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




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.”
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. 


The Black Arts — Magic and Chemistry — of Early Photography

25 August 2018

From The National Review:

[The new show at The Yale Center for British Art] Salt and Silver: Early Photography, 1840–1860, takes some of the best holdings of a private London collection so exquisite and so focused that it can generate, with the BAC’s scholars, the definitive take on the technique that drove photography’s young years.

. . . .

Salt and Silver: Early Photography, 1840–1860, takes some of the best holdings of a private London collection so exquisite and so focused that it can generate, with the BAC’s scholars, the definitive take on the technique that drove photography’s young years.

. . . .

The salted-paper process, using compounds of salt and silver, was invented by the British scientist and scholar William Fox Talbot (1800–1877) in 1839. On one level, the show is about science and invention, but labels are kind to those who never belonged to a high-school camera club. Bathing a piece of paper in a salt solution, then a silver solution, and then exposing it to light created a negative of the image on which the lens focused. Another round of simple processing on a separate sheet produced a positive image. A daguerreotype, a process also pioneered in the late 1830s, was more complicated, took longer, made outdoor shooting more difficult, and created a glassy, toneless, deeply, almost unnaturally, focused, pickled image.

. . . .

(click for larger image)


Nelson’s Column Under Construction, Trafalgar Square, April 1844 William Henry Fox Talbot salted paper print from paper negative


. . . .


Newhaven Fishermen (Alexander Rutherford, William Ramsay & John Liston), ca. 1845
David Octavius Hill and Robert Adamson
salted paper print from paper negative

. . . .

There’s plenty of color in these photographs, too. The early artists were competing with drawings and engravings, usually monochromatic, as the good catalogue tells us, but the photographs still stunned early audiences with their subtle tones of rose or sepia or lavender.

. . . .

Roger Fenton’s gorgeous portrait of Captain Lord Balgonie from 1855 has an entrancing aubergine color derived from gold-toning, a substitution of silver chloride with gold chloride during the finishing process. This deepens the density and intensity of shadows, which create a mood of extremes as his white face grows whiter, the darkness under his eyes more pronounced. Balgonie fought in the Crimean War and suffered from shell shock, the 19th century’s term for post-traumatic-stress disorder. He looks exhausted, has seen too much, and now seems to see strange things in the distance. It’s psychological portraiture at its best.

. . . .

Where are the Americans? Using Talbot’s technology required a costly license, a disincentive for early American photographers. Gradually, by the 1850s, newer technologies displaced salt-and-silver prints. Collodion glass-plate negatives produced sharper, more detailed images. The goals of American photographic surveys of the West, for instance, didn’t depict the colored atmosphere or mist so effectively evoked by the tonalists. Mathew Brady and other war photographers looked less for the mysterious, the equivocal, and the speculative and more for plain, matter-of-fact, in-your-face truth.

Link to the rest at The National Review

Early Morning Venice

2 August 2018

PG was in a Venetian mood this morning.

The following is a photo PG took a few years ago while he was on an early-morning walk in Venice. As those who have visited this marvelous city know, walking along the canals is a great pleasure and one canal connects with another like the major city thoroughfares they are.

Another way of exploring Venice is to follow a sidewalk away from the canal. There may be something akin to a square western-style block somewhere in Venice, but PG has not discovered it.

Once you get away from the larger canals, the sidewalks become narrower and narrower, winding in between old buildings like an afterthought. On this particular morning, PG followed a very narrow sidewalk (turn sideways if you meet someone in order to squeeze past) which ended in a small courtyard pictured below. PG was standing at one corner of the courtyard with his camera pointed at the opposite corner. You’ll see a small portion of a wall on the right side of the photo.

No one seemed to be up and about. You’ll notice some closed shutters on the house at the left. PG suspects the laundry might have been hung out on the previous night. With water everywhere, it would take a bit of time for clothes to dry.

You can click on the photo to see a larger version if you like.

Old Photos

31 July 2018

PG located a couple of old (out of copyright) photos of soldiers and did some post-processing of them to enhance their emotional impact (at least for him).



7 July 2018

I just rediscovered a photo I took a few years ago in Huntington Beach, California.


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