Eye See

click photo to enlarge

One of the pleasures of gardening is that you get to grips with nature. Growing plants for food and beauty is a marvellous pastime - but it's not for everybody. Only if you can come to terms with gardening's mixture of permanence and impermanence will it become a deeper obsession.

What do I mean by that? Well, in theory everything about a garden can be changed - the topography, trees, walls, ground cover - everything. But in practice there are are some things that you can't and don't change, or you change incrementally over a long period. The lie of your land is one such permanence, as are large trees, extensive walls, and big water features. But shrubs, flowers, vegetables and grass come and go with the seasons and according to the gardener's wishes. So too, by and large, does garden sculpture. In the average garden it tends to be small enough to move. But in larger gardens larger pieces are called for, and they become fairly permanent objects. That being so, you have to choose your sculptures carefully because if you decide you don't like them their removal requires a lot of work! Consequently, much large sculpture is fairly "safe", following traditional designs - classical figures, large urns, equestrian statues and the like. Large, challenging, or "odd" modern sculptures are much less common.

However, public or semi-public gardens like the 25 acres at Springfields Festival Gardens, Spalding, in Lincolnshire, can be bolder because they are enjoyed by streams of visitors rather than just an owner. Today's photograph shows part of The Sculpture Matrix designed by Chris Beardshaw. This uncompromisingly modernistic collection of big concrete rectangles, triangles and enclosures, painted purple and light blue, and pierced by horizontal and vertical slits, could only work in such a large area: it would overpower a smaller space. For me it's a sculpture that works in parts, but doesn't offer enough for its size. The detail I like best has this framed eye, inside an enclosure with shrubs, that can be glimpsed through the surrounding slits.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/17
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Chimneys and the picturesque

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This derelict Lincolnshire cottage has four chimney stacks, some of them leaning quite alarmingly. Four! That probably equates to an open fire in every room. It looks like a nineteenth century structure, so for much of its life coal and wood would have burned merrily in its fireplaces, offering the inhabitants visual cheer and limited warmth.

The earliest houses had a hole in the ceiling for smoke to exit, but as building skills developed a chimney to confine the smoke and make it leave the building in a controlled way became firstly desirable, then mandatory. Houses made of wood frequently had a chimney made of bricks or stone for safety reasons, and these can still be seen on such houses built during the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Fireplace and chimney breasts were often a focus for decoration - arches, pilasters, brackets and mythical figures are common, as are mantelpieces for the display of family artefacts. The chimney stack above the roofline was also often embellished too: a clay pot on a stepped brick cornice for the humble dwelling; spirals, castellation, and more for the well-to-do residence.

Today, ever fewer buildings have chimneys. Indeed the day is coming when new buildings will not require, or be permitted, a source of heat that requires combustion. Consequently chimneys will probably, in time, disappear and with them the focal point of the fireplace and the finial-like finish to the top of houses. Am I alone in thinking that the photograph above would be much less interesting, less picturesque, without the chimneys? Perhaps it's an age thing - maybe younger folk don't see things that way? However, I certainly wouldn't have photographed this scene had there been no chimneys on this building, regardless of the allure of the sun breaking through the cold, foggy, autumn morning.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 13mm (26mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -2.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Ducks and terms of endearment

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Say "ducks" and the image that will pop into the head of most people is either the white "farmyard" variety or the mallard.

I don't think the white duck comes to mind because of its ubiquity: they're certainly not uncommon, but they're by no means the most widely seen duck. No, I have a feeling that the prevalence of this "type" in children's picture books is responsible for the association. We've all seen the illustrations of them waddling along, quite upright, snow white with orange legs and beaks, often wearing a bonnet or carrying a hand-bag!

The mallard (Anas platyrhynchos), the commonest wild duck, is the variety that we see the most. Despite being the quarry of wildfowlers, the species is happy to live both a wild life and in close proximity to man, being found in most built-up areas, on streams, rivers, ponds and lakes. It was probably always thus, because this species is, in fact, the ancestor of the domestic farmyard duck, of which the white variety is but one type. Furthermore, the wild mallard frequently inter-breeds with domestic ducks to produce birds that show characteristics of both parents. You can usually tell if a mallard forms part of the parentage because the colour of the wing speculum - it is dark blue, with white borders - often remains in the hybrid. If that characteristic has disappeared through successive inter-breedings, then the upcurled central tail feathers are the other indicator (on the male). So, that being the case, you'll know the breed and sex of the nearest bird in today's photograph despite the fact that it is a silhouette having been shot against the light, under a tree, by the edge of a stream!

But, I can't leave this subject without noting that in my county of recent residence, Lincolnshire, "ducks" (invariably the plural) is a widely used term of endearment, applied by women to strangers as well as friends. Go into a shop to buy a newspaper, and the assistant is very likely to say "thank you ducks" as you hand over the money. Where other counties might use "love", "chuck", "darling" or somesuch, Lincolnshire prefers "ducks"! Why is this? In the past (and still today to a more limited extent) the south of the county had industries based on the plentiful ducks of the extensive wetlands - pillow-making, eiderdowns, etc. Perhaps that accounts for it!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Pity the poor posterior

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Public seating is becoming a recurring theme in my images. I've captured a curved (seemingly never-ending) bench, a seat that rotates to keep the occupants out of the wind, and an example made of curls and swirls. All these structures have two features in common - they are interesting to look at (and therefore to photograph), and they're pretty awful to sit on. Today's photograph shows a further example that shares these qualities.

The seating, known as "The Sampler", is outside "The Hub", Britain's National Centre for Craft and Design, at Sleaford, Lincolnshire. The red and yellow seats are painted metal discs on short poles - no backrest, cold to the touch, and not made with the human anatomy in mind. The large black structure has a big, central, parasol-like, metal disc on a pole, with a couple arms that extend from it (some are out of shot), with circular black seats and tables(?) that are mounted on wheels. A big open square shape that can be fitted with a screen(!) is also part of the ensemble. The structure was originally designed to rotate so that anyone who is foolish (or desperate) enough to sit on it could experience a different view should they so wish. However, it has now been fixed in place after boisterous local youths found it an exciting attraction. Perhaps they had read the views of a local spokesman who said “the piece is designed to be exciting and dynamic, and we hope it will become a focus for social as well as creative activity.”

There are many problems with this structure: the Arts Council funded price of £18,000 for a start; its design that manages to make something flimsy out of unyielding metal; the likelihood that it will never to be used with a screen and projected images; but most of all the fact that the designer created a structure that is best experienced not as you sit in comfort upon it, but as you gaze down at it from the balcony at the top of The Hub! The multiple black circles with the red and yellow highlights and the buff curve make a Miro-esque composition that must have looked great on his or her drawing board. However, one can only wish that as much thought had gone into its purpose as a place of repose as went into its function as a piece of eye-catching, multi-purpose street sculpture. It is clearly a form of public seating that follows the modern trend of trying to combine sculpture with a place to sit, and like other examples of the genre, sculpture has taken precedence over the provision of seating, with uncomfortable consequences for the public's posteriors!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 40mm (80mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The Lincolnshire Wolds

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England's "wolds" are to be found in Yorkshire (the Yorkshire Wolds), Lincolnshire (the Lincolnshire Wolds) and the Cotswolds (mainly Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire, but including parts of other adjacent counties). It seems that the word "wold" derives from "weald" - meaning woody country (as is the present Weald encompassing parts of of Hampshire, Surrey, Kent and Sussex), but came to mean, in areas farther north, an area of open hilly country on mainly chalk and limestone, with some sandstone.

The Lincolnshire Wolds and the Yorkshire Wolds are a line of low hills that are bisected by the River Humber. In Lincolnshire the highest point is only 551 feet (168 metres) above sea-level, near Normanby-le-Wold. Glaciation produced rounded hills and smooth-sided, though sometimes quite steep, valleys. A few of these have rivers and streams, but many are dry. The settlement pattern is one of fairly regularly spaced market towns that serve small villages and farms where the principal activity is agriculture. Cereals and root crops are grown extensively, with valley sides and fields near to farms often supporting cattle and sheep. These sometimes include the local breeds - the Lincoln Longwool sheep and the Lincoln Red cattle.

The area has a long history. Round and long barrows can be found on the hills, and deserted medieval villages are not unusual. Most villages have a church that is of medieval foundation, though some were "improved" in the Victorian period. It's a good area for both walking and cycling, which is just what I've been doing for the past few days! Oh, and being a designated Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (AONB) it presents good opportunities for the photographer, so here's a landscape, showing the greens and browns of early autumn, on the low hills near the village of Tetford.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 50mm (100mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Plane tree bark

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I remember reading a while ago that the reason antelopes have light coloured hair on the lower sides and underneath of their bodies is to better camouflage them by counteracting the effect of the shadow thrown by light coming from above. Thus, to a lion the antelope's body is less three-dimensional and therefore less visible. The writer noted that this kind of colouration is common across many mammal species, birds and fish. Whether evolution has caused these animals to develop like this to protect them from predators, or whether another reason is responsible for the phenomenon, I don't know, but the theory certainly sounds plausible.

And yet, if it were effective, wouldn't we see the principle being used in the camouflage paint schemes that are applied to tanks and other military vehicles? Military aircraft are often darker above and lighter below, but I imagine that is more to do with making them harder to see from above and below rather than from the side.

In fact, camouflage is an interesting science that has evolved over time. Take the battledress of infantry soldiers. It wasn't until the mid-nineteenth century that bright colours, designed to distinguish armies from each other stopped being used, and were replaced by "earth" colours intended to make the individuals less conspicuous. And not until the mid-twentieth century were khaki, lovat, green, field grey, white (in snow), etc. replaced by multicoloured patterns that sought to break up the outline of the wearer even more effectively. Today the early two-tone green and brown have given way to mottled effects of three or more "earth" colours whose shades and pattern are changed with the latitude and landscape in which an army is deployed.

I was reflecting on this as I photographed the bark of this plane tree (Platanus hispanica). The colours and shapes reminded me very much of modern battle-dress camouflage, and I wondered if the designers had been inspired by this tree that is found in many of our urban and suburban areas. The attractiveness of the bark is obvious, but military camouflage is quite seductive too otherwise it wouldn't have found its way into high street fashions! Incidentally, this is the second shot of plane tree bark that I have taken this year, though the previous tree was in another town altogether, and quite different.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/40
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Drystone walls

click photos to enlarge

Earlier this year I installed a gate that necessitated taking down a short section of stone wall in order to position one of the gateposts. The wall was completely covered in ivy and had probably been erected in the 1950s. Quite why part of the perimeter of my property comprises a stone wall is a bit of a puzzle since there is no naturally outcropping stone within 15 miles or so, and stone walls are rarely found in this part of Lincolnshire. Perhaps it is down to the whim or fancy of a previous owner who happened upon a quantity of stone.

However, the prospect of re-building the wall held no fears for me. I grew up the area of today's photographs, the Craven district of Yorkshire. I regularly walked its limestone hills, and, in my teens, learned something of how to build and repair a drystone wall of the type that characteristically form the field boundaries in this area. For a new section of wall, pegs and lines are placed to mark out the width and length, then the turf and soil are removed. Next, large base stones are laid to take the weight of the wall. Then each side is built, tapering inwards as it rises, with "fillings" of smaller stones placed in the centre space. One, or more often two, bands of "throughs" are laid one third and two thirds of the way up the wall. These are large stones that pass through the complete width of the wall and can project slightly at each side, holding it together and providing decorative bands. The course next to the topmost are the "coverhands", large flat stones that further tie the wall and prevent water ingress, with the final layer being the "topstones" that lay upright, at a slight angle, finishing the wall.

So, I imagine you are now picturing a perfect piece of drystone walling, with, as is traditional, no mortar used, looking the very picture of the waller's skill. Well, it's not quite like that! The stones were all quite small, and I had to break some of those to make them fit. I managed the base course using the biggest pieces, but didn't have enough of these for throughs or topstones, so the wall ended up a bit of a dog's dinner. I had to use some mortar at various points, and I encased all of it in wire mesh for the two-fold purpose of keeping it together, and encouraging the ivy to grow over it again to match the rest of the structure. It was good enough to get a few complimentary remarks from passers-by. However, if my aged drystone wall tutor of all those years ago could see it he'd be rolling his eyes and saying, "Ee, Tony lad, tha's niver goin' ter leave yon wall like that is ter? Tha'll ha ter tek the lot down and start agin! Come on, I'll gi thee a hand."

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Picture 1
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 79mm (158mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Picture 2
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f10
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

If it ain't broken...

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This blog has a Site Meter hit counter. It tells me how many visitors I have, what they look at, where they come from, any search term they used in arriving here, and much more, though nothing, I hasten to add, that can be tracked to an individual. Over the past two days Site Meter "updated" this counter, incorporated flash, and made a useful tool virtually useless! Features that I used regularly became unavailable, or only accessible by multiple clicks, new features were not what I needed, and the whole process became painfully slow. I looked on the internet to see if others felt the same as I did, and the "noise" around this change showed that they clearly did. So, hearing this, Site Meter immediately posted a notice saying they would roll back to the original offering, and followed up by saying any further changes would be fully beta tested and incremental. In fact, having fouled up, their behaviour was then exemplary: to their credit Site Meter listened to their customers and within 12 hours we had the hit counter back to its old, useful, self.

I wish the BBC TV weather forecasters would learn from Site Meter. A few years ago they introduced a new "chart" that the camera swoops over whilst the presenter prattles on, telling us what we can already see from the animated weather on the screen. The overview of the weather should be presented with stationary graphics, and doesn't need any talk at all. But now a simple summary takes a couple of minutes as we lurch from region to region. People are mainly interested in what's going to happen in their area or the place they are to visit, and don't want to know about the rest of the country. But, the software has other ideas, and the forecasters are dictated to by its features, rather than using it to illustrate what they want to say. Because of this we don't routinely get a forecast for 12 and 24 hours ahead - there isn't time! Moreover, the animations have a spurious accuracy, suggesting that patches of rain and cloud will affect very specific areas across the country for carefully measured amounts of time: they rarely do! Nonetheless, the precision of the display beguiles people into that belief. Then, later in the day anger and frustration set in when the weather proves to be different from that which was predicted. Consequently the forecasts are less useful than those which preceded them, and the new, all singing and dancing graphics are no improvement at all! However, contrition of the type shown by Site Meter is conspicuously absent at the BBC and they press on with their wretched "forecasts."

All of which has very little to do with my photograph of a traction engine driver at the Bicker Steam Threshing weekend. Except that he knows what Site Meter and the BBC seemingly don't - namely, if something is working well, leave it alone. Or, as it is often phrased, "if it ain't broken, don't fix it!" Despite the smoke from the engine's funnel blowing all around him it was powering the threshing machine beautifully, leaving him the time to survey the people and activities around him from his high, warm vantage point.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 137mm (274mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Turbulent river

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I've said elsewhere in this blog that some subjects are best captured with video. Water is a case in point. The attraction of moving water lies in the eddies, swirls, undulations and waves, and in the way the light plays on the surface. Still cameras simply can't record the beauty of moving water. But that doesn't stop us still photographers from trying!

What we can do is use a fast shutter speed to freeze the movement of the water when, for example, it breaks over rocks, or when the crest of a wave is blown away by a strong wind, or as it slips like a glossy sheet over the lip of a waterfall. We can also select a slow shutter speed and record the scene with motion blur. Some photographers use a neutral density filter to get a speed sufficiently slow to make the water look like ice or fog. But a dark day, a small aperture and a low ISO will also do the trick, though with less blur. When we do this we allow the viewer to see that which the eye normally cannot, and in this respect, we produce images akin to those we make with a macro lens, which also reveals things we normally don't see.

My photograph shows the River Ribble in spate at Langcliffe, North Yorkshire, though it could have been taken on any fast moving, shallow, rocky river. Looking down from a bridge I selected a diagonal composition with undulating water and waves produced by barely covered stones, and used the "dark day" technique noted above. The highlights on the surface of the river have produced trails that give a sense of turbulent flow that a higher shutter speed wouldn't have done. I quite like the effect! You might like to compare it with a faster shutter speed used on a much slower moving river here.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 83mm (166mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f10
Shutter Speed: 1/8
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Bigger toys

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"Little boys never grow up, they just get bigger toys!" Old saying, probably twentieth century

To pick up a theme from the previous post - what is it about men and forms of transport? Look at the attention that young men lavish on their cars - taking out perfectly good rear light clusters and replacing them with custom-made versions, fitting exhausts the width of land-drains, bolting on snowplough-like body kits, or installing "sound systems" that, if they're lucky, they'll live to regret as their ears degenerate due to the volume and insidious bass thumping. Or how about the the older blokes with their "Sunday cars" - the Mark 2 Cortina or 2.4 Jaguar that they couldn't afford when younger, but is now their "treat"? Others indulge themselves with shiny motorcycles, model railway layouts of various sizes or even full-size, canal barges, aircraft and the rest. And then there are the traction engine enthusiasts, people who spend their spare time lovingly restoring, operating, and showing a form of mobile power and transport that existed for a relatively short period of time in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries!

I recently attended Bicker Steam Threshing weekend, a Lincolnshire village's fund raising event for its medieval church. The centre piece is the threshing of wheat by an old threshing machine that is powered by a different traction engine each day. Other activities take place over the weekend, but it is the gathering of several traction engines, veteran and vintage cars, motorcycles, steam organs, stationary engines, old tractors and even the odd military vehicle that seems to attract the crowds. And the biggest clusters of people are always found around the traction engines. The men (and the one or two women) that own and operate these venerable machines have an affection for their charges that is palpable. I suppose it is their functional solidity, simplicity, the relative ease of repair and refurbishment, as well as their sheer size, noise and presence that makes them the boys' (and girls') toys par excellence! And, of course, as well as powering a threshing machine, a circular saw or a steam organ, it's a simple matter to hitch up a trailer and give rides around the village, as in the photograph above. Long may they continue!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 79mm (158mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Jaguar

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The fascination that many men and some women have for expensive sports cars is lost on me. Where they see luxury I see inconvenience - how do you fit in people and a week's shopping? Where they see a driving experience I see danger and destruction - why do I need to accelerate from 0-60 mph in 6 seconds, all the while spewing out far more carbon dioxide than is necessary? Where, maybe, they see a car that tells the world about their character, and place in society, I see a car that says different things to different people - not all of them complimentary!

Now some sports car lovers reading these words will immediately brand me as a tree-hugging, envious, kill-joy. However, I've never hugged a tree in my life, though I have planted a few, and chopped down several! And I'm not envious of people who have these cars: when I've been searching for a vehicle I've passed them by and always settled on an economical hatchback or an estate car. As for being a kill-joy - well, read a few blog entries and make your own judgement. My objection to sports cars is similar to my problem with 4X4s - they are much less efficient at their primary task of transporting people and their stuff, on roads, from A to B, than standard hatchbacks and saloons. Furthermore, they are more dangerous than other cars - both to those using them, and to other road users. Put all that together, and you'll see why I don't share the fascination with these kinds of vehicles.

So why, I hear you say, have you photographed the emblem of a 2.4 litre Jaguar, a luxury sports saloon car that epitomises something you claim to dislike? Well, I'm not averse to a bit of interesting styling, and Jaguar have certainly come up with that over the years. However, it wasn't only the styling that caused me to take this photograph of the car as it was parked on display with several other older vehicles. What grabbed my photographer's eye was the delicious juxtaposition of that small dot of the bright red badge against the chrome, green, grey and blue of the car and stormy sky.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Tiles and styles

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It's nothing short of criminal that tiles, a wall and floor covering that is made to last, should be subject to the capricious fancies of fashion, and that people should feel pressured to regularly change the perfectly sound surfaces of their kitchens, bathrooms and showers. Anyone who has lived through the last fifty years can very easily assign a tile to the decade in which it was manufactured. From the mottled beige of 1950s fireplace tiles, through the "cracked ice" tiles in sage, turquoise and pink of the 1970s, to the small fabric-backed mosaics of the turn of the millennium and the elongated "stone" of today, the pernicious march of fashion seems, ridiculously, to affect durable tiles just as much as more flimsy housewares, clothing and vehicles.

Was it always so? Not really. The Romans introduced tiles to Britain in the form of mosaic flooring, and many examples of their figurative and decorative designs can be seen in museums. But it was not until the monasteries of the middle ages wanted to floor their buildings with something better than trodden earth, rushes and stone, that floor tiles became common again. Their pattern-impressed and slip-decorated designs using symmetrical crosses, circles, part circles, birds, shields, etc remained, to the untutored eye, much the same for a few hundred years. And, the beauty of what they produced so appealed to the Gothic Revival architects of the nineteenth century that they faithfully copied many of these earlier designs.

Today's photograph shows the font and some of these Victorian tiles in the medieval church of St Mary, Swineshead, Lincolnshire. The fact that the designs of such tiles derive directly from medieval examples, or from catalogues of drawings of early tiles such as Parker's "Glossary of Architecture" (1840), and from original designs that often re-worked the motifs of the middle ages, makes identifying the manufacturer quite difficult to anyone but an enthusiast. As in many British churches those at Swineshead are probably made by Minton, but could well be by Campbell, Maw, Godwin or one of the smaller makers. Victorian tiles are commonly found in the chancel, the most sumptuously decorated part of a church. Here at Swineshead they were also deemed suitable for the area around the font, reflecting its importance as the place where a Christian is received into the the church through baptism. I was attracted to this shot by the sunlight streaming through a clear glass window, illuminating the font and its surrounds, throwing a lattice of shadows over everything, and leaving the background in relative gloom.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 16mm (32mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: -3.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

An eponymous flower

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The other day I came across Stigler's Law of Eponymy. This was proposed in 1980 by Stephen Stigler, a US statistics professor, and can be summarised thus: "No scientific discovery is named after its original discoverer." So, apparently Halley's Comet was not discovered by Edmund Halley, nor was the Fibonacci Sequence discovered by Leonardo of Pisa (known as Fibonacci), and the attribution of Gresham's Law to Sir Thomas Gresham is for reasons other than the important part he played in its discovery.

What Stigler found that made him propose his "law" was that names are often attributed long after discoveries are first made, and they frequently refer to someone well-known, but not seminal, in the field. Interestingly Stigler's Law is self-referencing since he credits the sociologist, Robert K. Merton with first proposing the idea!

I was reflecting on this interesting, but obscure law as I photographed this orange dahlia. I remembered that dahlia was an eponym, being named after the Swedish botanist, Anders Dahl (1751-1789), a pupil of Linnaeus. Did he, I wondered, discover them, name them, breed them, popularise them - or what? How did his name come to be associated with the plant? It seems that this Central American flower, probably known to the Aztecs, was first described by a European, Francisco Hernandez, in Mexico in the late 1500s. However, it was not called "dahlia" until Antonio Jose Cavarilles of the Royal Gardens of Madrid named the plant after Anders Dahl some time after 1789. The Swedish botanist, as far as I can see, was being honored by having his name attached to the plant, but played no part at all in its discovery. Stigler's Law strikes again!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f11
Shutter Speed: 1/15
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Primary and secondary colours

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A tradition of English schooling is that, from the age of 11 children are taught in ability groups, but are also placed in "Houses". Typically, on entry to their particular form of secondary education, they are assigned to one of (usually) four houses in which they remain until the end of compulsory education. The houses are not selective, the aim being to have an approximate balance of boys and girls and abilities. These cohorts come into their own during sports day and other competitive events, form periods, and occasions when there is a requirement to subdivide pupils into mixed groups. It's interesting that a tradition that arose in public (i.e. private) schools where pupils did (and do) live in actual houses, should have been so warmly embraced by state schools.

I was first placed in a "house" in the junior years (age 7-11, Years 3-6 in modern parlance) of my primary education. It was called Penyghent House, and accompanied the three other houses of Ingleborough, Whernside, and Pendle - the "Three Peaks" of Yorkshire, and the nearby Lancashire summit, all of which were visible from where my Yorkshire school was located. For better recognition each house was linked to a colour - red, green, yellow and, in the case of Penyghent, blue. When I moved to secondary school, as luck would have it, I remained a blue, but was assigned to West House. You can guess the other houses and colours! It may be my school experience of these four colours as a group that leads me to use them still in that combination. Or perhaps wider society uses them whe there is a requirement for four colours. Whatever the reason, it wasn't until I'd rotated and tinted this photograph of a couple of pine cones four times that I realised I'd chosen those four colours once again. Though I hadn't placed them in the sequence that I always recall them i.e. red, blue, green and yellow!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1.6 sec
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Jewels and Stones

click photo to enlarge

"You can't always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes,
Well you just might find,
You get what you need!"
from "You Can't Always Get What You Want", M. Jagger/K. Richards, 1968, on the album "Let it Bleed" 1969

I was never a big fan of the Rolling Stones - the musicianship, songwriting prowess and originality of the Beatles appealed much more. And, though I would listen with interest to their borrowings from the blues, and thought it was interesting how they developed their brand of rock, I wasn't motivated to buy their music. I found Mick Jagger's singing style and posturing ludicrous, but grudgingly recognised that he wrote a few good songs. However, Keith Richards' guitar playing, and his very inventive riffs were definitely worth a listen. As were the second guitarists who came along periodically to fill the gap left by Brian Jones' early demise: I had a particular liking for Mick Taylor. But, as a total experience the Stones didn't do it for me. Until, that is, "Let it Bleed" - the only Stones music I ever bought - came along. This album had a few excellent songs, particularly the one quoted above, but also the peerless "Gimme Shelter". It was the latter song, where Merry Clayton takes the lead voice, that made me realise what it was that the Rolling Stones needed - a female singer in place of Jagger! However, rock bands like the Rolling Stones are successful not only for their music, but also because of their image, and since that revolved around their lead singer, I always knew that my idea would never materialise.

You're perhaps wondering what the Rolling Stones have got to do with my photograph of a spider's web laden with dew drops? Well, I've been feeling that I needed to inject a bit more variety into the images I've been posting, so the first thick fog of the year prompted me to see if I could get a shot of pylons and wind turbines sticking up through the low-lying murk. However, when I went out I thought I'd better first see if there were any shots to be found outside my house. After a bit of looking I came upon a few webs decorating my drive gates, and captured this image. My subsequent foggy expedition turned up not one decent shot, and as I headed home these words came into my head (join in with either a Jagger drawl-cum-sneer, or a London Bach Choir angelic voice) "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, well you just might find, you get what you need!"

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f4.5
Shutter Speed: 1/80
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Reflecting on reflections

click photo to enlarge

Reflections in water are a popular subject for photographers. By and large, the better the reflection, the more likely it is that it will be captured by a camera. Snow capped mountains mirrored in an ice cold lake is a particular favourite. So too are reflected buildings in ornamental ponds or rivers. Or ducks on a still sheet of water, each bird with its inverted double immediately below. I've taken my share of these shots, such as this building, these trees, and this heron. Less popular is the reflection made by disturbed water, yet it has much to commend it.

The painterly effect that such a reflection produces can be very satisfying. The broken image, impressionistically rendered, with strokes that suggest the marks of a watercolour brush on wet paper have a pleasing quality. A few examples from my previous posts include this railway bridge , this fence, and this stormy sky behind sharply captured, newly emerged, water lily leaves.

My most recent foray into this area is shown above. It was taken from a bridge over the River Welland in Spalding, Lincolnshire, though it could be anywhere. The brief appearance of the sun through a small hole in an angry sky prompted the shot. I was looking for an image that drew its strength from the bright point in a tonally differentiated, but largely monochrome and fractured surface. Circular ripples made by either rising bubbles or fish kept appearing at unforeseeable points and intervals, so I waited for a few and included those too. Not a shot that will appeal to many I suppose, but it pleases me, and that's what matters!!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 36mm (72mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/640
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Chess and design

click photo to enlarge

What is good design? That's a simple question that is not so simply answered. Some say good design is what works well and pleases someone, and does so regardless of the time in which it is made. Others maintain that a good design can only be related to the period in which it appeared. I think there is a universality about a good design so here are my suggestions about what constitutes this difficult art.

A good design has simplicity, like the claw hammer . A good design is beautiful - not in the sense of having a style superimposed like an "E Type" Jaguar, but a beauty that comes from the unity of form and function, like the Citroen 2CV! A good design works - every time, and goes on working for a long time, like the double-lever corkscrew. A good design has enduring appeal, like a William Morris chintz, a Wedgwood coffee pot, or Le Corbusier's chaise longue. And finally, a good design looks right, obvious, inevitable, and makes you think that this is the way the object should be made!

The Staunton chess set, shown in today's photograph, incorporates all these qualities. The basic design dates from 1849 and arose from the need to standardise pieces so that they were familiar to all players, regardless of nationality. The first sets, made in London by Nathaniel Cook and his brother-in-law, John Jaques, showed slight differences between the King's Knight and Rook compared with those of the Queen. But, since no real need existed for this variation, it was soon abandoned. The shape of all the pieces could be largely completed on a lathe, with the exception of the Knight which needed more hand-finishing. Apparently its design came from a horse on the Elgin Marbles, ancient Greek sculptures from the Parthenon held by the British Museum. Howard Staunton, a noted English player and writer on chess, endorsed the design and his name has been associated with it ever since. Today the Staunton design is the most widely used chess set, and the mandatory form in many national and international tournaments.

This image was made using natural light from a window above and beyond the chess set. A longish focal length lens helped to give a sense of depth, and I placed a white card behind the board to silhouette the pieces.

P.S. Chess enthusiasts will note the not-so-deliberate mistake in the placing of the pieces on a board set up for a photo-op rather than a game!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 31mm (62mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/4
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Patience pays off

click photo to enlarge

People who know that I'm interested in photography often ask me how I get a good image. That's not a question that can be answered succinctly. The questioner often assumes it's down to the camera, but that piece of technology is usually the least significant factor, only marginally more important than the brand of brushes a painter uses, or the type of pen a writer favours! Those with a little more knowledge of photography think the lens must be a factor, and in truth it is usually more important than the camera body, but it's not usually critical.

When I reply that the ability to "see" images, to mentally put together compositions, to strongly want to create a photograph, to have an interest in light, tone, colour, composition, story telling, etc. then people glaze over! And if I add that, in my case, an interest in fine art (painting) is very important, and that I don't find reading books about cameras very helpful, then they switch off further. The ultimate turn off, though, is when I mention the importance of digital processing using the computer. But all of these factors are very important for me. For other photographers, however, it will be different. Many think that photography means travel, and for some photographers it does. For me it's not important: most of my best images come from the area in which I live, and are secured by repeatedly visiting the same locations at different times of day and year.

However, one attribute that I think is vital in securing a good image is patience: the willingness to re-visit a place many times, and more specifically, the ability to wait around until all the elements necessary for capturing the photograph as you envisage it, are in place. Take this shot of the church of St Andrew, Butterwick, Lincolnshire, a medieval building with an eighteenth century tower and Victorian additions, that I've been to a few times. The other day I was resigned to making an image of the building with flat lighting under a brooding sky. However, there was sufficient movement in the clouds for me to hope that the sun might get through and model the building better. So, as my wife went to explore the inside of the church, I remained outside and waited. And waited. And waited. Until finally I was rewarded by a pool of sunlight that moved towards, then over, the building. I fired off some shots, with a range of camera settings, aiming to ensure I got the photograph that I wanted. When I came to process the images, and particularly when I converted one to black and white, I was struck by how much the light and shadows made it look like a nineteenth century engraving. I really liked it and thought to myself, "That's the reward for your patience!"

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/800
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Two old buoys

click photo to enlarge

I've always been amazed by the fact that we continue to have traffic lights that use green to signify "Go" and red to indicate "Stop". Given that up to 8% of males and 2% of females experience red/green colour blindness you'd think that we'd have taken this into account in their design, or have long ago changed the colours to ones that aren't mis-read so frequently. Colour blind drivers are known to use the position of the lights to determine what to do, and I don't often read about accidents caused by this reason, so perhaps its not the problem I imagine it to be.

I was thinking about this as I photographed two buoys on the docks at King's Lynn, Norfolk. They were very faded, but were clearly red and green. Pairs of newer and better painted buoys nearby were also red or green, but much brighter. Their juxtaposition made me wonder if sailors experienced the same potential for confusion when steering by these buoys that mark channels. However, in preparing this piece I read that in most of the world (except the Americas, the Philippines and Japan) green buoys are conical and indicate starboard, and red buoys are cylindrical and show port. So, the designers of this navigation aid contrived a system that was legible in high contrast light (silhouette) and by colour blind people. But why did they use potentially confusing red and green? Was it simply to mimic the lights that ships carry? It seems that many of our designs, like the QWERTY keyboard on which I am writing this blog entry, have a life that extends much longer than good sense would dictate, and inertia is as strong a force in our "ever changing" world as it ever was!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 20mm (40mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Summer morning churchyard

click photo to enlarge

Twice this year I've made the journey to the top of the tower of St Swithun, Bicker. The first was on a foggy, frosty day, and the second when it was warm and sunny, but slightly hazy. Only on that brighter day did I get a few photographs of the view over the the flat Fenland landscape.

The ascent of the tower starts by entering an internal low, narrow door that leads to steps spiralling up to the ringing floor. This level of the tower is where the bell ringers stand to ring the eight bells of the church's peal. It's a cosy place decked out, as these places often are, with photographs of previous ringers and records of notable ringing feats. A wooden ladder is needed to get to the next level of the tower where the bells are held in an elaborate and solid framework of steel and wood. Once there, contortions are required to get to a steel ladder up to the trap-door that leads out on to the roof itself. This is a shallow, lead-covered pyramid surrounded by the old stone battlements. Successive generations have inscribed names, dates and outlines of of their feet on the lead surface. The oldest date I recall seeing was from the nineteenth century, so I imagine the roof was re-covered in Victorian times.

It's said that from the top of the tower, on a clear day, 14 medieval church towers can be seen. On my second visit I could see (or imagined I could see - I'd forgotten my binoculars!) the big towers of Boston, Swineshead, Donington, Quadring, Heckington, Helpringham, Swaton, and Gosberton. However, I struggled to see others because of the tall churchyard and roadside trees, and the heat haze that hung over the horizon. A clear winter day, when the trees are bare, perhaps will extend the view to Billingborough, Horbling, Threekingham, Surfleet, Sutterton, and maybe Great Hale or Pinchbeck. I think I'll have to choose my day more carefully for my next climb!

Today's photograph was taken on a sunny August morning with the early sun throwing long shadows in the churchyard.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On