|
Here once more the transient poetry of nature is most eloquently caught, and
I am emboldened to suggest that no brush, wielded by whatever genius, could
fashion the rushing water about the rocks with so fine a hand as my humble
lens. Though recent rains had swollen the course of the Fogbourne to a
considerable degree, this day began clear and fine; but in the time it took
to set up my apparatus, the clouds (visible to the left) had altered the
light considerably. Passing as they did quite slowly across the sun (being
early spring, this was not sufficiently low as to be concealed by the
foliage upon the left bank) they imparted a most attractive possibility,
that reminded me of none other than the painter Herr Friedrich and his
stormy effects...
|
|
The bridge is called Saddle Bridge, and is the southern 'gate' into our
Village; in rendering a picturesque quality to the subject, its severe state
of disrepair serves an ideal purpose, that is naturally lost on those having
to clatter across in the dustier world of affairs: indeed, that absent
parapet-stone, like a gap in a set of teeth, was reputedly dislodged by
nothing heavier than a rook alighting upon it! - causing a coachman a deal
of trouble with his reins. The bare poplars upon the right-hand bank assert
perspective, and impart a certain grandiosity to the scene, in which the
figure of the human might symbolise the fleetingness of our existence...
|
|
|
Reflections in slow-moving (or still) water, have preoccupied a majority of
photographers for quite natural reasons: the beauty of the conception
requires merely a stand of trees upon a bank, and favourable light, to
succeed - but, it should be cautioned, the result may be as a thousand
others...
|
The enthusiastic photographer must always be on the watch for Nature's tiny
miracles: those effects which urban dwellers lack, and in their smoky
habitat grow dulled from, so that the soul remains unmoved by simple
glories. Herein is the principal task, then, of the new art of the lens: for
what other purpose must we serve but the bettering of humankind, in the
bringing to its attention that miraculous system that has its being all
about us but that we too easily take for granted: for Time hurries us on,
and our needs make us blind... My own soul is moved, not by the ornate
sculpture of a great house, or the sighing willows of a great garden - but
by the winter branch, the puddled track, a white surf of Shepherd's Purse
in a meadow, the silvery plumes of Traveller's Joy upon a hedgerow, the
frayed hem of a cotter's shawl. And here, dear viewer, note what riches are
to be found if only the eye would seek them out!...
|
Here is a simple cottage roof - or rather, a detail from that structure - to
illuminate and (if I may be so bold) impart instruction of a spiritual
nature. The original is to be discovered down a muddy track known as Surley
Row, at the northern extreme of the village, and presents, to the
uninitiated observer, a most dilapidated and unattractive prospect. But it
is in these areas that the photographic artist wanders with most reward:
nothing more profoundly salubrious than an old stone wall, nothing richer
than a bedraggled plum-tree, nothing more enticing than a raven's discarded
feather, or a dust-filled barn spread with ancient sacks, or a pond wherein
the weeds lie dank and idly swaying! For upon these surfaces lies a
cornucopia of satisfying differences, that the lens, with its unavailing
sincerity, and its unjudging eye, captures upon the plate with a fidelity
of draughtsmanship the great Leonardo might have envied...
|
|
Until the impossible is gained - and the myriad colours of the universe are
arrestable likewise on our silvered plates - we must be content with the
play of light and shade, the infinitesimal tremble of texture and tone in
a moment's grace, the unencumbered beauty of Nature's pen that brings
through our lens, as a richly-laden camel through the eye of the needle, her
unsurpassable artistry. So this straddling copse, called Bayleaze Wood, of
a spring evening, with the breath of night on the air, and the sweet breath
of day folding itself onto the forest floor, becomes the entranced glimpse
of a better world, where mystery is gilded, and a thousand paths open up
where only a screen stood before.
Adam Thorpe
|
|
The enthusiastic photographer must always be on the watch for Nature's tiny
miracles: those effects which urban dwellers lack, and in their smoky
habitat grow dulled from, so that the soul remains unmoved by simple
glories. Herein is the principal task, then, of the new art of the lens: for
what other purpose must we serve but the bettering of humankind, in the
bringing to its attention that miraculous system that has its being all
about us but that we too easily take for granted: for Time hurries us on,
and our needs make us blind... My own soul is moved, not by the ornate
sculpture of a great house, or the sighing willows of a great garden - but
by the winter branch, the puddled track, a white surf of Shepherd's Purse
in a meadow, the silvery plumes of Traveller's Joy upon a hedgerow, the
frayed hem of a cotter's shawl. And here, dear viewer, note what riches are
to be found if only the eye would seek them out!...
