I like to take liberties with definitions sometimes. Hence my monochromatics on occasion tint just a little towards the polychromatic (but I won’t tell if you don’t). Anyway, enough of the excuses and let’s dive in—
AND if a picture is worth a thousand words, now you’ve had ya picture here’s yer words: in Queens Park there’s a wee ‘family group’ bit of statuary. It was donated complete with plaque in a public-spirited mood by some Life Insurance company or other; it grows moss, seats birds, collects leafage and gets shot by every passing tourist. By me too, and I live here—no accounting for taste …
I’d like to brag that I set the camera up properly: calculated windage and barometric corrections, gravitational spoilage and the deflections essential for the rotation of the Earth, and shutter-speeds allowing for the fall in the pregnant yak as currency versus gold and all the other bumpf that fills photography magazines … but no. I just took the blasted snap and black-and-whited it on my computer. Beat it into submission I did (the above is just the sorry remnant—make of it what you will). (EDITOR’S NOTE: best seen in total darkness.)
is a variant on the same theme: I breathed on the lens (and got the shot while it was still shaking its head and trying to see)—
—I think it’s legal as a monochrome (if not, it should be close enough).
NOW, LET ME EXPLAIN
what I call “Argy’s luck”.
Did you ever see the cartoon strip called ‘The Born Loser‘? Amusing fiction to some but biographical to me, especially in the netherworld of photograph taking. I kid you not: I could go into a glass case inside a man-sized sealed snow globe wherein there stands a solitary daffodil … set up my tripod with the world’s fasted ever state-of-the-art camera (shutterspeed and ISO working together at the limits) — and still at the moment of truth just as I press the shutter-release thing a howling gale will blast out of the icy depths of nowhere and my daffodil would dance too fast for the eye to see or the camera to freeze.
Happens every time.
But today a variation on the idea (the God of Small Torments must be feeling creative) … let me explain: hoofing past the Basilica of St Mary in Invercargill whilst looking for targets of opportunity I happened across a puddle.
Puddles are good, puddles are fun, everyone should have a puddle … and I saw an opportunity. There in my lovely new puddle was a perfect static image of the Basilisk of St M—a reflection to dream of and die for. A Lotto-win moment, in fact.
SO I HAULED OUT
the ol’ Olympus, heaved it to my eye and in one fluid well practised motion composed the all-singing all-dancing prize snap … aim … tweak … twist big funny knob until the legend ‘Grainy B & W Film’ appears, and wait for the moment—
“You may fire when ready, Gridley.”
Click … what?
Who said splop?
Plonk. Splop. And squelch too.
Yep … you guessed it. Wind ripples on the pristine surface of my unfaithful puddle, and the ultimate insult (to a reflected image that the Taj Mahal could only ever dream of): rain.
HERE BE YER SNAP—
for what it’s now worth.
An unholy combination of wasn’t-there-a-moment-ago breezes and descending dampness (in lump form) turned THE very epitome of my dine-out-forever shot into a conventional snap.
Argy’s luck: and now you know why I can never be a true atheist—
—there are Gods, and they hate me. (And worse, the rotten buggers think only in black-and-white.)
HERE, HAVE A BONUS
—and yes, it is legal for the Challenge.