Poppies and happiness

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According to some social and economic researchers, western society reached a peak of happiness and well-being in 1976, and, despite rising living standards and increasing life-spans, it's been downhill since then. When you ask people what they want from life a common answer is "to be happy". However, when you ask individuals what would make them happy you get myriad replies. For many it's having lots of money, for some being thinner, whilst others would be happy if they were famous. Yet if you look at those who embody all three of those qualities - you'll have your own list - they don't seem to be any happier than the average person.

Some people think that happiness comes from a life of constant leisure: they crave the time to do nothing. Yet idleness soon palls because most people need to fill their hours with something more than sitting in the sun. And there, I think, is the one real clue to how to achieve happiness. Happiness comes from doing things - it's a by-product, if you like, of activity: it isn't, and we wouldn't want it to be, an end in itself. If we do seek happiness as an end in itself, it could easily be achieved through drugs or chemical means. However, that would bring the mindlessly passive state that Aldous Huxley described in his novel, Brave New World. So, it seems that if we have good relationships, care for our families, find work of value, strive to learn, make contributions to our society, in other words do those things that mean we live our lives well, happiness will find us, without us searching for it. And megabucks, body shape and fame won't enter in to it!

These poppy seed heads set off that train of thought which I'd been thinking about after reading an article in A.C. Grayling's book, "The Meaning of Things: Applying Philosophy to Life". Too often today poppies are mentioned in connection with drugs and the state of mind they produce, rather than as beautiful flowers. I took this photograph with a macro lens after placing a piece of dark card behind the seed heads. The lighting is natural, and the only post processing is an increase in contrast and sharpness.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Goliath's teeth

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The thin layer of soil beneath our feet is vital to human existence. About 90% of our food, livestock feed, fibre and fuel derive from it. More than that, it affects the landscape we live in, is vital in our water supply, provides us with minerals, and holds the record of much of our past. It's a sobering thought that it takes between 2,000 and 10,000 years for a full soil profile - one that can be used for agriculture - to develop. This is roughly comparable with the historical (as opposed to archaeological) record of man. And given that fact it's vital that we value our soil, because if it's lost or damaged, it can't easily or quickly be replaced.

When mankind first saw the benefits of settling down and tilling the soil, the world's population was small, land was plentiful, and agricultural methods were inefficient. However, in the past 300 years land has begun to be used much more intensively, as the "agricultural revolution" which began in the eighteenth century, developed and spread across the world. Today soil faces many threats. In Germany about 120 hectares a day were lost in 1997 due to surface sealing (building etc.). In Russia 57% of agricultural land is subject to strong erosion. Acidification is widespread in Europe, and the extent of localised pollution of the soil by industry is becoming increasingly understood. Throughout the world farmers are having to recognise the degradation that comes from intensive use and the application of chemicals.

The photograph shows a detail of an agricultural roller called "Goliath" by its manufacturer. It's an appropriate name since, when towed by a tractor, it can do the work that formerly took many men much longer. The reduction in the farm workforce, the increase in farm sizes, and rampant mechanisation, have all worked to distance people from the soil, and this has further contributed to its degradation. I noticed this roller as I walked along a footpath past a farm, and was attracted by the pattern of the rings of saw-like teeth, the pitted surface and the rust spots. I chose a diagonal view to introduce a note of instability to the composition.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Confusing reflections

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Reflections are confusing aren't they? When you look in the mirror the face that stares back at you is not quite the face that everyone else sees. That's because faces are rarely symmetrical, and the mirror reverses features with which we have become familiar. My wife tells me that in the mirror my face looks "lop-sided"! So does hers, but I'm too much of a gentleman to mention such a thing!

Similarly, in the mirror our left hand appears to be our right hand, and writing gets confusingly flipped. I've never understood the way that some emergency vehicles have their name written on the bonnet so that it can be read correctly in the rear-view mirror of the car in front. If that is necessary for the driver to realise that the big brightly coloured vehicle behind with the deafening siren is a fire engine, won't the writing just confuse all the other drivers on the road, and don't they need it the correct way round so they know its a fire engine too?

And what about reflections in puddles? They usually turn other people upside down, though if you're Narcissus looking into a pool you get yourself the right way up. The photograph above shows my wife reflected in a puddle next to a column. The ground around has red tarmac, and the effect of this is to make the image look very bloody. I took this photograph the right way up of course. However, when I flipped it through 180 degrees I liked the disconcerting effect that it has on the viewer's perceptions. The picture looks "right" until you see the feet. By showing the photograph like this I feel, in some small way, to be getting my own back on these confusing reflections! Now, having got that off my chest, I think I'll go and lie down!!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

The graffiti of ages

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Fed up of the graffiti in your town? Think it's one of the curses of modern life? Well spare a thought for Sir Edmund and Lady de Thorp - they've suffered as much as most!

Sir Edmund was laid to rest in Ashwellthorpe church, Norfolk, in 1417 after being killed in the siege of Louviers Castle in Normandy on one of Henry V's campaigns. Poor old Sir Edmund's family gave him the most up to date alabaster tomb with an effigy of him in his finest armour, heraldic devices around the base, and a place for his wife alongside him. They must have seen it as a fitting memorial to a man of substance; "a thing of beauty", "a joy forever", as Keats was to later put it.

And it is. The carving is beautifully detailed, recording the costumes of a time long gone. It's a fascinating historical record, and something that helps us to mentally span the ages between now and the early fifteenth century. But then there's the graffiti all over the tomb! Dates from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries are clearly legible, and multiple large initials and names with serifs look to be of a similar age. On Sir John's breastplate there are a few lines of cursive script, hardly readable now, and on the side of his headgear someone has obviously used a pair of compasses to inscribe a circle enclosing petals! The least sensitive malefactor has hacked initials across the forehead of Lady de Thorp. Who were these people and why did they do it? It can't just have been disgruntled choirboys at a loose end after Sunday service. There is a point of view that says this graffiti is an interesting historical record in itself. It is. However, that shouldn't blind us to the fact that unwanted graffiti is destructive whenever it's perpetrated, and that here it is a sacrilege too.

I was able to take this photograph without the customary tripod because a bright day combined with large windows bathed the tomb in light. Ironically, this drew my attention to the graffiti more than the usual dark church and dimly lit chapel would have done!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Gothic imaginings

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What does the word "Gothic" suggest to the twenty first century? For many it will conjure up images of ghosts, darkness, gloom, towers and vampires, prompted by films such as Ken Russell's "Gothic", TV shows like "American Gothic", and various spooky novels. These are modern developments of ideas first explored in the Gothic novel, a genre exemplified by books like Horace Walpole's "The Castle of Otranto", Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein", and Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart". Younger people may associate the word with a fashion/life style, known as "Goth", characterised by white faces, black make-up, black hair, black clothing, and a penchant for a particular flavour of guitar-driven music!

The word itself comes from the 2nd century A.D. East Germanic tribe known as the Goths. In the sixteenth century the Italian architect and art historian, Giorgio Varasari, coined the word to mean "barbaric" when speaking of medieval architecture, contrasting its qualities unfavourably with those of classical and Renaissance buildings. However, by the eighteenth century, buildings like Horace Walpole's house, "Strawberry Hill", and William Beckford's Fonthill Abbey, were being built using the forms and decoration of medieval architecture, and the term Gothic was becoming one of approbation. The new enthusiasm for Gothic architecture was associated with a liking for the picturesque. In time Gothic architecture was further developed by the Romantic movement with its focus on melancholy. The nationalist movements of northern Europe, and the English church (influenced by A.W.N. Pugin's writings), took and developed Gothic architecture further, and by the later nineteenth century architects had taken the style to a height that often matches that of the medieval precursors.

The photograph above shows original Gothic architecture of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries in Carlisle Cathedral, Cumbria. When I saw the composition it was the range of tones, the vertical shapes, and the eye-catching window in deep shade at the end of the vista that appealed. I underexposed the shot to ensure that the sunlit highlights and the detail of the stained glass weren't lost, then brought up the shadow detail a little when I processed the image.The clustered columns, stone vaulting, deep shadows and filtered light of the south aisle represents many of the qualities that makes the Gothic appeal to the Romantic imagination.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Street lights

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When, as a child, I moved from a country dwelling, into a small market town, it was the street lights that fasc-
inated me most. And not just because they turned night into almost day. The green, ornate, cast iron lamp standards had a cylindrical scalloped base, a tapering shaft that changed into a top bracket shaped like a question mark, and a light with a hood resembling pointed petals. But, best of all was the short horizontal bar sticking out just below the lamp. This was presumably a relic of the days when lamps were gas-powered, and a ladder was used to reach and light them. We children liked the design because you could swing on the bar! The day these street lights were changed for modern pre-cast concrete models, which later got orange sodium bulbs, was one of deep, deep regret.

In the years that followed, standardisation seems to have been adopted across many parts of the country. Galvanised steel and concrete became the materials of choice, and spare, utilitarian forms, were favoured. However, it wasn't long before planners tired of these, particularly in conservation areas, and other, more ornate designs came into use. Today it's gratifying to see that local councils regard even large street lighting as something that can bring distinction to a road. In Blackpool, Lancashire, the South Promenade has large, shiny steel "C" shaped lights, and in nearby St Annes, the ornate lights on the main street are part of a suite of street furniture - shelters, seating and art work - designed to enhance the area.

The lights in the photograph are at Fleetwood, Lancashire, and are clearly designed to look "modern". They are a fairly unexceptional design, spherical for no good reason other than appearance, and look too tall in their location. However, the height brings advantages for the local gulls which use them as convenient and safe perches! I took the shot of this young gull streamlining its body to avoid being blown off the curved surface with a 300mm (35mm equivalent) lens. The diagonal view filled the frame better, allowed the gull to be placed in a key position, and left enough blue sky to give the feeling of space that the bird must experience as it looks down from its near, yet safely remote perch.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Cherry blossom rain

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Ornamental planting in public places can be (excuse the pun) a thorny issue. The motivation is usually to either beautify the locality, to create habitat, for screening purposes, to suppress noise, or to reduce the maintenance required for a piece of land. More enlightened local councils plant a thoughtful disposition of native and ornamental species, thinking carefully about each locality, and their good work brings pleasure to us all. However, occasionally things get silly.

Driving through Lancashire in recent weeks I've found too many roadside verges with miles of thin lines of daffodils where parish councils appear to have gone berserk with bulbs. In recent times I've seen bushes grubbed up, and trees chopped down on traffic roundabouts apparently to improve drivers' sight lines. In my immediate locality the council's chosen horticultural contractors fall on their spring work with the sensitivity of a rapacious barbarian horde, pruning with petrol-powered trimmers, shaping the flowering currants just as the flower buds appear. Yet, elsewhere, they do good work, planting waste ground with trees fitted with nest and bat boxes, and maintaining impressive floral displays. Perhaps local councils just can't win, caught between the constraints of cost, health and safety, the environmental imperative, and the widespread public desire for "pretty planting".

My photograph shows a flowering cherry - definitely "pretty planting". The classic shot of this species shows the pink blossom, sunlit, against a blue sky. I thought I'd try for something different, and went for the saturated colours of a branch, itself saturated by a May shower, raindrops and all. The shades of green, the brown tones of the leaves and branch, and the pink of the blossom, are not colours that we normally think complement one another. But, one of the wonderful things about the colours of nature is that you can put virtually any of them together, and they somehow seem just right!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Beautiful or not?

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If we know anything about James McNeill Whistler (1834-1903), it's usually his mother! Many will recognise his painting, "Arrangement in Grey and Black: Portrait of the Painter's Mother". If we don't know that image, then we may recall both John Ruskin's accusation on seeing Whistler's "Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket" - that the artist was "flinging a pot of paint in the public's face" - and the court case that followed these intemperate remarks. Whatever your views on Whistler's art, and I'm an admirer, no one could accuse him of being conventional!

What then are we to make of this stained glass window at Orton church in Cumbria? It is not by Whistler, but by his second wife. Born Beatrice (Beatrix) Philip, she was the daughter of a sculptor, and married Whistler in 1888, two years after the death of her first husband, the architect E. W. Godwin. Beatrice had worked in the workshop of her father, and studied with Godwin, producing furniture designs, decorative panels and designs for wallpaper and tiles. She painted in oils, modelled for Whistler, and did further design work, in jewellery and stained glass, including this design for Campbell Smith & Co., commemorating the death of an eight year old girl.

So, what about this window. The Centre for Whistler Studies at the University of Glasgow describes it as "beautiful". I'd call it storybook, twee, fey, and saccharine! It's not the subject matter, or the composition that are the problem: they're fine. It's everything else! The treatment of the commemoration, in my opinion, lacks dignity. The angels are badly drawn, attenuated and, with their ears poking out of their hair, elfin. This makes them worldly in an irreligious way, and consequently inappropriate. And what about their wings? They seem to have been borrowed from larger beings, and are just silly! There is no gravitas to the treatment of these figures. At the top of the window the sky is abstracted in a way that, apart from the colour, has little relationship to the rest of the design. Perhaps the best parts are the flowers and the commemorative script. One wonders how Beatrice Whistler got this commission, and why it is admired.

Why then did I set up my tripod, carefully meter a mid-tone, photograph it, and post process it to even out the brightness across the image? Because I have an interest in church architecture and stained glass, and, in the canon of English glass this piece is odd! Interestingly, it was only some months after taking this photograph that I found out the designer's name.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Bluebell woods

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"Or littering far the fields of May
Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay,
And like a skylit water stood
The bluebells in the azured wood."
from "A Shropshire Lad" by A.E. Housman (1859-1936)

One of the pleasures of spring in Britain is the sight of a "bluebell wood". Here are two examples at Barnacre and Calder Vale, Lancashire. In April and May the wild hyacinth, Hyacinthoides non-scripta, commonly called the bluebell, carpets many deciduous woodlands before the trees' leaf canopy is fully developed. The clustered, fragrant, bell-shaped flowers and the accompanying pointed, glossy leaves are held in high regard by the English in particular, who sometimes name it as the national flower.

The bluebell is also found in hedgerows, with bracken on the uplands, on cliffs, and in gardens. Its popularity has led to cultivation: mauve and white examples can be found in gardens, and sometimes as "escapes". The Latin non-scripta part of the bluebell's name is to distinguish it from the classical hyacinth. In Scotland the July-October flowering harebell, Campanula rotundifolia, is known as the bluebell.

Britain as a whole holds between 25% and 49% of the world population of Hyacinthoides non-scripta, and the plant is identified as one of conservation concern. The 1981 Wildlife and Countryside Act protects the wild plants and bulbs of this species. Unfortunately this has not prevented the selfish and unscrupulous from digging them up, offering them for sale, and denying people one of the natural joys of spring.

The photographs above are intended to capture something of the beauty of a bluebell wood - the water-like effect of the densely packed flower-heads, the way the azure colour contrasts with the fresh light green of the trees, and the dappled effect of the sunlight.

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Blind Venetians

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"Venetian blinds - they're life savers aren't they. Without them it'd be curtains for everybody!" from 1001 Bad Jokes for Kids

There are some misguided souls who think that Venetian blinds arrived in Venice in the eighteenth century from the east, became popular there, spread through western Europe and thence to the United States, where in 1841 John Hampson of New Orleans patented the device for maintaining the angle of the slats, and thus increased their popularity. Wrong!

The fact is that Venetian blinds were invented for two quite different reasons. The first was to supply a never ending stream of very bad jokes, particularly suitable for schoolboys. One example is shown above, another is, "How do you make a Venetian blind? Poke his eyes out with a pencil". The quality of these jokes scrapes the bottom out of any barrel they are placed in, so it's just as well that the second reason for the invention of these blinds is a little more elevated. It is so that in film noir the heroine can carefully separate the slats with her fingers and see the man she thought to be upright and true, engaged in nefarious trickery, whilst at the same time allowing the director a wonderful shot of only her eyes surrounded by the horizontal shading of the blinds.

The rather grubby blinds in my photograph were closed, and keeping out the late afternoon sun, when I saw them. I probably wouldn't have thought of a shot had it not been for the accompanying pattern of sunlight they were creating on the nearby wall, and the odd, diffused effect where the ends of the slats meet that wall. The attraction of any Venetian blinds is the gently graduated shadows on each slat, and here they lead the eye to the corner where the patterned wall takes over.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

A glimpse of a church

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"Among the changing months, May stands confessed,
The sweetest, and in fairest colours dressed" James Thomson (1700-1748), Scottish poet

Fresh green grass, new translucent leaves, the verges scattered with dandelions, bluebells glowing in the shade, hawthorns covered in drifts of blossom, and all lit by a bright sun in a clear blue sky scuffed with soft white clouds. Is there any month that can compare with May?

Freshness and promise are the things that May offers. Anything seems possible in this best of all months. Everything that catches the eye is new: nothing is jaded, and a walk in the May sunshine positively lifts the spirit. We photographers relish all that the month offers, and delight in pointing our cameras at the bright world before us.

The photograph above shows the fine sight of the church of St Lawrence in the village of Crosby Ravensworth, Cumbria, on a morning in early May. The oldest part of the building, the crossing, dates from about 1190-1200, with the remainder of various ages from the thirteenth century through to the chancel added in the nineteenth century. It is a fairly typical English village church, built over a long period by succeeding generations. However, its location is particularly lovely, with a hump-back bridge over a small stream leading to the churchyard gate with its arch and light. Ancient trees surround the building, including the usual dark yews.

My photograph tries to capture something of the setting and appeal of this charming church. It's hard to show much of the building, so my composition positions the bridge to the left, the tower in the centre, and a dominant tree to the right. Not an original shot, but one that the pleasures of a May morning demands that you take!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

A field in the Fylde

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The Fylde is the flat West Lancashire coastal plain between the River Lune in the north and the River Ribble in the south. The first known reference to the word appears in the year 1246 and is written "Filde". It is an Old English variant (from a Germanic root) of "feld" meaning open country suitable for cultivation, which gave us the word "field". So, you could say this photograph is of a field in the field!

Formerly an area of mainly scrub, wetland, saltmarsh, and sand dunes, the Fylde was gradually drained, settled and brought into agricultural production. In the nineteenth century it began to produce substantial quantities of grain and vegetables for urban centres, and it continues to be an important area for these crops. This low lying land has always been swept by the prevailing westerly winds blowing off the Irish Sea, and from the late eighteenth century onwards windmills were erected for milling and drainage. This led to the name "Windmill Land" being used to describe the area.

I came across this newly-prepared field, in one of the slightly rolling areas of the Fylde, on a sunny day after early morning rain. The corrugated soil was emphasising the undulations quite well, and the moisture-laden clouds were disappearing over the horizon, giving the scene a slightly surreal, deserted, otherworldly feel. The shot I opted for is a conventional split of one third land, two thirds sky, with minimal post processing.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Claw hammers and flutes

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I can vividly remember the first time I saw a claw hammer being used properly. I was in my teens, and a friend and I were struggling, using pliers to pull nails out of a piece of wood. Seeing our travails, my friend's father said, "Here, have a go with with this!" Then he quickly used his claw hammer to effortlessly remove three nails, and passed it to me. I slid the tapered slot of the claw under the nail head, and when I felt it jam, rotated the hammer head using the handle as a lever. Watching the nail being drawn easily from the wood in a smooth curve was deeply satisfying. That experience put two thoughts into my mind that have never gone away: namely that mankind has an infinite capacity for invention and improvement, and, that people who can come up with designs like the claw hammer are worthy of the title "genius".

A little while ago I borrowed a flute to see if I could play it. I can read music reasonably well, and play a few instruments - badly, but with enjoyment! However, whether it's my age or my lack of skill, I was easily defeated by the flute. Just getting a sound out of it was hard enough. And all those keys! Give me the penny whistle any day - only six holes. Or a recorder - at least it has a fipple so sounds are easy to make. When I spoke to an accomplished flautist he told me about the development of the flute from the keyless wooden instrument to the present day nickel-silver concert model, Boehm fingering and all. It seems that, as with the claw hammer, this musical tool has been subject to evolution and improvement (though on a grander scale), and has arrived at its present form in order to meet the demands that composers place on it. To one who plays it well the mouthpiece and the myriad keys make it a model of ergonomics - another case of form following function.

But, whilst I've given up trying to play the flute, its construction is interesting, and so I have been motivated to try to get a photograph out it. I tried shots against a white background and against light wood, but eventually settled on this dark wood. Its richness provides a better foil for the highlights of the shiny metal. I used a macro lens to focus on a small part of the instrument, placed diagonally for interest, and filled the frame with those infernal keys!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

What to do about graveyards?

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What can we do about graveyards in Britain? In recent years, in many places, there isn't enough space to bury everyone who wants it, and who can afford it (remember, dying isn't cheap!) One solution, adopted in some cemeteries, both here and abroad, is to exhume the bones of the long dead, place them in a charnel house or other location that is more space-efficient, and use the plots so recovered for the newly dead. Another strategy is to cremate, then bury the ashes. This takes up much less space. In some places the ashes are in one of many repositories in a wall: a sort of mini-skyscraper of the deceased!

Graveyards that are full are a different problem, because they require fairly labour-intensive maintenance. I have seen sheep employed to keep the grass down. This strikes me as particularly apposite around a Christian church! Elsewhere, men (it usually is men) with strimmers, scythes and mowers, cut the grass periodically. Or, in some churchyards, most of the gravestones are moved to the perimeter, leaving essentially a lawn with a few tombs here and there. This makes grass-cutting easy. It also gets round the alleged danger of unstable stones falling on visitors, a health and safety concern that has exercised church councils in recent years. However, by far the best solution, and one adopted in a fair number of places, is to reduce the area subject to maintenance, and let part of the graveyard run wild. This strategy requires minimal management, attracts wildlife, preserves the tombs, and creates romantic vistas like the one in my photograph from Glassonby in Cumbria. Here the rhododendrons and brambles are growing around the gravestones in a very attractive way.

I couldn't decide whether to present this photograph in colour or in black and white. Both seemed acceptable, but the colour version has more depth, and shows the flowers to better effect. And, whilst the red sandstone colour of the tomb is not to everyone's taste, it is unusual, and is characteristic of certain areas of north-west England, so that is the one I chose.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

A cream carnation

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My introduction to the word "carnation" came at a quite young age. In the austere years of the 1950s Sunday tea (I'm from the north of England, so to all you effete southerners that's dinner!) was sometimes tinned salmon and salad concluded with tinned fruit topped with Carnation evaporated milk. For me the "afters" was the highlight of the meal.

I can still picture the tin with the word "Carnation" on a red background, the letter "C" enlarged to enclose the following "a". The product is, apparently, still sold, but I have no desire to re-live this particular part of my childhood. Times and tastes have moved on!

In one of my earlier posts I showed a photograph of a pink carnation taken through a standard digital zoom with a screw-on achromatic macro lens attached. When I noticed some cream carnations in the house the other day I thought I'd try a similar shot, but this time with a 35mm dedicated macro lens. I can't say that there's a massive difference, but the dedicated lens is probably sharper, is capable of greater depth of field, and does allow a bigger range of distances from which the shot can be taken. What I liked about this shot, taken in shade, is the way the petals have picked up colours from the surroundings, and introduced depth and coldness to the edges of the image.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Oriel Chambers, Liverpool

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Liverpool is to be the European Capital of Culture in 2008. The European Union confers this title on different locations each year, with cities actively vying to achieve the accolade. Past recipients include obvious locations like Athens, Madrid and Paris, but also less obvious choices such as Glasgow, Weimar and Graz. Many cities have used the award as a focus for growth and regeneration, and Liverpool is taking this route.

The claims of Liverpool to the title are firmly founded, and its built environment and musical legacy are only two of the areas where the city excels. In terms of buildings, many will know Scott's massive red sandstone Anglican Cathedral and Gibberd's modern Roman Catholic Cathedral. The trio of Pierhead buildings - the "Three Graces" of the Royal Liver Building, the Cunard Building and the former Mersey Docks and Harbour Board building - will also be well-known. On the St George's plateau is the magnificent neo-classical St George's Hall, and a group of other large civic buildings. All these are familiar enough. But how many, outside the circles of architectural historians, know of one of the most interesting of Liverpool's buildings - Oriel Chambers?

Built in 1864 by the architect Peter Ellis (1804-1884) the building illustrates how, in the words of Henry Russell-Hitchcock, "the Chicago skyscraper of the nineties seems almost to have come to premature birth in Liverpool in the sixties." If one ignores the Gothic detailing and looks at the building between the first floor and the attic storey Oriel Chambers seems to prefigure one of the key characteristics of the Modern Movement. The all-over grid of oriel windows with minimal iron glazing bars and very little masonry between them is an early version of the "curtain wall", and is underpinned by a steel frame. In the courtyard of the building this is left partly exposed, as was to become the twentieth century way. Interestingly, the Chicago architect, John Wellborn Root, was in Liverpool (avoiding the Civil War) at the time Oriel Chambers was being constructed. Was this building an influence on his subsequent work? Perhaps. However, in Britain Ellis's forward looking structure was described as "a great abortion" and "an agglomeration of great glass bubbles", and whilst some were influenced by the ideas incorporated in the building, it is as a rogue precursor of what was to come that the building is remembered today.

Architectural photographs often benefit from having a raking light throwing shadows to better describe the form. In this shot that light meant the right of the building was too dark, so I have digitally "dodged" that area to bring up some detail. Converging verticals can add drama, but here I reduced the effect to emphasise the building's rectinear grid.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Shadows - marvellous and mischievous

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The other day I was watching a little boy with his support worker. They were sitting on the ground playing with a ball. When the ball rolled away the boy ignored it because he had caught sight of the shadow of his head and upper body. He reached out to touch his shadow, and, of course, it changed and moved. His support worker noticed this and put out her hand, spread her fingers and waggled them. The boy reached for the shadow hand and it became superimposed on his own. He then looked up at the real hand and down again at the shadow hand. The boy had Down Syndrome, and consequently the relationship between the two hands was not as apparent to him as was to me and his assistant. But, in his actions, you could sense his attempt to understand the correlation between the real hand and its doppelganger.

The actions of that small child opened my eyes to two things. Firstly, how we take for granted our understanding of our world, and secondly, how easily we forget what a marvellous phenomenon the shadow is, and how it greatly enriches our visual experience.

I took this photograph of the head of a battered violin in the late afternoon so that its shadow could be an important part of the image. I placed it on the smoothest, whitest paper I could find, and metered the shot off the violin so that the resulting image would have something of a "high key", slightly overexposed effect. To emphasise this I converted the colour image to black and white, and then, to take it up a further notch, I used the software equivalent of a red filter. The final effect is close to what I wanted. However, the shadow that an object will throw is sometimes difficult to predict. And, effectively pricking my feelings about the seriouness of my photograph, someone who saw this one said it looked like a cartoon 1950s Rocker, with a quiff, blowing bubblegum!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

A work of artfulness

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I have had a deep interest in art for most of my life. I've looked at it, studied it, tried to understand it, got enormous pleasure from it, and I have a go at it myself. Consequently I am uncomfort- able writing what follows because it makes me sound like a Philistine who shoots his mouth off from a position of ignorance. But, since it's what I believe, here goes.

It seems to me that much of what passes for contemporary art, particularly that which has been feted under the "Britart" name, is worth very little. It is shallow, gimmicky and trite, producing works to catch the public eye and promote the celebrity status of the "artist". The grasshopper minds of the likes of Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin produce work that not only has no depth, it has no challenge either. What you see is all there is. Rarely do these artists develop themes: their aim seems to be to outdo each other in "outrageousness" or "difference", but for no reason other than novelty. These people are artful, but not artists.

The work above is by one of Britain's most famous contemporary artists, and is currently the most talked about piece of art in the country. It is Rachel Whiteread's "Embankment", at Tate Modern in London, and it fills the former turbine hall. The work comprises thousands of plastic casts of boxes in various piles that the visitor can walk around. It's apparently "an exploration of the universal quality of the box", which in piles "invites parallels with the museum as a keeper of collective memory"! The charitable, might say it's interesting to walk round, and unusual to look at. But, would the artist's apparent intention be clear to anyone if it hadn't been stated? And what does it really offer apart from piles of plastic boxes? Would the art work be any the less if the piles were smaller or arranged differently? And if not, what does that say about the value of the original conception.

My wide angle photograph from above is designed to show the scale of the work and its substance (or lack of it). The public are expected to walk through it, and my shot shows children playing hide and seek! I imagine many industrial warehouses might offer a similar experience. However there the boxes would be arranged more conveniently!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

The world's most elaborate bench?

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Is this the world's most elaborate public bench? It has recently been installed on the South Promenade at Blackpool, Lancashire, and is part seat, part art installation, and entirely wind free!

Designed by the architect Ian McChesney, the 26 feet (8m) high stainless steel structure is mounted on a circular rotating base, has a curved wooden bench at the bottom, and a graceful top inspired by a whale's tail. This superstructure is designed to catch the wind and rotate the installation so that the occupants of the seat are always sheltered from it! The engineers, Atelier One, are to build more of the seats along this section of the sea front where they will complement the growing number of art works.

The general public have mixed feelings about this approach to public art in the town, and the cost involved, but I unequivocally applaud it. Not every piece works for me, but many do, and all add visual interest to the new concrete sea-wall and walk-ways. It's great to see public spaces enlivened by the work of artists, and it's positively uplifting to walk among these creations and admire the ingenuity and inspiration, as well as the civic pride, that brought them about.

The bench is quite hard to represent properly in one photograph, so I include two of the several that I took. One, taken with a long focal length lens shows something of the general context, and the other - a wide angle shot - shows the immediate surroundings. Together they better explain the shape, particularly that remarkable top. Incidentally, the distant tall shape with the curled top is a sculpture called the "High Tide Organ", which makes musical sounds, varying in volume and complexity, caused by the air pressure created by the incoming tide!

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Blind abstraction

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The camera lets us see the world in a different way. A viewfinder's rectangle of light focuses our attention on whatever it is pointed at, and, if we care to, we can acquire new insights into our surroundings through it: the mundane can become marvellous.

The other day I set myself the task of getting a photograph out of a set of vertical blinds. I had done this once before here, but finding a second shot from this limited subject matter is challenging. Maybe it's analogous to the well known "second album" predicament that afflicts many bands - the best ideas are invariably used up first! However, I think self-set problems of this sort are helpful to any enthusiastic amateur photographer, because it encourages us to think and see more deeply.

The shot I came up with works (for me) because of the limited range of colours and the shadows. However it is the beaded string that is the eye-catcher. Consequently my main concern was to incorporate all the available tones in a balanced composition that featured the string and its shadow. So, I included slats and their shadows to left and right, and enough of the window sill to include both sunlit and shadowed parts, and I made them split the image horizontally. The final composition is fairly symmetrical, with beaded string and its shadow introducing contrary elements. I'm reasonably satisfied with the shot. I think it works best if you forget what it is, and see it as just a collection of abstract forms. Then, I think, it has something of a painterly feel to it.

This isn't a natural way of working, nor does it produce images that have a wide appeal: in fact some will think this is a nothing sort of a shot. But, I do think the process has merit, and I commend it to anyone who wants to break the habit of taking photographs of the same type of thing over and over again. Now, how can I get a third shot out of these blinds?!!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

LUKW - A DUKW!

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In a race between these two water chariots which would you put your money on? In the background is the "Sun Clipper", a 25 knot, 138 seat, "ultra-low wash" commuter boat of the Thames Clippers fleet: in the foreground an adapted ex-military amphibious DUKW transport of WW2 design, capable of 50mph on the road and 6mph in water. So, I guess on water we back the clipper, but on land the DUKW definitely has it!

A number of tourist locations, principally in the US, but also in England and elswhere, use these old amphibians. It must be for the novelty value of driving into water, having a gentle cruise, then trundling back on to dry land. Hovercrafts are often used in the same way for similar reasons. However, as I've watched the DUKWs of London Ducktours chugging up and down the Thames I've often wondered if there isn't another motivation that attracts the punters. Namely the thrill of travelling in such a precarious fashion. Perhaps all the passengers are fairground ride enthusiasts looking for a different kind of buzz: the fascination of will it sink or won't it!

I took a few shots of this vintage vehicle. All had the bright yellow of the amphibian against the almost monochrome background. But, I preferred this one, with the illuminating shaft of sunlight on the utilitarian outline of the DUKW, and the contrast it makes with the sharp, lean lines of the modern boat. The visual juxtaposition, ironically, shows utility in the background and fun in the foreground. Sixty years ago the DUKW was the embodiment of utility!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Gravestones and mortality

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There's nothing like a walk in a graveyard to remind you of your own mortality! As you pass through the ranks of stone the shapes catch your eye first: plain rectanglular slabs, graves with curved and pointed tops, some with elegant pediments, and, dotted about, table tombs, crosses, weeping angels and multi-columned creations commemorating Victorian worthies.

Then the names jump out at you - some no longer used, but dimly remembered from religious education lessons: Obadiah, Jesse, Isaiah, Emmanuel. The ages at death draw your attention, particularly those of the young and the long-lived, but most of all those of your own age! And under the names and ages, often a phrase, a Bible quotation, or a piece of verse, sometimes touching, though more often doggerel. "Departed this life", "Fallen asleep", "Gone before" are common enough. But occasionally one comes across words written for the individual, as on an infant's grave at Lynton, Devon: "Opened my eyes, took a peep, Didn't like it, went to sleep".

The gravestones above are on the south side of the church of St Mary at Long Sutton, Lincolnshire, and date from the eighteenth century. They are lichen encrusted, and the soft stone is gently crumbling. But, through this patina of ages one can still see the classical cherubs and garlands, the relief panels and Ionic columns, and here and there a name to be deciphered. Carved skulls, sometimes with crossed bones, remind us that these people were more familiar with death than we are, knew its cruelty and necessity, and didn't hide it away.

I took this photograph on a dull, overcast day, impressed by the texture of the stones and the way the ragged rows mutely represented the long-dead townspeople. A little increase in contrast was necessary to bring out the detail, and I compressed the rows to emphasize the number of gravestones (unusual for this date) and the undulating patterns caused by settlement over the centuries.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Styling and money pits

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"Car: a wheeled motor-vehicle, usually propelled by an internal combustion engine". So says the dictionary. But to many people, particularly men, they are so much more. An obsession, a reflection or extension of personality, a status symbol, an object of beauty, a lifetime hobby, a money-pit: I'm sure you can add to this list. Oh, and for some people they are a form of transport!

Now, neither my best friends nor my worst enemies would describe me as a "petrol-head". I'm one of those people who see cars as a regrettable means of getting from A to B. What tipped me into buying a car was the arrival of a second child and unfortunate experiences on British Rail due to the depredations of the Thatcher years. Up to that point bicycles and public transport had served my needs. Now I use a car daily, and choose my model based principally on economy and reliability: I drive a Honda!

At this point, given my attitude to cars, you might be thinking, why the picture of the front end of an old Jaguar? Well, I've always been interested in design, and to a lesser extent, style (though I've no interest in fashion), and cars are the recipients of more styling than virtually any other manufactured object. Inevitably, with that amount of attention, some cars are going to have great styling, and sculptural qualities that can be appreciated in their own right. As I walked down a line of veteran and vintage vehicles on display in St Annes, Lancashire, I stopped at this Jaguar and admired the sensuous styling of the bonnet, radiator, light clusters and bumper. "Sculptural" is the only word to describe this delightful ensemble, and so I took my photograph of the best bit of the car.

For those who need to know, I believe this to be a Jaguar "S Type" 3.4 litre, manufactured between 1963 and 1968. If I'm wrong please correct me.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Traditional beach huts

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At one point, in the 1970s and 1980s, it seemed as though beach huts would disappear from the British seaside. The fashion for foreign holidays meant that demand declined, maintenance was skimped, and many huts were either demolished or sold to private buyers. But, like many relics that manage to hang on after their time has passed, people have started to value them, and their fortunes have revived. It seems that many still want to rent a hut as a little base for their seaside days: somewhere to shelter from the showers, change for bathing, cook and eat a simple meal, and to sit outside to soak up the sun.

The styles and number of huts varies across the country. Those at Southwold in Suffolk are, perhaps, the most attractive, with their gable ends, gated verandahs and individual colours. The oldest, dating from around 1900, are almost certainly to be found at Wells-next-the-Sea, Norfolk. Bournemouth has the greatest individual concentration - approximately 1500 in total - with about 500 still owned by the local council. The newest are probably the seven, rather grand, architect-designed huts at Hornsea, East Yorkshire, completed in 2003.

So, what is distinctive about these beach huts at Mablethorpe in Lincolnshire. Well, they aren't the most attractive, but, like all the others they are wooden, next to the sea, and brightly painted. However, what distinguishes the 103 huts here is their level of equipment! Each has four deck chairs, a table, crockery, a sink and tap, and an electric kettle! And all for about £8.00 a day (reductions for a week)! If the British seaside holiday is to compete against foreign vacations based on cheap flights, then a distinctive experience needs to be offered. These huts, though cheap and cheerful, are a small part of what makes our seaside different.

This section of Mablethorpe's beach huts almost demanded a shot which emphasised the repetition of forms, so I used a long telephoto lens. I chose to make the colour split one third/two thirds, and include the orange painted promenade light as a bright highpoint to which the eye is directed. The small patch of yellow, repaired woodwork gave some necessary visual weight to the right side of the image.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

The attraction of railway stations

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The architects of the nineteenth century rail system had nothing on which to base their new constructions. So, they plundered the styles - Classical, Gothic, Tudor, Deuxieme Empire and the rest - and blended it with the utilitarian forms that were necessary to meet the needs of the travelling public. For me the appeal of railway architecture lies in this wonderful mixture of style and utility.

Anyone who has alighted from a train at York station, and gazed up at William Peachey's curving train shed of 1871 cannot fail to be impressed by the size, style and brilliance of what was constructed. And if you've looked at the ironwork on London's Blackfriars Bridge, advertising the London, Chatham and Dover Railway, you're bound to acknowledge the way the engineers and architects built things to last. I still remember my first vist to London in the 1960s, walking out of King's Cross station, and turning round to see Lewis Cubitt's facade perfectly expressing the canopies behind. Despite it being made of stock brick in 1852, I thought then, and I still think now, that it looks very modern.

The stations in small towns have their charms too. Often companies used a similar style along particular lines. Invariably they built canopies, waiting rooms, and ticket offices, all constructed with care, and often looking as good now as the day they were finished. And this despite the neglect of recent years where private profit has replaced public service. The photograph above shows the covered steps leading down to the platforms at Poulton le Fylde station in Lancashire. The concrete steps, glazed brick wall, sturdy handrail and wooden superstructure with iron brackets, built by the London, Midland and Scottish Railway, are still giving excellent service to passengers today.

I took this shot for the architecture, the interesting framing it provides, and way the light was falling on the stairs, leading the eye to the figure who has almost reached the platform. I hadn't articulated it before I wrote this piece, but the filtered light and shade, and the strong and distinctive shapes found in stations, are what appeals to the photographer in me.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Windsor Castle - before the storm

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Five minutes after I took this photograph of Windsor Castle under a dark grey, threatening sky, I was inside a pub with my companions watching the rain and hail bouncing off the road outside. The day had started bright and warm, but, with not even a hint of a warning from the weather forecasters, a front swept across the south-east of England, depositing April snow on Kent and spoiling my day out in Windsor!

Being a person of republican tendencies I'd like to see a storm over Windsor as a metaphor for British sentiment regarding the royal family. Unfortunately it isn't. Whilst minor royals, and some of the immediate family routinely get bad press, the Queen sails on into her eightieth year, and the fifty third year of her reign, as unassailable as ever. It seems that longevity in royalty deepens public affection. Our two best loved and remembered queens are Elizabeth I and Victoria, both of whom had long reigns: Elizabeth II seems set to repeat their achievement.

I hadn't set out with the intention of photographing Windsor Castle from the start of the Long Walk. However, the light from that menacing sky deepened the colour saturation of the scene, and made the Castle look like a cardboard cutout. Now anyone of a republican persuasion is going to see the metaphor in that, and so I took the shot! The odd lighting, the symmetry of the building and foreground, and the two scarlet spots of the guardsmen's jackets make for an interesting image, even if, unfortunately, there is no deeper resonance to it!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Humpty Dumpty Rules!

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"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean, neither more nor less."
from Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

Have you noticed how many words have lost their meaning, or at least gained a new meaning that has nothing to do with what they originally meant? Take the word "next". Pretty straightforward you'd think. The commonest meaning is "immediately following, as in time, order or sequence." But no. To people working in television it means, "in 5 minutes time after this batch of adverts, and a trailer for a forthcoming programme, and an interminable animated station logo, and a further advert from the programme sponsor!" So, when the TV continuity person tells you that the programme you're waiting for is "coming up next", you know you've got time to relieve yourself, make a cup of coffee, and read "War and Peace", before you finally settle down for your evening's viewing!

Or what about the word "village". It clearly means "a rural settlement, between a hamlet and a town in size". So why, quite near where I live, is there a large new building - a health centre with doctors' surgeries, a pharmacist, dentists, etc. - describing itself in letters three feet tall as a "Health Village"? A single building as a village? Any self-respecting real village has a green, a church, a shop, quite a few houses and a village idiot. Mmmm, I wonder who thought up the name "Health Village?

And how about "boutique". For someone of my age it means a small clothes shop selling current fashions a la Mary Quant. The dictionary widens that definition to a small shop or business selling specialized products. That being the case, what on earth is a "boutique hotel"? When you book in are you offered a new outfit to complement the decor of your room? Do you have to shuffle past rails of clothes to get your place in the dining room? What goes on in such an establishment that differentiates it from a plain vanilla hotel? I can't imagine.

I only noticed this particular appellation, written in small print on the black fascia, after I'd taken my photograph of this hotel frontage. What had attracted my attention was the splendid green and cream Art Nouveau tilework panels set in a fairly traditional shop front, and I thought it worthy of a shot. Late C19/early C20 survivals of this sort are lost each year, so it's always wise to record such things. Careful observers will also note the photographer (with family in tow) reflected in the window!

Note
After I wrote this Bill Turner did some spadework for me and looked up the definition of a boutique hotel. Thanks Bill. As I suspected, it's semi-literate marketing-speak. The word "boutique" has been appropriated for no good reason other than someone's ignorance and laziness. Other words abound that could have been used. Humpty Dumpty Rules , OK!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Columns and shadows

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There can be few architectural motifs that have been as widely adopted, over such a period of time, as the classical orders of architecture. From the earliest sturdy Greek Doric of the seventh century BC, though the Ionic with its volutes and fluting, to the acanthus leaf capitals of the Corinthian, the columns, capitals and associated entablatures have been at the forefront of much Western architecture for the past two and a half thousand years.

Sometimes the two additional orders devised by Roman architects (the Composite ) and by C16 Italy (the Tuscan ), are used. During the Byzantine period debased versions with exaggerated entasis and fanciful capitals bearing only a passing resemblance to their progenitors continued the love affair wth the orders. And the inventive columns of Gothic architecture clearly owe much to the Ionic and Corinthian styles. However, since the rediscovery of classical learning in the Renaissance, right through to the early twentieth century, the Classical orders of architecture, in a pure or slightly modified form, have been widely used in architecture. And, even since the rise of Modernism, the orders, or knowing references and allusions to them, keep creeping into buildings.

Why is this? Partly it's to do with the authority of Greek and Roman architecture as seen by subsequent centuries, both as the fount of much that followed, and also as a symbol of power, supremacy and learning. But it's also to do with the defined and refined vocabulary of forms and proportions that produce satisfying architecture.

The photograph above shows the base of the giant Corinthian columns on the east side of St George's Hall, Liverpool. Designed by the twenty five year old Harvey Lonsdale Elmes around 1840, this structure is widely acknowledged as one of the finest Neo-Classical buildings in the world. My photograph tries to capture the way the fluting of each column and the moulding of the bases throw beautiful shadows, giving solidity and definition to the structure, just as was intended by the original Greek designers. The strong April sunshine is throwing more shadows across the portico, giving an interesting pattern, and adding to the effect of sublime and permanent order.

All architectural definitions are from "Wikipedia".

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

IMO UN wasted money

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I imagine the conversation went something like this.

Chairman: "The International Maritime Organisation, the IMO, is one of the smallest of the United Nations' organisations with only 300 staff. We need to raise our public presence, particularly here at our London headquarters. Our building is modern and by the Thames, but it doesn't really advertise us. Gentlemen, I'd like to hear your suggestions as to how we might raise our profile!"

Member 1: "Well chairman, I'd like to suggest that we have lots of ships in our downstairs windows. People like to look at ships, and we'd pick up the passing trade."

Chairman: "Whilst I agree that ships should feature prominently in our branding, I'm afraid the gentleman's suggestion could make us look like a toy shop. We might attract entirely the wrong sort, including children."

Member 2: "Well, how about having one big ship. I know someone with a few oil tankers going spare."

Chairman: "An excellent thought, but the size of your friend's ships might present a problem. Does he have anything smaller?"

Member 3: "How about the bow of a ship projecting through our entrance. Surely we know someone with a ship we can chop up and use."

Chairman: "We're getting somewhere now gentlemen. However, rather than use a real ship's bow, let us consider commissioning a sculptor to make an artistic representation - a universal symbol of maritime commerce, if you will. The combination of a ship and art will elevate our project and make a positive statement about our organisation."

Member 4: "An excellent suggestion chairman. To quote that venerable mariner, Captain Jean-Luc Picard, 'Make it so!'"

Dissenting voice from the back: "Bloody stupid idea. It'll make us look like we've been rear-ended by a drunken sailor!"

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

The Thames from Tower Bridge

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The evening that I took this photograph of the Thames from Tower Bridge I was thinking about the following day's visit to the Tate Gallery, or Tate Britain as it now styles itself. We were going to see an exhibition called "Gothic Nightmares", which featured the paintings of, amongst others, Henry Fuseli and William Blake. Now a little Fuseli isn't a bad thing (though a lot is), and Blake's original genius is always stimulating. However, it wasn't these artists that I was thinking about: it was Joseph Mallord William Turner.

Joseph (or J.M.W.) Turner (1775-1851) is widely regarded as the finest painter that England has produced. Principally, though not exclusively, a landscape artist working in the Romantic style, he is seen as someone who laid the foundations for Impressionism. However, that accolade detracts from his particular genius, which, in his most developed style, involved using oil paint in the manner of a water colourist - "painting with light". Works such as "Interior at Petworth", "Rain, Steam and Speed" or "Venice Quay" show scenes, as if glimpsed through half-closed eyes, with the forms indistinctly outlined through shimmering light. Tate Britain holds the largest collection of his paintings, including those that he bequeathed to the nation, and I made sure I saw some on my visit.

Turner painted a number of Thames scenes, though never this view, since Tower Bridge was built forty years after his death. But, as I stood looking at the sunset glow, the brightly-edged clouds, and the light reflected on the river, it was Turner's work that came to mind. I composed this shot so that the sun was behind a building and so not too overpowering. I also made sure that the silhouettes of the barges against the cold blue of the Thames gave some foreground interest and led the eye into the composition. The outlines of the City, that glorious sky, and thoughts of Turner did the rest.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

The striped man

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The other day, whilst walking along the South Bank in London, I came upon more "living statues" in one place than I've ever seen before. Amongst other represen-
tations there was a jolly pirate, a monochrome frontiersman, a golden Eastern mystic/warrior, what looked like a terracotta alchemist, and this striped man.

Being a living statue is an interesting occupation! It has its origins in the eighteenth century. Rich landowners would pay people to dress up as Pan, Cupid, or some other well-known figure, and they would have to strike poses at various places, particularly when the host was entertaining guests. Often they would be dressed and made-up to simulate stone or metal. Peter Greenaway's marvellous film, "The Draughtsman's Contract", illustrates this well. In the nineteenth century this art form could be seen at fairs and circuses.

Today living statues are a fairly common street entertainment, particularly found in city centres and tourist areas, alongside jugglers, fire-eaters, mime artists, and the like. The attraction for the spectator is in admiring the skill of the deception, and in looking for movement - with the best performers only the eyes move! Children love them, and enjoy the delicious fright they get when the statue finally comes to life! But what's the attraction for the performer? Fun and income? Probably. Earning money by doing literally nothing? Could be! I suppose it's a job to be done and enjoyed for a while, before moving on to something else, though I don't see much opportunity for career progression in this line of work! Hang on - earning money by doing literally nothing? They could become politicians!

I took a few shots of this particularly striking living statue. In this one I tried to emphasise the entertainment angle by positioning myself so that the background photographer was standing on the statue's hand. It nearly worked! However, the reason I chose the striped man over the other characters was for the odd effect of the black and white figure against the colour of the background. It makes an agreeably disconcerting image.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Broken rhythms

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The man-made world is full of repeated forms. Look around and you'll see them where you are now. Perhaps it's a set of bookshelves, a stack of plates, a radiator grille, or the Venetian blinds on your window. Look outside and repetition will be there too in fences, gable ends, railway tracks, and rows of windows and doors. The rhythms that these repeated forms create are often attractive. However, they are frequently more appealing when something interferes with that rhythm; so much so that this device has become a photographic convention. A favourite photograph of mine shows nothing but a receding row of columns in Athens, with my wife stood between two of them breaking the rhythm of the uprights.

And its not just man-made objects. A memorable photograph that I recall seeing shows Muslim men at prayer. All are kneeling and bent over, with the exception of a small boy who is sitting up and looking round. Another example of this format that sticks in my memory is of English Guardsmen in their red uniforms and bearskin hats, in rank upon rank at a ceremonial occasion in London. Their perfect rows are broken by one soldier who has fainted and is laid prone, ignored by all around him!

So, on my photographic outings, when I see examples of this effect, I am sure to point my camera at it. Here is just such an instance. These flats in Southwark, London, have a concave wall covered in shiny purple/blue tiles. The windows are in rows, and the balconies in diagonal groups. What made this shot for me was the orange towel hanging out to dry. Here it jumps out at the viewer because it breaks the rhythm of the architecture, and adds a powerful spot of complementary colour to the image. The photograph would be so much the poorer for its absence.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

What's in a name?

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The naming conventions of countries show interesting differences. In the United States small communities sometimes style themselves "City", and avenues and streets are often simply numbered . In France and Italy (and elsewhere) streets can be found that are named after significant dates. These conventions are rarely or never found in Britain, but we too have our peculiarities.

The commonest street names in Britain are High Street (i.e. the main street) and Church Street (for obvious reasons).Towns and villages have regional characteristics dating back to the language of the early settlers of the area. Roman-derived placenames often end in "cester" or "caster" after a Roman fort or castle. So, Lancaster is named after the Roman castle (or fort) next to the River Lune. The modified spelling is a result of corruption over the ages. Saxon settlements can be identified by a number of suffixes including "ton". The town of Skipton in North Yorkshire is literally "sheep town". Ninth century Scandinavian invaders brought their own language, and this was assimilated into the language. The word "kirk", meaning church, is commonly found in Scotland and Northern England. My birthplace, Kirkby Lonsdale, means "church by the valley of the River Lune". Individual areas of cities and towns often pick up their name from a pre-existing ancient name. For example the area known as Anchorsholme in Cleveleys, Lancashire, derives from a family name (nothing to do with a ship's anchor), and a low rise, in the centre of wet land i.e. an island or "holme".

In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries the massive growth of towns led to planners and developers naming groups of streets after, for example, poets (Chaucer Road), rivers (Severn Street), country houses (Blenheim Street), etc. The photograph above shows an example of insensitive English naming - it is Waterloo Station in London, the starting point in England for the Eurostar trains that travel through the Channel Tunnel to the Gare du Nord in Paris. I don't think it was triumphalism that caused this station to be chosen as the terminus. However, it was that sentiment that named it in the first place. It's probably as well that there are moves afoot to relocate Eurostar to St Pancras. Now there's another story!

This shot shows the part of a railway station that always interests me the most - the roof. But the horizontal bustle of the platform and the sweeping metalwork above combine, I think, to make a picture that neatly summarizes the attraction of stations - not matter what they are called!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Improving photographs

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Does the enthusiastic amateur photographer - the person who wants to do a bit more than take family and holiday snaps - read books these days? It's been pointed out on the photography forums that asking basic questions on the internet seems, for many, to have replaced reading the camera manual. But, in many of the shots I see posted on forums, there is a similar lack of understanding about the fundmaental elements that make a good photograph. A short article like this is not the place for a basic primer in photography, so I'll restrict myself to a few thoughts that have come to mind as I've looked at some people's work.

Less is more. Many shots include too much information, and therefore convey very little. Two pieces of advice that invariably improve a photograph are: get closer, and be selective. From what I see, the simplest thing that most people wanting to improve their photographs can do is halve the distance between the camera and the subject! The next is to forget trying to include all of a subject, be it a ship, a beach, the view from a high building, or whatever, and select a part of what you see. This part should be visually interesting and expressive of the whole.

Decide what your photograph is about. One of the commonest holiday snaps has a distant person against a scenic background.These record a person at a place, but rarely work as photographs. So, decide whether you are photographing a person or a place, and give emphasis to one or the other - don't try and make one photograph do two jobs because it usually ends up doing both badly.

The light is everything - use it. The standard advice used to be to take photographs with the sun behind you. Better advice is to have the light to the left or right of your subject to model it better by giving shadows. The other problem with light behind you is that it throws the photographer's shadow into the image in evening shots. So, today's post is one that emphasises that rules are made to be broken! This block of flats by the River Thames in London has my wife's, my son's and my own shadow at the bottom left, with the sun illuminating the scene like a floodlight. It isn't the greatest shot ever, but I think it works despite (and in the case of the shadows, because of) these faux pas.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

The shrimper

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Food fanatics will trawl resaurants, travel the earth, and spend whatever it takes to satisfy their epicurean tastes. But often such people, whilst being familiar with the produce of far-flung shores, know little of their local foods.

Anyone living in the vicinity of Morecambe Bay should have tried the small brown shrimps that can be found there. I remember, as a child, travelling from the Yorkshire Dales to Morecambe on steam trains pulled by "Black 5s", and buying portions of this delicacy from promenade vendors. They were delicious. What I didn't know at the time was how they were caught.

The original method, and the one still favoured by individuals who fancy a few shrimps, or who sell to friends and family, involves a "push-net" like the one shown in the photograph above. This is pushed through the shallows, scraping up the shrimps and sand. The sand washes through the holes of the net back into the sea, and the larger pieces - shrimps, crabs, pebbles, etc, are funnelled into a net container at the end. This is emptied and the catch sorted, with the additional use of a circular sieve, if necessary. As the catching of these shrimps became more commercially attractive larger versions of the push-net were fixed to carts with horses pulling them through the water. The catch was sent to various markets throughout England. Today, tractors with nets on swinging arms are used in the shallow waters of the Bay. This catch is often peeled at Flookburgh and then sent to a factory at Ulverston for processing. They are sold as Morecambe Bay Potted Shrimps. Look out for them!

I took this photograph of a shrimper at Fleetwood on the edge of the Bay. He was at work with a colleague, often up to their waists in the sea, methodically harvesting their catch. The bright yellow of the waterproof gives a modern visual "bite" to this shot of someone still plying an ancient craft.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Iconic buildings

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Many iconic buildings can represent their city without the name of the city needing to be mentioned. Here are ten buildings: try and match them to their cities - 1 Statue of Liberty, 2 Eiffel Tower, 3 Colosseum, 4 Parthenon, 5 Brandenburg Gate, 6 Prado, 7 Sagrada Familia, 8 White House, 9 Great Pyramid of Giza, 10 Dome of the Rock (answers below). Most of you will have got all or nearly every one of those correct. Had I shown photographs you would certainly have identified them. And it's photographs of famous buildings that concern me now.

These iconic buildings seem to be represented by the same group of photographs all the time, and as a consequence, when we see the buildings for ourselves, we are often taken aback by them. Sometimes they appear smaller, often more mundane, and frequently the context surprises us. Almost always we get actual views that don't correspond to our preconceptions - glimpses down streets, the back of the building, or the foot of it as it towers over us. This experience should help us to realise that famous buildings (like famous people) are often well-known through familiarity rather than because of any exceptional qualities that they might possess. It's true that some of the buildings listed above are great architecture, but some of them are not. The building in my photograph above is one of the latter.

Tower Bridge is a large, bascule bridge, designed by Horace Jones and opened in 1894. One suspects that if its towers weren't so large and ornately Gothicised then it would not have iconic status. As a piece of architecture it's nothing special: as a London landmark it achieves world-wide recognition. Most photographs have the bridge filling the frame in a diagonal view from the north or south bank of the Thames, either in sunlight or floodlit at night. I've taken such shots myself. However, when I saw Tower Bridge from this point on the south bank I knew I had to capture it with my camera. The shot shows the bridge, not as an icon, but as a functional crossing of a bustling river. The busy foreground of barges, and the buildings of the City make the building less dominant, not as eye-catching: in fact, less iconic!

Quiz answers: 1 New York, 2 Paris, 3 Rome, 4 Athens, 5 Berlin, 6 Madrid, 7 Barcelona, 8 Washington, 9 Cairo, 10 Jerusalem.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

The appeal of plastic

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Will mankind come to regret the twentieth century's fascination with plastic? It's a wonderful material that can be formed into virtually any shape, made any colour, and given any texture, and as a consequence is formed into things as disparate as ships, cameras and substitute body parts! But, problems with toxicity, recycling and litter, not to mention oil depletion, suggest that alternatives may have to be sought in the not too distant future.

Plastic materials that can be made into any shape are the manufacturer's dream material, and many substances have been pressed (literally and figuratively) into use in the search for an all-purpose compound. Clay was perhaps the first widely used such material that could be moulded into many shapes. But, whilst fine for bowls, jugs, pantiles, pipes, etc, its brittle qualities restricted its use elsewhere.

The Victorians thought at one point that they had discovered the ultimate mouldable material in gutta percha. This variant of natural latex became known to western science in 1842 and was soon in use insulating under-sea cables. Its properties were quickly exploited in other industries, and the Gutta-Percha Company, in 1847, began making furniture with the material. Moulded chairs, often quite ornate, revivalist in style, and emulating wood, were exhibited at the Great Exhibition in 1851. However, though the material continued in use - in golf balls for example - it never became as widespread as enthusiasts hoped. In the twentieth century Bakelite, the invention of Dr Leo Baekeland, was the all-conquering mouldable material for many years. It was probably the first plastic made from synthetic polymers, and its heat-resistant and non-conductive properties led to its use, from the 1920s onwards, in insulators, radios, telephone casings and other manufactured items. It continues to be used in aerospace components, electronics and elsewhere, but has been largely superseded by polypropylene and other contemporary plastics.

The stack of blue chairs in the photograph illustrate a modern use of plastics - cheap, industrially-produced seating. The curved, moulded shape of the backs is easy to achieve with this material, and here it was the repeated lines of those backs that drew me into the photograph. This asymmetrical section in vibrant blue seemed to me to make a good composition.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen