Water lily leaves and macro lenses

click photo to enlarge
Over the years I've discovered that a garden becomes much bigger when you own a macro lens. If I were to photograph my garden solely with a 35mm or 50mm lens of the sort I used for many years with a film SLR the number and variety of photographs that my garden provides for me would be significantly reduced.

I enjoy taking macro photographs of plants, but the interesting thing is, even if you aren't using a macro lens at what we might consider to be a macro level of magnification the very fact that you have it mounted on your camera makes you look closely at smaller areas of the garden, at individual plants, single blooms or at one or two leaves. A camera with a wider angle of view and without the ability to focus at close range, though it doesn't always makes such shots impossible, usually makes them difficult, and more importantly doesn't give you the mindset where you go in close, focusing on small details.

Today's photograph is a case in point. I was in the garden with the 100mm macro lens with the camera on the tripod photographing individual blooms. Then, when I took it off the tripod, even though it has technically a telephoto length, I took several hand-held shots from no more than close range. The lily leaves in our small pond hold endless fascination for me. At this time of year the new ones are emerging from below the surface of the water, brown in colour, but soon to be green when they start photosynthesising. I like their shape and size, the way they look against the water and the submerged vegetation, and how the meniscus layer of the water is very evident as they slowly push upwards into the air and light. This isn't the first such shot that I've taken of these leaves and regular visitors will be relieved to find that I'm not going to provide links to those previous shots!

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 100mm macro
F No: f11
Shutter Speed: 1/80 sec
ISO: 640
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The year's first water lily

click photo to enlarge

It's a truism believed by many photographers (and ignored or disbelieved by even more) that your best photographs are usually shots of subjects with which you are deeply familiar. Many respected photographers specialise in places, subjects or genres and are acclaimed for their work within their self-imposed limits. I tend to be a generalist in all areas of my life, including photography. However, I do deliberately take many photographs of my immediate locality and know from years of experience that this is a rewarding and creative approach to picture making. Only by walking familiar routes repeatedly at different times of day and year, in different kinds of weather, do you see all the potential photographs that surround you.

My garden pond and the annual cycle of growth, maturity and decay displayed by its water lilies is a subject that I return to several times a year. As I've said elsewhere, I especially like the photographs that I've taken in spring and autumn over those when the beautiful yellow and white flowers are blooming. But that's not to say that I don't take shots of them. This year I watched the first leaves appear, then the stalks and buds emerge under water and slowly extend until they broke through into the air. The first bloom opened properly on June 4th and I took a few shots of it.

The main photograph is the obvious image of this subject showing the characteristic flower in its watery context. However, I'd earlier taken the morning shot against the light, after rain, before the petals were fully open. I think I prefer this one. For completeness I've included a photograph taken only three weeks earlier on May 14th when buds and blooms were nowhere to be seen, and the leaves had the characteristic brown that they exhibit when they are newly appeared.

photograph and text © T. Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 228mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 125
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Eyes, mind and camera

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Displayed on a chest of drawers in our house is a beige, glazed, clay model of an animal. It has big ears, a wide mouth and, on each side of its body, green, feathered wings. Its tail is broad, notched, and may be either feathers or hair. The general posture, if I can call it that, resembles the way a dog sits with its front legs straight and the rear legs folded under. Except that those back legs are bent the wrong way and look more like a person's would if they were kneeling. The mythical beast, which has elements of the griffin and Pegasus about it, is a treasured possession that was made by my youngest son when he was young. He must have used his memory when he modelled the back legs of the animal, because if he'd followed an actual precedent, as he did for the rest of the animal, he'd have got them right.

Our eyes and mind often deceive us in this way. We look at something and create an internal picture that is at variance with reality. Sometimes that is because we mis-interpret the subject, but other times it's because we can't clearly see the phenomenon in question. A classic example of the latter relates to the eighteenth century and earlier paintings and drawings of running horses, with their front legs stretched forwards and their back legs stretched rearwards. It was only when the English-born photographer, Eadweard Muybridge, in the nineteenth century, ran a series of sequentially taken still photographs rapidly one after the other, that the truth of the horse's gallop became clear.

I was reminded of this when I leaned out of a bedroom window to take some photographs of rain falling on our water lily pond below. When I varied the shutter speed of the camera I recorded different versions of the effect of the drops hitting the surface of the water. None of them precisely matched what I thought I was seeing with my own eyes. The shot that I've posted today is quite close but the camera saw the shadows of the ripples on the surface of the pond much darker and in greater numbers than they appeared to me. However, it's an effect that I like, and it adds a semi-abstract, unifying layer over the young leaves and dead strands of vegetation. I frequently take photographs of this pond in spring when the lily leaves unfurl below the water, and in autumn when they die back from whence they came. Why this time of year should appeal to me more than summer when the multiple showy flowers are in full bloom I leave you to work out.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 300mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/320 sec
ISO: 3200
Exposure Compensation:  0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Mining the seam

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"Anything you want - love stories, murders, whatever - can be written in these few streets."
Roddy Doyle (1958-), Irish novelist, dramatist and screenwriter

In a recent Guardian interview the writer Roddy Doyle articulated a truth many artists come to realise - that mining a seam that has close limits, and is well-known, can be more revealing and inspiring than trawling the world for new sensations. He was referring to the suburban area of Kilbarrack on the outskirts of Dublin. For others it has been the landscape around Dedham Vale ( the painter John Constable), the Yorkshire port of Whitby (the photographer Frank Meadow Sutcliffe), or the county of Dorset (the writer Thomas Hardy). But it's not just the limitations of a location that can offer this kind of liberation and focus: the same interest and depth can also be found in restricting oneself to a narrow subject range.

For the painter John Ward of Hull, it was marine subjects, for photographers Bernd and Hilla Becher it was systematic industrial subjects, and for the writer, Isaac Asimov it was the fact and fiction of the future. One of the best known examples of an artist's almost obsessive focus on a single subject is the attention that the painter Claude Monet gave to his garden and particularly his water lilies during the later period of his life. It's the example of Monet that I think of when I approach my modest lily pond each year as the leaves break through the surface of the water once more. The plants, water and reflections are ever changing, with the time of day, season and weather all contriving to bring something different and interesting to the same small area. The other evening it was the bright glow of the sunset that coloured the scene and had me reaching for my camera.

For my other shots of this subject, taken at different times of year, see here, here, here, here and (if you can bear any more!) here.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 81mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Fading water lily leaves

click photo to enlarge

Until I moved to my current house I'd never observed water lilies especially closely. One of the places I worked at had a pond with a few, but I didn't have the time to keep an eye on their growth cycle in the way that I do with the ones that now grow in my own garden.

Over the winter there is no evidence of water lilies above the surface, and it's pretty difficult to see anything of the plant below the murky water. However, when spring appears the shoots and unfurling leaves, brownish to start with, make an appearance. Around June the characteristic white flowers with yellow middles decorate the pond. This year the biggest number in bloom at any one time in my pond was fourteen. Once the flowers have gone the leaves grow with luxurious abandon, pushing up out of the water and spreading across the surface. If they weren't kept in hand they would cover the the pond completely. Then, in September and October the leaves begin to fade. The green turns to yellow, the edges become ragged, and holes appear. Patches of red and brown then appear in the mix, and towards the end a colour close to purple can appear. In some respects I think that the death throes of the water lily can be every bit as attractive as when they are in full flower. In fact, when I look at the photographs I've posted of the leaves, it is this fading and dying stage that is most represented.

Today's photograph, taken on an overcast morning when the colour was quite saturated, is yet another one, and its appearance on the blog has got me wondering. Is the fixation with photographing water lily leaves on their last legs a morbid affliction or at the very least a known medical condition? Have I got a touch of the Monets?!

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 94mm (186mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/200
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Water lilies and femmes fatale

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The femme fatale with her beguiling beauty is something of a cliche. A classic example in art is "The Beguiling of Merlin" by Sir Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898), the Pre-Raphaelite painter and designer. This well-known piece shows the femme fatale, Nimue, luring the powerless Merlin. In religion, history, literature and film this figure abounds too, in women such as of Salome, Delilah, Cleopatra and Mae West.

The other day it occurred to me that there are flowers with something of the femme fatale about them. I was photographing rhododendrons in the Yorkshire Dales. These were introduced into England from Asia by the Victorians because of their large and beautiful flowers. Their exotic beauty resulted in them being planted in far too many locations and receiving too little management, with the consequence that they now constitute a weed in many woods throughout the country.

The same is true of a number of water plants including the beautiful water lily. Some lakes and pond have been choked by these lovely plants that were introduced by well-meaning people seeking to add a little colour and elevate the appearance of nondescript stretches of water.

This year my small pond has fourteen water lily flowers in bloom, as many as I've seen at one time. However, once the display has finished we will be cutting back the plants otherwise they will cover the whole of the surface of the water with their round leaves. I took this photograph of one of the flowers after a short, sharp shower had cleared to reveal broken clouds and a little blue sky. The water droplets and the reflected blue seemed to set off the perfect flower very nicely.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 140mm macro (280mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The best and the rest

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Periodically I look through the photographs that I post on PhotoReflect and consider which are my best images of recent weeks or months. When I did this the other day it was pretty clear to me that this image of dying water lily leaves was my favourite.

Nominating a favoured image in this way encourages you to reflect on why that particular shot stands above the others, and that's not always easy. I've blogged about this subject a few times, so I won't bore you again. However, I will say that in all the millions of words that are written about photography and photographs on the internet, in books, and in magazines, this is the aspect that receives least attention. And yet, knowing what makes an image good as opposed to mediocre or bad, and being able to articulate that, is surely crucial to the art and craft of photography. I'd like to see more people describing, in detail, why they like an example of a great photographer's work, or indeed one of their own shots. Unfortunately, painters are no better at this than photographers, and much of the wider world is happy enough to be told by "experts" which are the images worthy of placing in the pantheon, and which are the "also rans"!

There is a down-side to my little habit of selecting examples of what I think of as my best work, and that is I'm tempted to revisit the subject looking for a variation that matches up to the chosen shot - something that rarely happens. I'm happy enough with today's photograph - a variation on the dying lily leaves - which includes a couple of our fish, some willow leaves and shows the pond in its frozen state, but it doesn't, for me, have the qualities of the preferred image.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 86mm (172mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/120
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -2.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Art and water lily leaves

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Yesterday I speculated whether reading about the influence of oriental art on western art, design and photography had influenced how I conceived my image. In fact, whether it is acknowledged or not, fine art painting is always a major influence on photography. In the early days of Fox Talbot, Daguerre and the other pioneers of the upstart medium, photographic portraits, landscapes and still-lifes, in particular, drew strongly on the precedents in paint. I suppose, in a way, it was like the designs of the first railway carriages: they looked like stagecoaches because it was difficult, initially, to see beyond what was the tried and tested vehicle. But as the railways (and photography) developed, so too did the forms that they used, and the influence passed back and forth between the two forms of representation. In his fascinating book, "Art and Photography", Aaron Scharf shows how painters as disparate as Ingres, Etty, Manet, Delacroix and Courbet used photographs as sources for their finished paintings. He then goes on to describe how painters and sculptors such as Duchamp and Boccioni developed their images and forms with reference to multiple photographs or photographs with blur.

When I compose a semi-abstract image I don't do it with conscious reference to any painting that I've seen. However, I am aware that the aesthetic choices that are made during that process must, in some way, be influenced by what I've seen and read: we are after all, the sum of our life experiences. Today's image doesn't, for me, have any oriental overtones. However, if it was a canvas I'd say it has something of the 1930s about it. Not the 1930s of the International Style, Moderne and the illustrations of Tom Purvis that seemed to be at work in my photograph here, but rather the colours, shapes and lines that Kandinsky brought to painting in that decade.

I make no claims that this photograph is art, of course. It is simply a composition that pleases me for the colours and shapes of the water lily leaves combined with the lines of the iris stems that have fallen into the water. And, whilst it is a straightforward representation of this section of the pond I don't see it as a description of the plants at this time of year, so much as a semi-abstract composition that makes use of them.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 12.8mm (60mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2.8
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Dying water lily leaves

click photo to enlarge
I've looked at my pond several times over recent weeks thinking that it contains an image. I've pointed my camera at it but not pressed the shutter. I've also pointed my camera at it, pressed the shutter then quickly erased the resulting images. But, when I looked at it for what I thought would be the final time this year - as a potential source of photographs, that is - I saw a picture in it that I wanted. That image is today's offering.

Sometimes, as I've mentioned before in this blog, I find myself looking too hard for images. At such times I seem to forget the first principles of composition, especially the need to make images that concentrate on a few essentials i.e. simplify, simplify, simplify. But, if you look, then look again, then look once more, the pictures that couldn't be seen initially can suddenly emerge.

I think what triggered today's image was some reading I've being doing recently about how oriental art, particularly that of Japan, influenced western art, design and photography. A short blog post cannot hope to do justice to the impact of "blue and white ware" ceramic designs, Hokusai, Hiroshige or how Degas' composition was probably influenced by the exhibits in the Japanese pavilion at the Paris Exposition Universelle of 1867. But you have only to look at the the successive borrowings that stretch from the "Chinoiserie" of the eighteenth century through to, say, Whistler's "nocturnes" to see how such things as stylized geometrical patterns, two dimensional decorative flowers and foliage, and "suggested" scenes that draw their strength from colour and tangible brush strokes, became embedded in western art. Another feature that the west took from oriental artists was simplicity: the idea that small things, parts of things - flowers, birds, people, leaves - set against plain or simple backgrounds, sometimes as silhouettes, often as points of rich colour, could be worthy subjects in themselves. Maybe the reading and the pictures I'd been studying resulted in my image of the dying leaves being the way it is. But then again, maybe not!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 36mm (72mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/40
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On