Photography/Images

What Are Criminals ‘Supposed’ to Look Like?

28 May 2019

From Crime Reads:

When we got home, our house wasn’t as we left it. We stood for a moment, not yet understanding why all our belongings were on the floor, how each drawer had been pulled out, tipped empty. There was a space where my laptop should have been and there were loose wires hanging from the television unit. Our fridge door had been left open, the fuse had burnt out, our food was turning bad. We were in the middle of an oppressive heatwave.

Such hot weather that, in an attempt to air out our suffocating, tiny house, I’d left a small window open downstairs. Stupid, I know now.

‘Oh my god…’ I said, to my boyfriend, as we took it all in. ‘We’ve been burgled.’

‘Yes,’ he said, flatly. ‘Yes we have. Now, don’t panic, don’t touch anything.’

‘We’ve been burgled!’ I wailed, as I panicked, touching everything.

People say the worst thing about a break in is the intrusion, the idea a stranger has been in your house. Yes, I realised, this is true. I felt mildly disgusted as I looked at my underwear strewn across the bedroom. I pictured a man, pale and rail thin, with a harsh face and mean eyes. I saw him stalking through our house, sweating from the midday heat. At that time it felt so personal, so hurtful. I hated him. I pictured him as vividly as I could so I could hate him properly.

Obviously, I would be able to tell just from looking at him that he was a bad person. Isn’t that how it works? They are different to us. Bond villains have scars, cult leaders have swastikas carved into their foreheads, mass-shooters have that crazed look in their eyes. We find safety in these differences between us and them. When these conventions are broken, when the blandly good looking guy next door turns out to have a human head in a freezer, it shocks us. Shouldn’t we have known?

. . . .

My second book One More Lie follows two adults who are living under new identities, after serving their sentences for a crime they committed as children. In the book the female character, Charlotte, captures the imagination of the public more than her accomplice Sean. Sean is dismissed as “exactly the type” who would do such a thing, an angry child with little adult supervision whose story was inevitable. Charlotte, however, is endlessly fascinating to people, especially the press, as she doesn’t look the type. In fact, she looks almost angelic. Big eyes, beautiful. So sweet. People ask, was she led astray, or is there a cunning psychopath behind that smile?

Sometimes, not looking like a criminal can work in a suspect’s favor. Look at the recent success of Jeremy Ray Meeks, whose mugshot went viral after his arrest for…well, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Jeremy is no longer a criminal, he is a supermodel, he dates a billionaire’s daughter. And a quick Google of “hot mugshot guy/girl” shows our fascination with this contradiction.

. . . .

Sometimes, being good looking works against the suspect. Amanda Knox was given an inordinate amount of media attention following the murder of her flat mate Meredith Kercher. In the UK she was nicknamed “Foxy Knoxy,” she was also called, “Angel Face,” and her behavior was monitored obsessively. Was she appropriately sad enough about what had happened? Did she conform to the role of secondary victim, or was she a villain? Either way, Amanda Knox fascinated us and it wasn’t to her advantage. Had she been less attractive, might she have escaped our scrutiny entirely?

. . . .

There were no repercussions for those who expressed an attraction to the idea of Knox as a hot murderer, to the fantasy of a sexy dangerous female. Casey Anthony was similarly objectified during the course of her trial. Both women are now released, they are not guilty, and we have moved on.

Or have we? The Netflix series The Ted Bundy Tapes reignited everyone’s interest for a semi-hot serial killer. A trailer was released for the Ted Bundy movie Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil, and Vile (will I ever be able to recall the title of this movie off the top of my head?) starring Zac Efron as the man himself. And people were…offended? Yes, very offended, because Ted Bundy shouldn’t be sexualized. Those women who said he was hot should be ashamed of themselves. We shouldn’t portray Bundy as good looking and charming and we certainly shouldn’t fancy him, or even a representation of him.

Link to the rest at Crime Reads

Some time ago, PG went on an unusual binge of examining mug shots of criminals from the Southern California gangster era and other locations at the same time, probably in conjunction with him posting a series of Raymond Chandler quotes.

During this frolic, he decided he might possibly suspect some of being criminals based on their appearance, but wouldn’t have identified others.

John Dillinger

 

Still Working on the Office

13 May 2019

PG is still working on his office cleanup. In the process, he is taking steps to streamline moving papers to their proper files or other fixed collection points and it is taking longer than he expected (Mrs. PG is not surprised).

Over the weekend, PG took a photo of a lovely flower growing on a huge plant which Mrs. PG has named Caesar. Caesar resides in Casa PG and dominates whatever room he occupies.

PG used a macro lens to get close to Caesar’s flower and liked the look of the photo after a few tweaks.

.

 

British Country Estates

2 April 2019

Yesterday, PG posted an item about Bess of Hardwick and included a photo of Hardwick Hall.

Mike commented to recommend Chatsworth in Derbyshire.

By Kev747 – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8448535

One of PG’s favorites is Longleat in Somerset. The house is difficult to see from the photo below, but the view is called Heaven’s Gate on a hill overlooking Longleat.  Longleat House itself is by the river on the right side of the photo.

By Paula Kingswood, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=13008870

Here’s a closer look at Longleat House.

By Mike Searle, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=13517053

And one more.

By Saffron Blaze – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25295097

Feel free to use the comments to suggest other nominations for the loveliest country house in Britain.

Rose Noir

18 February 2019

PG took part of the afternoon off and did some photography.

Fortunately, he remembered Valentine’s Day and made arrangements for Mrs. PG to receive some roses.

The roses were a subject for PG’s photography and post-processing activities.

He’s inserted two of his photos below. The first one received some minor tweaks and the second one is called Rose Noir.

For some reason known only to WordPress, embedding the photos in TPV played havoc with their colors. Click on each one to (hopefully) see the photos as PG intended them to look. The second photo is called Rose Noir.


.

Sfumato

29 January 2019
Comments Off on Sfumato

PG discovered a lovely word this morning.

Sfumato is derived from the Italian word, “sfumato” meaning shaded or toned down.

According to Wikipedia, sfumato is a painting technique for softening the transition between colours, mimicking an area beyond what the human eye is focusing on, or the out-of-focus plane.  Wikipedia points to the painting of Mona Lisa as an example, particularly around the eyes.

Here’s a bit more explanation.

.

The Flickr Blog has just released its Top 25 Photos on Flickr in 2018 From Around The World that includes several photos that feature sfumato techniques.

Snowy Day

1 January 2019

.

 

Autumn

28 October 2018

PG went out looking for some autumn colors a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t find them in the usual places, but did find this spring that is the beginning of a small creek.

Click on the photo for a larger version.


.
UPDATE – Sharp-eyed visitor Donna discovered a ghost in this photo. See the discussion in the comments.

Here’s an enlargement of a portion of the original image that shows the ghost.
.

Escape to the country: Melissa Harrison on leaving London behind for ‘Deep England’

27 August 2018

From The Guardian:

It is high summer, and the barley is being harvested. Instead of breezes and birdsong the fields are loud with the rumble of machinery, clouds of dust marking the place where distant combines clank and toil. For months I’ve watched the barley’s awns form, watched the beards tip over as the rippling acres turned from green to richest gold. Because of the long drought, though, this year’s yield has been low – something I wouldn’t have realised until recently. While the barley fields looked beautiful, the ears were far too small.

Nine months ago I was a nature writer and novelist who lived in south London; now home is a Suffolk village with nightingales in springtime, stoats, corn poppies, hares and water voles. Being able to walk out of my front door on to farmland and connect to the cycle of the agricultural year feels right at a bone-deep level; the longing for a more rural life that I’ve carried around for so long has eased.

Yet that longing was one of the things that’s always driven my writing. My first novel, Clay, was about the nature I discovered in the heart of the city; my second, At Hawthorn Time, was (among other things) an exploration of what it might be like to leave. “Will you still want to write about wildlife now it’s everywhere around you?” a friend asked me recently; “Or will you just start taking it all for granted?” It could happen, but as I’ve found out more and more about my village and the living things I share it with, my feelings for it have deepened, and the possibility of not wanting to capture it in words seems increasingly remote.

. . . .

As a child Dartmoor was my first love, and later Cumbria: upland landscapes built from granite and peat and heather, criss-crossed by drystone walls. Suffolk’s flat, wide, fertile acres could hardly be more different, but in 2016 I visited the county several times and found that it somehow crept into my soul. Farming with its often generations-deep connection to place has featured in all my books, probably because growing up rootless in suburbia I lacked that sense of connection. Having already written about pigs and dairy, I wanted to explore arable farming, and flat, fertile East Anglia is our cereal heartland. It’s also somewhere where, in the years between the wars, horsepower gave way to mechanisation just as the last vestiges of rural folklore were being swept away by science.

Link to the rest at The Guardian

PG found a few lovely photos taken in Suffolk (not by himself, alas).

And Suffolk hosts the Suffolk Mystery Authors Festival. PD James and Daniel Defoe lived in Suffolk. Ruth Rendell lived in Suffolk and was created Baroness Rendell of Babergh (of Aldeburgh in the County of Suffolk) in 1977. Thomas Grey, who composed “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” in 1750, died at his home in Blundeston in 1809.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
         The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
         And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
.
Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,
         And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
         And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
         The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
         Molest her ancient solitary reign.
.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
         Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
         The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
         The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
         No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
         Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
         Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
         Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
         How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
         Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
         The short and simple annals of the poor.
.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
         And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
         The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
         If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
         The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
.
Can storied urn or animated bust
         Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
         Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
.
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
         Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
         Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.
.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
         Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
         And froze the genial current of the soul.
.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
         The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,
         And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
         The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
         Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.
.
Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,
         The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
         And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes,
.
Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone
         Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
         And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
.
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
         To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
         With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.
.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
         Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
         They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
.
Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect,
         Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
         Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
.
Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,
         The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
         That teach the rustic moralist to die.
.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
         This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
         Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?
.
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
         Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
         Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
.
For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead
         Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
         Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
.
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
         “Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
         To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
.
“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
         That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
         And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
.
“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
         Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
         Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.
.
“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
         Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
         Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
.
“The next with dirges due in sad array
         Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
         Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”
.
THE EPITAPH
.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
       A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. 
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth, 
       And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. 
.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
       Heav’n did a recompense as largely send: 
He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear, 
       He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend. 
.
No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
       Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose) 
       The bosom of his Father and his God. 

 

Next Page »