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Like the grainy cragginess.
Strongly reminiscent of the atmosphere engendered by some early mountain photography with its lack of sky detail, except no human figure or dwelling is included to give the scale or to prove that anyone apart from the photographer was there. Ortho film, then.
Or perhaps I'm thinking of something more Gothic? The mind plays tricks sometimes, just as it does in the mountain mist.
Excellent.
Regards
Bill
Or perhaps I'm thinking of something more Gothic? The mind plays tricks sometimes, just as it does in the mountain mist.
Excellent.
Regards
Bill
Quote:Strongly reminiscent of the atmosphere engendered by some early mountain photography
...exactly what I was aiming for with the processing, Bill
Quote:...no human figure or dwelling is included to give the scale or to prove that anyone apart from the photographer was there.
...unusually, I had the mountain to myself that morning. Pure Heaven.
Quote: Ortho film, then.
...would you believe Fuji Velvia 50?
It's of a certain period. Early photographers were very much a part of the tradition of the Romantic fascination with/terror of wilderness. I'm trying to remember the lines in Wordsworth's Prelude where he as a child 'borrows' a boat and the mountain suddenly looks up terrifyingly above him.
Will hunt it out...
Fabulous, by the way.
Moira
Will hunt it out...
Fabulous, by the way.
Moira
..........A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace; lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark,
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.
Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book I, lines 358-400
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace; lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark,
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.
Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book I, lines 358-400
I think Pam Ayres has written a similar poem to the one Moira has mentioned. Inspired by this piece I would like to share a poem that means a lot to me,
" Billy likes cucumbers,
Susan's fond of cheese,
Derek enjoys apple tart,
Whilst Helen eats her peas."
That aside a comment on your shot!! Beautifully cold, threatening and sinister. I like!!
Linda
" Billy likes cucumbers,
Susan's fond of cheese,
Derek enjoys apple tart,
Whilst Helen eats her peas."
That aside a comment on your shot!! Beautifully cold, threatening and sinister. I like!!
Linda
Thanks for that, Moira... it's so many years since I read that, I scarcely remember it.
Massive cultural changes throughout the 1800's, because of technological advances...the Railway enabling people to go out into the great Unknown of the countryside for their leisure, which hadn't really happened before. And gradually the wilderness became a less terrifying place.
Massive cultural changes throughout the 1800's, because of technological advances...the Railway enabling people to go out into the great Unknown of the countryside for their leisure, which hadn't really happened before. And gradually the wilderness became a less terrifying place.
Linda. Aah, yes, the great Pam Ayres. A poet for whom the phrase "mostly just witless drivel" could have been specifically coined.
Gritty moody image Alan, like it.
Cliff
Cliff
Staring into the abyss, we knew the beast was down there but how to get to it.
Our big breakfast depended on getting to the café at the bottom.
Dougie
Our big breakfast depended on getting to the café at the bottom.
Dougie
Quote:Staring into the abyss, we knew the beast was down there but how to get to it.
Our big breakfast depended on getting to the café at the bottom.
Dougie
