (is it a warning to those inside?) against the flawless blue sky made a composition that I hadn't noticed on previous visits. The simple, subtle  and delicate arrangement must have previously been lost to my sight among all the pylons, transformers, insulators and the like.

The observant among you may have noticed that this photograph was taken with a camera that hasn't featured in this blog before. More about that soon.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Nikon D5300
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 75mm (112mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/500 sec
ISO:100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

A swan, a wire, a death

click photo to enlarge

In my early teens I was a keen birdwatcher and the fascination with birds has stayed with me since that time. In fact, I consider it to have been a life-enriching activity. It's fair to say that my interest was never as deep in later life as it was in those early years, but I have always been alert to the bird life around me, and I remain so today. As well as recording the number and species of the birds I saw, I plotted nest sites, photographed birds and collected a few artefacts - feathers, the odd wing and skull (including those of a curlew and a heron). The latter activity may sound a touch macabre, but I never considered it so. I used to periodically come across dead birds and they provided the materials for my small collection. Skulls were sometimes clean and bleached white by exposure to the sun: others could be made so by leaving them near an ants' nest! I'd probably been inspired to collect these things by the displays of stuffed birds that seemed to feature in every museum I visited, and by the stories in the Victorian and early twentieth century bird books that I posessed.

On a recent cycle ride I came upon a sight that brought back those early days. The farm track upon which I was travelling was littered with wings, bunches of tail feathers and smaller, downy feathers. All were white, though the wings had a hint of brown too. The death of the bird must have been quite recent because the remaining bone and tissue where the wings had been parted from the body were still quite red with blood. I immediately knew that the bird was a young mute swan (Cygnus olor) and that it had died or been seriously injured when it flew into the wires above the track. This happen all too frequently to swans, and I've come across them before in similar circumstances. What I couldn't deduce from the evidence before me was what had eaten the rest of the bird. Perhaps it was a fox, maybe a stoat, possibly rats or a domestic cat, certainly carrion crows or magpies: probably, however, a few or all of these had a meal or two off it.

Not being one to pass up a photographic opportunity, even one that's a touch grisly, I took out my compact camera, set the aspect ratio to 16:9 and took this "scene of crime" shot.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f4
Shutter Speed: 1/640
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

In loving memory

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You wouldn't think of a church yard as a place to find humour, yet I can't pass a grave stone with the words "fell asleep" (to signify the death of the person commemorated) without a smile appearing on my face. I have this mental picture of the poor man or woman closing their eyes to rest and their wickedly grinning relatives seizing their chance to quickly pop them into their grave. Euphemisms of this sort abound in churchyards, especially on gravestones of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. "Passed on", "Went to the Lord", "gone before", "gone away", "resting", "taken", and more, are used instead of the word "died". It seems that the longer we live, and the less we are familiar with death, the more we search for a different word or words to describe "our passing".

I find it quite surprising that the Victorians were reticent about giving death its true name: it was a much more familiar part of everyday experience in those days. The eighteenth century and earlier seemed to have less compunction about telling it like it is, and, though they decked their tombstones with symbols - a cherub to represent the departed soul, or a laurel wreath to signify the Christian triumph over death - they also carved skulls and bones, funeral shrouds and cadavers. Of course, many memorials of all periods do use the word "died", though just as many ignore it all together. The tradition I prefer is an inscription that simply records the name and dates of the deceased, with a few personal words from those who lived on - something that gives us a small insight into their life: perhaps an occupation, something of note that the departed was known for, a place of residence, or somesuch. I also find the words, "In loving memory", very appropriate, combining affection and a reminder of the purpose of any memorial, with just the right note of formality and solemnity.

Today's photograph is a detail from a memorial in a Lincolnshire churchyard. It is 12 feet tall, is topped by an angel, and has a large base on which is recorded the name of the deceased "who fell asleep" in 1898, below a wreath of roses (signifying virtue) and those well-used words. I photographed it on a frosty morning after a spider had used the marble sculpture as the site of its web. Seeing the wreath decked out in this way I was prompted to wonder whether the people commemorated there were still part of anyone's memory.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f4.5
Shutter Speed: 1/25 seconds
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Not fade away

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Shortly after May 10th 1793, John Ladd was laid to rest in Quadring churchyard, Lincolnshire. He was 49 years old, and had died 21 years short of his "three score years and ten". I imagine he would have wished for longer. The gravestone poignantly notes that "Also 4 children lie near him".

Those who chose the memorial for John Ladd followed the fashions of the day. The monumental mason selected a heavy, rectangular slab of Lincolnshire limestone and gave the top a rounded arch. Below it he carved a winged cherub in the form of a classical putto, to represent a soul rising to heaven, and this he flanked with flowers. A raised panel with a curved top and straight sides, echoing the shape of the gravestone, received the simple inscription carved in elegant Roman lettering. It is similar to several nearby, and probably represents the work of someone based in the locality. What purpose did it serve? Like all such stones, it was a memorial and tribute to the man, and a place where family members would come to remember him. But is it anything else? It certainly claimed his place in the churchyard, and on the "best" and sunny south side of the attractive medieval church. More than that, it reminded the world that this man existed. A gravestone is a relatively inexpensive way of claiming some sort of immortality. But for how much longer? The rain, wind and frost of 215 winters have softened the edges of the mason's carving, and lichen has ravaged the stone. In another 100 years it will be difficult to read the inscription, and in twice that the putto and flowers will be indecipherable lumps. And, with their passing, you might imagine that the memory of John Ladd will have completely faded away.

That, however, is to reckon without the power of the internet and the tenacity of family history enthusiasts! A quick Google reveals the following information. Apparently John Ladd was married to Jane Bradcher in Quadring church in 1777, and over a period of 12 years they had 7 children baptised there. Jane died a widow, aged 50. The next earthly apocalypse permitting, it seems that the memory of many of us may outlast our gravestones!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 15mm (30mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On