Skip to main content

Limits

This is a shot of a royal albatross, taken on the same day as the other albatross pics I've posted this week. It's not a very good photograph. Let me tell you whats wrong with it. Its not sharp, particularly around the all important eye area. Dynamic range is limited, so it looks flat and dull and the white patch on the bird's shoulder is overblown and has lost all detail. The corner to corner composition is sort of Ok but the body, and therefore the centre of attention, is smack in the middle of the frame giving a stolidity and a  stillness to the shot which isn't the best presentation of what was there. 

With regard to photographic equipment, the lens is far more important than the camera it is attached to, and my gear that day consisted of an extremely capable camera body, a Nikon D300, and a comparatively inexpensive Nikkor 18-200mm zoom. This particular lens is designed as a jack of all trades lens for enthusiastic amateurs who are probably going to be snapping away at their relatives and friends or at various bits of attractive scenery, and probably on nice sunny days. It's reasonably sharp and it makes a pretty decent job of  most photographic tasks most of the time. The other two albatross shots are technically OK because they are well within the lens's capabilities, but standing on a moving boat, trying to shoot a fast moving subject which was a considerable distance away, the lens's limits were pretty obvious. I didn't even try to take pictures of most of the flying birds, and I probably shouldn't have tried with this one.

Photography is about what you see. But actually, the kind of gear you have will determine what you see and how you deal with what you see. For instance, taking pictures of flowers, I usually use a 105mm macro lens, which gives great results but it means that I tend to look at details rather than at overall patterns. I do have a lens which is good for birds, but as it is a great big heavy, cumbersome thing whose physical handling requires a bit of thought and adaptation, when using it I tend to look for subjects which I know will fit within its limitations. 


The gear you have determines what you see and how you respond to it. It's true even when I leave the camera behind. My head is crammed full of all sorts of lenses- physical, social, cultural, political, spiritual, psychological - only some of which I am aware of, and each is dictating the pictures I'm framing and the actions I 'm taking. That's a good shot, I say to myself. But it's only when I sit in stillness and examine it for a bit that I realise that no, actually, it's not.


Photo: Nikon D300 Nikkor 18-200, 1/400 f10, iso200.


Comments

Jerry said…
"That's a good shot, I say to myself. But it's only when I sit in stillness and examine it for a bit that I realise that no, actually, it's not." "That's a great idea, I'll to that" I often say to myself. But when I sit in stillness and examine it for a bit, I realize that "No, actually, it's not." Was at a frustrating meeting last evening. Let it be assumed that I was on board for more than one thing. Now I've begun to sit in stillness and examine what I let people assume. And I'm realizing that no, that was not a good idea, and I need to tell those same people I've changed my mind and I won't support that agenda. See where a picture of an albatross and your words lead? Thank you.

Popular posts from this blog

Camino, by David Whyte

This poem captures it perfectly Camino. The way forward, the way between things, the way already walked before you, the path disappearing and re-appearing even as the ground gave way beneath you, the grief apparent only in the moment of forgetting, then the river, the mountain, the lifting song of the Sky Lark inviting you over the rain filled pass when your legs had given up, and after, it would be dusk and the half-lit villages in evening light; other people's homes glimpsed through lighted windows and inside, other people's lives; your own home you had left crowding your memory as you looked to see a child playing or a mother moving from one side of a room to another, your eyes wet with the keen cold wind of Navarre. But your loss brought you here to walk under one name and one name only, and to find the guise under which all loss can live; remember you were given that name every day along the way, remember you were greeted as such, and you neede

Kindle

 Living as I do in a place where most books have to come a long way in an aeroplane, reading is an expensive addiction, and of course there is always the problem of shelf space. I have about 50 metres of shelving in my new study, but it is already full and there is not a lot of wall space left; and although it is great insulation, what is eventually going to happen to all that paper? I doubt my kids will want to fill their homes with old theological works, so most of my library is eventually going to end up as egg cartons. Ebooks are one solution to book cost and storage issues so I have been  using them for a while now, but their big problem has been finding suitable hardware to read them on.  I first read them on the tiny screens of Ipaqs and they were quite satisfactory but the wretchedness of Microsoft Reader and its somewhat arbitrary copyright protection system killed the experience entirely. On Palm devices they were OK except the plethora of competing and incompatible formats

Ko Tangata Tiriti Ahau

    The Christmas before last our kids gave us Ancestry.com kits. You know the deal: you spit into a test tube, send it over to Ireland, and in a month or so you get a wadge of paper in the mail telling you who you are. I've never, previously, been interested in all that stuff. I knew my forbears came to Aotearoa in the 1850's from Britain but I didn't know from where, exactly. Clemency's results, as it turns out, were pretty interesting. She was born in England, but has ancestors from various European places, and some who are Ngāti Raukawa, so she can whakapapa back to a little marae called Kikopiri, near Ōtaki. And me? It turns out I'm more British than most British people. Apart from a smattering of Norse  - probably the result of some Viking raid in the dim distant past - all my tūpuna seem to have come from a little group of villages in Nottinghamshire.  Now I've been to the UK a few times, and I quite like it, but it's not home: my heart and soul belon

En Hakkore

In the hills up behind Ranfurly there used to be a town, Hamilton, which at one stage was home to 5,000 people. All that remains of it now is a graveyard, fenced off and baking in the lonely brown hills. Near it, in the 1930s a large Sanitorium was built for the treatment of tuberculosis and other respiratory ailments. It was a substantial complex of buildings with wards, a nurses hostel, impressive houses for the manager and superintendent and all the utility buildings needed for such a large operation. The treatment offered consisted of isolation, views and weather. Patients were exposed to the air, the tons of it which whistled past, often at great speed, the warmth of the sun and the cold. They were housed in small cubicles opening onto huge glassed verandas where they cooked in the summer and froze in the winter and often, what with the wholesome food and the exercise, got better. When advances in antibiotics rendered the Sanitorium obsolete it was turned into a Borstal and the

Return to Middle Earth

 We had a flood, a couple of weeks back, and had to move all the stuff out of the spare bedroom, including  the contents of two floor to ceiling book cases. Shoving the long unopened copies of Sartor Resartus and An Introduction to Byron into cartons, I came upon my  copy of The Lord of the Rings . Written in the flyleaf are the dates of its many readings, the last one being when I read it aloud to Catherine, when she was about 10 or 11, well over 20 years ago. The journey across Middle Earth took Catherine and me the best part of a year, except for the evening when we followed Frodo and Sam across the last stretches of Mordor and up Mount Doom, when we simply couldn't stop, and sat up reading until 11.00 pm, on a school night.  My old copy is a paperback, the same edition that every card carrying baby boomer has somewhere on their shelves. The glue has dried and hardened. The cover and many of the pages have come loose. I was overcome with the urge to read it again, but this old