Chromorama, 5 Broadgate, London

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In a recent post I remarked how architects who build sharp, angular buildings frequently seek the soft, wayward, natural counterpoint of trees and shrubs. The architectural firm of MAKE and its leader Ken Shuttleworth seem of that persuasion. Today's photograph shows the building at 5 Broadgate, London, with its rigidly etched verticals and horizontals broken by the scribble of the branches of a nearby tree.

But this photograph also shows the other accompaniment that is today the de rigeur addition to expensive offices - sculpture. The Broadgate website describes this piece, "Chromorama" by the London-based artist, David Batchelor, as "totemic" - which it isn't. That word means the mark, badge or totem of a tribe, and by extension a group. Unless the brightly coloured matchbox-like shapes (that illuminate at night) represent bundles of money, then I don't see it being totemic. I think they mean "like a totem pole", and certainly that image came to my mind the instant I saw it. As a piece of sculpture I don't care greatly for Chromorama. But, as a loud burst of colour in a space overwhelmingly steel grey with blue glass highlights, it is a welcome presence.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo Title: Chromorama, 5 Broadgate, London
Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 20mm (40mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/320 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The Breedon Angel

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The Breedon Angel is one of a number of fascinating pieces of Saxon sculpture to be seen in the church of St Mary and St Hardulph at Breedon-on-the-Hill, Leicestershire. The style of the pieces - small friezes, panels and individual figures -  is notably different from continental European sculpture of the period. Some is quite weathered and must have originally been placed on the exterior of this originally monastic church: it is all now inside for protection from the elements.

The "Breedon Angel", probably a depiction of the Archangel Gabriel, is the largest of the sculptures. The figure is framed by an arch and gives a benediction in the Byzantine manner. It is carved in stone quarried at Barnack near Peterborough. Dating the angel is difficult but it is thought likely to have been carved around 800AD.

The fame and value of this early and fine piece of sculpture is such that the piece on display in the church is not the original but a replica. It was made in 2001 by a process involving 3D laser scanning. Because Barnack stone is no longer quarried a very near match was sourced from Monks' Park Quarry in Wiltshire.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 45mm (90mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f4
Shutter Speed: 1/100 sec
ISO:400
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Lions sejant?

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I have no time for the social structure that produced heraldry or for heraldry as a social tool; it seems to me to be a self-serving way of differentiating the plebeians from the aristocracy, of binding the so-called "upper classes" together by lineage, and, in many cases, giving a spurious antiquity to the nouveau riche. That being said, you have to admire the gusto with which the whole heraldic apparatus was invented established, codified and embedded in society.

Go anywhere in England and you'll come across heraldry. It's in almost every Church of England building, virtually all civic buildings, on the coinage, on pub signs, affixed to buildings, printed on book covers, an most of all, everywhere in castles new and old.

Eastnor Castle in Herefordshire is a Victorian castle and the builders took great pains to make it look like it has been built up over the centuries, with rooms and details in various architectural styles. It is also dripping with heraldry. The detail above shows part of a panel behind a stream of water that issues from a wall into a pool. It has two lions facing each other, their front legs raised on steps, between them a tree, and above a shield. The position that heraldic animals adopt are circumscribed by rules and special names. I think this pair are sejant!

© Tony Boughen

Camera: Nikon D5300
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 95mm (142mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/160 sec
ISO:360
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Crystal Palace dinosaurs

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In 1851 the Great Exhibition was held in Hyde Park, London. When it closed the newly built exhibition building, an enormous plate glass and cast iron structure that came to be known as the Crystal Palace, was dis-assembled and moved to Sydenham Hill. Here it was re-built in a quite different form, becoming an exhibition space, concert hall, gallery, meeting place and museum in the newly created Crystal Palace Park. This Victorian pleasure garden, a 389 acre development of the grounds of a former mansion, also acquired a formal Italian Garden, a Great Maze, an English Landscape Garden, a cricket ground, a football stadium, aquarium, a concert bowl and much else. It also gained some areas of water with islands and it was on one of these that the most interesting attraction was sited.

In 1852 the sculptor, Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins (1807-1894) was commissioned create 33 life-size models of extinct, prehistoric mammals and dinosaurs. He was assisted in his task by Sir Richard Owen (1804-1892), a biologist and palaeontologist, and the man who coined the word "dinosaur". The models were based on the best current interpretation of the animals' form derived from the fossils that were being collected in increasing numbers. They were probably the first ever dinosaur sculptures and the limitations of their accuracy soon became apparent as science and fresh finds threw new light on the creatures. However, they proved a great attraction, even spawning what may have been the first tie-in merchandising in the form of a set of miniatures based on the originals and available for the sum of £30. They certainly drew the crowds, and despite the ravages of time and neglect, concerted restorations have returned them to close to their original condition and they continue to be a draw, especially to children.

I'd never visited Crystal Palace Park before the autumn day on which I took these photographs. As I moved from group to group I reflected that, in terms of the appearance of the trees and shrubs, I couldn't have chosen a better time to be there. The deep reds, yellows, oranges and browns of the leaves added to the more usual greens gave the backdrop to the giant beasts an appropriately other-worldly appearance, and animated them in a way that probably doesn't happen in high summer.

photographs and text © Tony Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 25mm (67mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f4
Shutter Speed: 1/80 sec
ISO:400
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

A Ledbury sculpture by the Thornycrofts

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Thomas Thornycroft (1815-1885) and Mary Thornycroft (neé Francis) (1814-1895), were husband and wife sculptors. They met when Thomas was an assistant to Mary's father, the sculptor John Francis (1780-1861). Their work can be seen at many London locations, but like a lot of public sculptors of the Victorian period, familiarity with their work often doesn't bring recognition of the person (or people) who executed it.

One of the best known works by the Thornycrofts (sometimes John was principally responsible, at other times it was Mary) is the group representing Commerce on the Albert Memorial, though George Gilbert Scott, the architect responsible for the overall design of the Memorial, was critical of both the concept and composition. Another prominent London piece is Boadicea and her Daughters, a bronze of the queen of the Iceni tribe in her chariot, near Westminster Pier by the River Thames. The couple received commissions for civic pieces from many cities as well as for the royal family. Mary completed several busts and statues of Queen Victoria's children.

I recently discovered that the Thornycrofts were responsible for a memorial in Ledbury church, Herefordshire. This marble sculpture shows a sleeping child watched over by two angels. It commemorates the death of a child in the following words:

John Hamilton, the beloved infant son of John Martin and

Maria Henrietta, his wife.

Born April 23rd, 1850. Died March 18th, 1851

The work was apparently conceived by Mary Thornycroft and sculpted by her husband. It is a touching piece and one that was thought of a sufficiently high standard to be shown at the Great Exhibition in 1851.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 10.4mm (28mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f1.8
Shutter Speed: 1/30
ISO:320
Exposure Compensation:  -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Glass sculpture

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Glass has many qualities that fascinate me: its ability to reflect, to distort, to transmit light through its structure, its hardness and smoothness, even its fragility. In recent years I've realised that glass has always intrigued me. Even back in my childhood I loved to look into mirrors, glass marbles, prisms, cheap jewellery or cut glass decanters to see how they distorted reality. But it's only in the past fifteen or so years, as I've expanded the range of my photography, that I've realised the depth of my interest. Now I rarely miss an opportunity to snap a good reflection, a distortion or any other kind of interesting manifestation in glass.

When I go to the National Centre for Craft and Design in Sleaford I find that its always the glass exhibits for sale in their shop that I look at first. I can't say I've bought a lot of "art" glass, but we did buy a couple of rather fine bowls a few years ago, one of which has made an appearance on the blog. Consequently, when we recently made one of our regular trips to Sleaford to take in the current exhibition I was delighted to find that it featured the work of someone who worked in glass. Luke Jerram had pieces from three of his major series on display: Radiometer Chandeliers, Glass Microbiology and Rotated Data Sculpture. It was very refreshing to find that these titles are very clear descriptions of the work rather than the usual opaque artspeak. Of the three types of glass work it was the forms drawn from the world of viruses, bacteria and microbiology that I enjoyed most. To see structures inspired by the microscopic forms that can only be seen under powerful magnification, that are rendered large, in beautifully formed glass and lit by powerful lamps was marvellous. So much so that I took a couple of shots with my pocket camera. Today's photograph is a detail of one of the larger pieces.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: iAuto
Focal Length: 10.4mm (28mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 160
Exposure Compensation:  0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Birds and their perches

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Avian vantage points vary from species to species. In my garden the jackdaws tend to stay high, favouring chimney pots and roof ridges. The blackbirds are often seen on top of the clothes posts, on the security lights, and on middling branches of the trees. The mistle thrushes are almost always on the topmost branches of the tallest trees, particularly liking the poplar and eucalyptus. Out in the countryside buzzards are commonly on the dead branches of large trees such as oaks, though kestrels prefer telephone wires and posts of any kind.

But what about gulls? In coastal towns where there are no cliffs the tops of houses and their chimneys provide good places to survey the land. So too do tall street lights. However, on a recent trip into Boston, Lincolnshire, I spotted a gull on a sculpture. Nothing unusual about that I suppose; gulls can often be seen perched on the heads of statues erected to the great and good making them look slightly ridiculous. And even when they are absent from these favoured positions their presence at other times is evident from the "deposits" that they leave behind.

However, this gull had chosen a sculpture of a different bird species on which to perch. The former Fogarty Feather Factory is surmounted by a large mute swan in recognition of its role as a centre of the manufacture of pillows, eiderdowns etc. Today the factory houses flats, but the swan remains, and on the day I passed by it offered a vantage point for a solitary gull. The sight of it immediately suggested that my two earlier photographs of birds on bird sculptures - see this one from Southport and this one from London - could be complemented by a third. It's not a great photograph, just a bit of fun to brighten a cold February afternoon.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 282mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  -0.67 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Artemis, The Huntress

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"All right... all right... but apart from better sanitation and medicine and education and irrigation and public health and roads and a freshwater system and baths and public order... what have the Romans done for us?"
from "Monty Python's Life of Brian" (1979)

The Romans have an undeserved reputation for innovation. It's true that they had very good engineering, and that their skills in acquiring, administering and sustaining an empire were formidable. However, as far as actual inventions go their prowess has been greatly exaggerated. The fact is their real skills lay in creative borrowing: taking the inventions of other cultures and improving them. The Romans were more Bill Gates than Alexander Graham Bell.

A single example can serve to exemplify the failings of the Romans when it comes to inventions - or the absence of them. Throughout their period of ascendancy horse power was crucial to the Romans, yet they continued with the same inefficient harness that was used in the Bronze Age. In the second century B.C. the Chinese had horses pulling against a breast strap when they were used with a cart. This allowed them to breath more easily and pull heavier loads. A century later the Chinese had discovered the increased benefits of the collar harness, a device unknown in Europe until many hundreds of years after the Roman empire had collapsed.
 
On a recent visit to Much Marcle in Herefordshire to attend a wedding I was photographing in the snow-covered garden of Hellens Manor, the ancient house where the ceremony and subsequent festivities were to take place. The frozen pond on the south-facing terrace featured a statue of a female hunter. The moss and lichen encrusted figure looked like a good subject for a photograph or two, and so I took some shots showing details and context. This particular view of the garden was taken the day before the main image. It shows the sculpted figure with a snow scarf and cap which had disappeared twenty four hours later. When I came to give a title to today's photograph I had to stop and think whether the subject was Greek or Roman. If Greek, then the statue depicted Artemis, if Roman then it was Diana. When it came to religion the Romans inherited some Greek gods during their early history, came up with some of their own later on, and sought to identify some of these with Greek forerunners due to their fascination with the earlier civilisation. All of which has sown some confusion in the minds of later generations. The sculpture could be Diana, but she looks Greek to me. All of which leads me to think that another thing the Romans did for us was to add a layer of confusion to their mythology that tripped up this photographer when he was a schoolboy, and sometimes puzzles him still.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 105mm
F No: f4
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 125
Exposure Compensation:  -0.67 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Disc harrows and white horses

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The other day, as I looked at the rusty metal discs on the harrow shown in today's photograph, out of nowhere it seemed, a thought popped into my head: "What ever happened to the Ebbsfleet horse?" Anyone with a working knowledge of some of the more grandiose lunacies of modern British art will know that to which I refer. For the uninitiated the background is as follows. In 2009 Mark Wallinger's design was chosen as the winning submission in a competition for a large public sculpture at Ebbsfleet in Kent. The piece was intended to mark the area's redevelopment and the international railway station in particular. His work is a big - very big, 33X life size, 160 feet high - white horse made of concrete on a steel frame. It is a representational piece: imagine a child's play farm animal inflated to gigantic proportions. Why a white horse? Well, the county symbol for Kent is a white horse rampant with the word "Invicta". Moreover, the white chalk hills of the county feature white horses made by removing the turf.

As a sculpture it leaves everything to be desired. The photomontages showing how it will appear from afar illustrate what a blot on the landscape the white horse will be: every bit as bad as Damien Hurst's 65 feet tall sculpture of a half-flayed pregnant woman wielding a sword (called "Verity") at Ilfracombe. In fact, the latter has more to commend it because Hurst paid for it and it's on loan for a period of twenty years after which it will be gone. The money for the white horse hasn't been forthcoming, which is good of course. The concern must be that at some point public money is sought for the project and then Kent will be stuck with it for ever - or at least until it becomes a grubby eyesore and is wrestled to the ground like the statue of Saddam Hussein.

So what has a disc harrow to do with the white horse? Well, in December 2008, at a time when a short-list of three candidates was being considered for the Ebbsfleet sculpture I wrote a blog post proposing that a disc harrow might make a more appropriate subject and posted a shot to illustrate my point. Seeing the example above brought back memories of that. What I also liked about this particular harrow, as well as the repetition of shapes, was the mottled terracotta appearance of the rust. I thought then, and I still think, that a scaled up version of this above an agricultural landscape would have more beauty, interest and appropriateness than an inflated white horse.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 105mm
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 1250
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Kilpeck's remarkable doorway

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The other day, in connection with the Anglo-Saxon (Romanesque) church at Barton upon Humber, Lincolnshire, I was talking about architectural exemplars; those buildings that best exemplify the characteristics of a style or period. When it comes to the style that follows the Anglo-Saxon in English architecture, that is the Norman (also Romanesque), the church of St Mary & St David at Kilpeck in Herefordshire is one of the most quoted in architectural textbooks. More particularly, its elaborate south doorway of c.1150 is held up as one that best displays the achievement of post-Conquest architecture.

Yet, when I first saw this doorway I felt sure that an over-enthusiastic Victorian restorer must have had the carving re-tooled, that is to say have a sculptor go over it with his chisels to make it look more like it would have done when first completed. But I was wrong. It seems that the red sandstone was particularly well chosen and has simply survived the centuries much better than most stone. So what does it show? In the tympanum above the door is a stylized Tree of Life with grapes to left and right. It sits on a lintel with a band of horizontal chevron moulding that looks like it has been re-used from elsewhere. The outer order of the arch has medallion like shapes with birds, fish and dragons, joined by carved bands with eyes. The inner order has characteristic beakheads, but also angels and dragons, some devouring themselves. The columns and capitals that flank the doorway are even more remarkable. They have elongated figures (as do the church's chancel arch columns), long dragons, heads and much writhing foliage. The Viking origin of much of this is very clear, and of course the Normans were descended from Scandinavians that settled in France.

Beautiful though the doorway is, one has to question the extent to which it is an exemplar of Norman architecture. There are other doorways and arches of this period that show similar carving: Pevsner cites Shobden's re-sited arches, and he might have mentioned certain cross columns. However, Kilpeck isn't typical so much as a pinnacle of the style, a flowering that is admirable but also exceeds the quality and departs from the characteristics more usually seen.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 28mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/25 sec
ISO: 160
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Prior's Doorway, Ely Cathedral

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Our great churches offer much to delight the eye and mind, more than can be taken in during a single visit, and often contain much that can lie unnoticed even after several visits. On our most recent trip to Ely Cathedral my wife came upon the Prior's doorway. How we had not seen this wonderful example of the Norman sculptor's art before I can't explain, but I'm glad we eventually stumbled upon it.

The doorway dates from the mid-1100s, a time when sculpture exhibited a marvellous mix of linearity, naivety, vigour, drama and stylisation. Doorways, fonts, column capitals and crosses of the twelfth century are an interesting mixture of Byzantine influenced Romanesque with strong elements of Celtic and Norse influence. This example at Ely is busier than most, the columns in particular showing a clear link with the scrollwork, wreaths and knots of the carving and illuminated manuscripts of earlier centuries. Hidden among the swirling lines are medallions, single figures, groups, perhaps labours of the months, zodiac signs and much else. The capitals are similarly carved. An unusual addition is the two corbels in the form of heads that seem to stare at visitors who pass through the portal.

However, interesting though the columns are - and the arches that carry on the decorative themes over the top of the doorway - it is the filled in semi-circle below the arch that draws the eye. This is intentional, and the location above the lintel of a doorway and below the arch, a space known by the architectural term of the "tympanum", was often exploited in this way during the twelfth century. In the Prior's doorway tympanum the sculptors have carved the commonly found subject of the seated Christ (here beardless), one hand raised in a sign of power or blessing, the other holding an open Bible. He sits in a pointed oval shape known as a vesica and is flanked by angels whose bodies are contorted in (possibly) flight or awe, but also to make them fit the semi-circular frame. The treatment of the figure sculpture and clothing is flat and stylised in the way often seen in early two-dimensional frescoes, painted icons and mosaics, characteristics shared with the font at Eardisley, Herefordshire, a subject that I blogged about in 2009.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 70mm
F No: f4.5
Shutter Speed: 1/80
ISO: 2500
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Something for nothing

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I get regular requests from companies asking if they can use one or more of my photographs. In the main they are looking for a no-cost alternative to commissioning a professional photographer or buying from a photographic archive such as Alamy. My reply to anyone in business wanting a photograph but not prepared to pay to for it is to refuse.

Such people seem to think that I will be flattered by their approach and their willingness to credit me in their literature. But I'm not. The fact is I don't need to use my photography to generate an income or to supplement one. Were I starting out in photography as a business I might feel differently, but I enjoy the luxury of being an enthusiastic amateur. However, I do feel an obligation to my fellow photographers who are in business, and I know that every photograph I give away makes it a little bit harder for someone, somewhere to earn a living with their camera.

Consequently, to prevent me having to waste my time replying to people who want something for nothing, I've prepared a new "Contact Me & Enquiries" page (top right) setting out the terms on which I will sanction the use of my photographs. I continue to make them freely available to private individuals and charities. However, companies looking for a no-cost image will, I hope, look elsewhere.

All of which has absolutely nothing to do with today's photograph of the carving of a face on the porch of St Mary's church, Beverley, East Yorkshire. This character has a doppelganger on the other side of the doorway, the pair seeming to act as weird medieval welcomers to those who visit this stunning building. It took me a little while to work out that the face is not that of a fanciful creature but a person wearing an animal hat with ears, of much the same kind that parents today buy for their babies and children. Which reminds me that the only firm request I made of my son and daughter-in-law regarding the upbringing of their first child (my first grandchild) is that she wasn't made to wear such a hat because the ridiculousness that they endow on the defenceless infant constitutes child cruelty. Needless to say my wishes were ignored.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 90mm
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/200 sec
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Church memorials and spelling

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"Lexicographer: a writer of dictionaries; a harmless drudge that busies himself in tracing the original and detailing the signification of words", definition from "A Dictionary of the English Language" (1755) by Samuel Johnson (1709-1784), English writer, poet, editor and lexicographer

English church memorials of the late sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries are very distinctive. They typically feature a debased classical style with the elements handled rather clumsily, large and small scale figure sculpture, heraldic devices, a descriptive text and striking paintwork.

Today's photograph shows all of these things. It can be found in the church of St Nicholas in King's Lynn, Norfolk and is one of several excellent examples of the type adorning its walls. The memorial commemorates Thomas Snelling who died in 1623. He is shown devoutly kneeling before a bible opposite his wife. Below are smaller representations of his children - a very common feature of such memorials. Corinthian columns frame the main figures, a broken segmental pediment tops the piece and at the bottom is a winged cherub's head and classical scrolls. An interesting feature is the crowned, winged skull in the top panel, presumably a reminder of the inevitable triumph of death. However, on this particular memorial it was the dedicatory panel that interested me. At the time I took the shot I'd recently been reading about the genesis of Samuel Johnson's "A Dictionary of the English Language" (1755), and the wayward spelling of the text on this piece clearly signals the need that his work was designed, in part, to address.

The second photograph is a detail from the first that shows the panel enlarged. It makes an interesting read, not only for the way it eulogises and describes the deceased (it is much less effusive than usual), also for the verse that constitutes the bottom half, but especially for that whimsical spelling and the fact that the punctuation comprises a single colon (used to abbreviate Matthew to Matt:) and one full stop. For anyone unused to reading such things it may help to know that J and Y being substituted with I, V instead of U, abbreviations such as YE (THE), W with smaller TH meaning WITH, W with smaller CH meaning WHICH, and the shortened form of ANNO DOMINI were common on such memorials and elsewhere, serving to reduce the amount of text and often to make  the line of writing fit in the allotted space.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 65mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/60
ISO: 800
Exposure Compensation:  -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On 

Sculpture, galleries and photography

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It's fairly common for photographers to be told that they can't use their cameras in certain locations. Regular visitors to this blog will remember my experience photographing in the private "estate" of More London on the South Bank. Shopping malls ban photography. So too do the majority of galleries and museums, even where they are essentially tax payer funded institutions. So, it's a real pleasure to come across somewhere that does allow photography inside their premises, as I did at The National Centre for Craft and Design (known as "the hub" - I don't like the lower-case) in Sleaford, Lincolnshire*. This venue regularly stages exhibitions, and we frequently go along to see them. I've said elsewhere that these are not always to my taste. However, that doesn't matter because one of the points of visiting such a place is to expose yourself to new ideas. Moreover, I find that I do enjoy the exhibitions sufficiently often that I keep returning.

The two exhibitions I saw on my most recent trip to Sleaford couldn't have been more different. Jason Lim's "New work in ceramics" didn't appeal to me very much at all. The shapes and textures of his clay work offered me neither beauty nor interest. I did like some of the colours and patterns of his glaze, but that was about it. I was, however, most impressed by Claire Morgan's sculptures. These featured stuffed (as in taxidermy) animals - all road-kill I believe - placed in volumes constructed of monofilament on which were fixed various plastics and even dandelion seeds. The exhibition was called, "About Time", which sums up the artist's motivation in creating these pieces. However, had I known nothing of this - and a video gave further insight into her ideas and techniques - I should still have liked the pieces featuring the crow and the fox.

The fox was standing in a grid of vertical lines on which were fixed torn shreds of back plastic arranged in such a way that the animal appeared to be in an inclined cube. The strongly directional lighting of the gallery emphasised texture, light and dark and the sham solidity of the sculpture. The crow was up-ended on the ground as though it had just crash-landed and was surrounded by two part-spheres made of dandelion seeds fixed to a grid of wires. A third piece with the rabbits - both "alive" and dead - had the word "Shhh..." backwards, made of pieces of pink plastic floating above. Descriptions such as mine don't do justice to the pieces, nor do my two-dimensional photographs: they have to be seen and walked around to be properly appreciated. If you can, go and see them.

* I asked at the "The Hub" if I could take photographs in the gallery and was told I could. I believe, from previous conversations on the subject, that photography is allowed with some exhibitions and not others - a policy that is much better than that of most museums and galleries.

photographs and text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 8.8mm (41mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2.5
Shutter Speed: 1/30
ISO:400
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Eye scorching colour

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I don't like shopping. Lots of men (and quite a few women) don't. Food and essentials I can cope with: it's the infrequently bought items that I find harder to deal with - clothes, domestic sundries, shoes, etc. They mean visiting bigger shopping centres and scouring more places, often with no success. In recent years I've sometimes found myself in one of the assemblages of so-called "outlets" (what a horrible word that is), notably the Fleetwood Freeport in Lancashire and Springfields at Spalding, Lincolnshire. These places are "themed" - at Fleetwood its sited next to a marina, and at Spalding it adjoins the Festival Gardens. This pairing of an "attraction" with a large, purpose-built shopping area with its acres of parking is an attempt - or so it seems to me - to make buying stuff more interesting and palatable.

The other day we were at Springfields, Spalding. We came away with only a couple of small items that were on a longish list, but not before we'd had a wander around the gardens. I've taken a few photographs there before, principally of the sculptures. Probably my favourite shot from this location is one showing a detail of some large, painted, concrete shapes designed by Chris Beardshaw called "Sculpture Matrix". As we once more came upon these among the trees and planting I noticed that the colour scheme of pink exteriors and pale blue interiors had been changed and now the inside of the shapes was what I can only call neon green or a very bright lime green.

I used the LX3 to take a few more shots of these shapes with their now quite eye-wateringly colourful paint scheme. The best of the crop is the main photograph taken through one of the "viewing slits" that let the spectator see into the sculpture. However, since I rarely photograph anything with such jarringly juxtaposed colours, I also took a few shots of the corners and edges where the pink and green came together.

photographs and text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2.8
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO:80
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The original white rabbit?

click photo to enlarge
I can't imagine that Charles Dodgson (1832-1898), a mathematics lecturer at Christ Church, Oxford, had an inkling of the fame and notoriety that he would achieve through his books,  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. These works, released under his pseudonym, Lewis Carroll, completely eclipsed any public acknowledgement that he received for his accomplishments in his professional and private life.

The larger than life characters that populate these two books have, through the printed word as well as through film and musical adaptations and references, become widely known. Where did Dodgson/Carroll get his inspiration for the Queen of Hearts, the March Hare, the Cheshire Cat and the rest of his cast? Well, in the case of the White Rabbit, there is the suggestion that it may have been in the medieval church of St Mary, in the market town of Beverley in East Yorkshire.

Last week I stood in the church and looked up at the carved stone label stop that terminates a raised hoodmoulding that edges the arch of a door. At the base is a head, facing downwards, which may be a pig, and standing upright on it is a fine rabbit. Around him is a satchel, an item that has caused some to call it the "Pilgrim Rabbit". We don't know the original reason for the medieval mason's decision to depict a man-like rabbit. But what we do know is that for much of the past hundred or so years the tradition has been that this rabbit inspired Lewis Carroll's "White Rabbit", the one that lured Alice down the rabbit-hole into her fantasy world. I don't know if there is any truth in this tale, nor I suppose, does anyone else. However, I think this is a very noteworthy rabbit, and one deserving of a photograph.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 90mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/40
ISO: 3200
Exposure Compensation:  0 EV
Image Stabilisation: N/A

The "Counting the Cost" Memorial

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I recently attended a talk on "remembrance" that included the subject of war memorials. These tributes to the fallen can be seen all over the country in villages, towns and cities. Most of them date from around 1920 and list the local men (and women) who died in the First World War. Invariably they were added to after the Second World War, and some have names from later conflicts. A few memorials - such as the The Cenotaph in Whitehall, London - commemorate no individual, but rather seek to remember all those who died. And then there are others that are very specific, honouring women, or particular branches of the armed forces.

On my recent visit to the Imperial War Museum aviation museums at Duxford I photographed a memorial to United States airmen who flew from Britain during World War Two. It is a very effective and moving design that departs radically from the usual stone and sculpture of earlier memorials. The designer was Renato Niemis, and his bold idea was to use 52 toughened clear float glass panels each of which is etched with a repesentation of an aircraft that was lost. The panels line the path that leads to the American Air Museum, and as you walk alongside it, passing the packed ranks of B-17s, Liberators, Mustangs etc you become aware of just how many aircraft were shot down. Moreover, as you imagine each bomber with its full complement of crewmen - 10 in the case of the B-17 - you start to grasp the human cost of the bombing campaign in terms the aircrew who never returned. In fact, 7,031 aircraft are depicted, and it is a salutary experience to see this before you enter the museum and see examples of some of the aircraft shown on the memorial.

The light was very changeable, and somewhat dull when I tried to photograph the "Counting the Cost" memorial. The best shot I got was the detail against the clouds and blue of the sky. I include the second photograph not for any special photographic qualities, but to give a better idea of how the aircraft are packed onto each panel.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

First photo
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 67mm
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Shades of Pompeii and Henry Moore

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I see a lot of tomb effigies on my visits to England's churches. The earliest are coffin-shaped slabs dating from the twelfth century, and have cross-shaped patterns, swords or low relief figures or part-figures. Effigies become more numerous and more elaborate in subsequent years, right up to the eighteenth century when they can have standing figures in contemporary or classical dress that are life-size or larger. The Victorians were also capable of grandiose monuments with detailed figures, frequently exuding nobility, often deeply sentimental. However, they tended to favour smaller scale wall monuments - plaques with urns, relief figures, palms, doves or Greek sarcophagi. Effigies dating from the twentieth century are extremely rare.

The remaining medieval effigies are often remarkable in terms of the detail that they retain: some look like they were cut yesterday. Alabaster and other kinds of "sculptural" stone is capable of expressing the intricacies of faces, armour, mail, fabric and hair, and sculptors took advantage of this in their work. Of course, many effigies bear the marks of time - vandalism, neglect, iconoclasts, restorers, and simple accidents have all taken their toll on church monuments. Many have succumbed to weather and water when a church roof has leaked or has vanished when the church fell in to a period of disuse. Others have sometimes suffered a spell in the churchyard, removed from their original place in the chancel or nave by zealous Protestants. Those shown in today's photograph, examples that date from 1287 and 1370, must have had some such experience, so smooth are they worn. I came across them in the church of St Michael the Archangel, Laxton, in Nottinghamshire. They represent two members of the de Everingham family. Other effigies from this local dynasty (in  much better condition) can also be seen in the church.

Why did I pass by the better monuments to photograph this battered pair? I think it was because they reminded of the petrified bodies revealed in the excavations of Pompeii, and more particularly the drawings and sculptures of Henry Moore, especially those that he did based on people sheltering in the London Underground during the Blitz of WW2. The smooth undulations, softly modelled by the light from nearby windows echoed, for me, the reclining and supine, abstracted bodies of this early work from which he expanded into his less figurative mature phase.

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: 160
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The "Leafing Through History" sculpture

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I'm a fan of public sculpture. In fact, I am so in favour of it that I'd rather see mediocre public sculpture than none at all. At its best a good piece interests, challenges, excites and intrigues. It adds something positive to its location. At its worst it is an eyesore, a feature that degrades the place where it stands. This much I've said elsewhere in the blog. I've also added that street furniture - seating, railings, etc - that try to combine utility and the aesthetic qualities of sculpture rarely work. What I haven't articulated previously, however, is my general dislike of modern, public wood sculpture. This is often "environmentally" themed, featuring wild animals, birds, and plants, and frequently has a "rustic" finish. I've seen an example that combines the above with the function of a path-side seat; one that was uncomfortable at the best of times, and unusable when damp (i.e. for much of the year).

Consequently, when I come across a good example of the genre I often take a photograph of it. That happened during my recent visit to Pershore in Worcestershire. Today's photographs show the two sides of a sculpture of part of the trunk of a beech tree next to Pershore Abbey (enlarge the smaller of these two recent images to see the context). It is called, "Leafing Through History", and was carved in 2007 by Tom Harvey. This much I know from the accompanying plaque. It appears to represent the act of reading about the past, or is about the past itself, and has wildlife - a fox, butterflies, flowers - a tree, and the sun and moon as a backdrop to the figures. The piece is unusual, in my experience, by being carved from the upper part of a tree trunk that is still anchored in the ground. More than that though, the under-cutting is much deeper than is usually the case these days, and that gives much deeper shadows and better formed subjects. And the composition is more inventive: too often the sculpture retains the "lumpiness" of the original piece of wood and is more in the nature of a relief than a sculpture. That is certainly not the case here. Of the two faces I admire the complex composition, but prefer the single hooded figure. Is it meant to represent one of the monks of the adjacent abbey? Is it Robin Hood having a literary break from robbing the rich and giving to the poor? I don't know. But, I do like the way the figure seems to grow, organically, out of the tree, and that was what I aimed to capture in my photograph.

photographs and text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo 2)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 33mm (66mm/35mm equiv.) (25mm (50mm/35mm equiv.))
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/00 (1/250)
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 (-0.3) EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Trinity Bridge, Crowland

click photos to enlarge
The passing traveller, coming upon the Trinity Bridge in Crowland, Lincolnshire, might wonder at the purpose of this three-arched structure with its silent, eroded, king-like figure. This elaborate and massive pile of masonry bridges nothing but a footpath that passes below. Fortunately, a metal plaque fixed to the side of it reveals something of its history.

This medieval footbridge, built entirely of Barnack limestone and rubble, vaulted using semi-circular arches beneath and with steep, stepped and cobbled paths above, dates from about 1375. It was originally constructed as a way of crossing the junction of the rivers Nene and Welland, and is likely to have replaced a wooden triangular bridge that is recorded as having been there in 943. Presumably the name "Trinity" comes from the three routes that meet at its summit, and the three arches that allowed the passage of water below. The rivers that formerly flowed under the bridge were long ago re-routed away from the central streets of the small market town, leaving the the old structure looking somewhat forlorn and purposeless. Its unique design and historic importance has been recognised by its Grade 1 Listing.

What then of the sculpted figure fixed to the wall of the south side of the structure? The conjecture is that it dates from c.1260 (on stylistic grounds), and therefore predates the bridge. It probably represents Christ in kingly pose, with a crown and holding an orb, and is likely to have been brought from the abbey. There is speculation that it was placed on the bridge around 1720 when the abbey's west-front gable was taken down (it had been in disrepair from the time of the Dissoution of the Monasteries in the mid-sixteenth century), and perhaps it was one of the niche or apex figures of that great building. The fact is, nobody knows. However, this figure does give additional interest to Trinity Bridge, and acts like a watcher of all who walk to the top of it to take in the view down the town's broad market place, North Street.

It's very difficult to photograph the Trinity Bridge in a way that visually explains its structure. However, with the magic that is Google Street View it is now possible to almost circumnavigate it and see at a glance that which is difficult to capture in a single shot or put into words. My photograph of the elevation of the bridge is posted simply to give an idea of what I've been talking about. However, the shot of the figure is, to my mind, a better piece of photography. I was particularly pleased with its simplicity and with the way the lines, shadows and scupture work together.

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 - Figure
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 15mm (30mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

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