We did not finish the day’s work in the last letter. Indeed, we have only taken one picture and parts of another. But if that one picture is right, we have done a good day’s work. For I do not count the value of the day’s work by the quantity of pictures secured; yet I, as do all other enthusiastic photographers, like to get all I can out of one of the few days in the year that are perfect for the practice of our art.
On our way up the mountain we passed a small lake—Llyn Gweryd—a wild tarn amongst the hills, on which we have often enjoyed pleasant sails and rows in the summer days, and fishing with the long line from the punt in the evening twilight of, the days in the photographic time of year. Let us see what kind of picture we can make of the boat-house, which is a picturesque, weather-worn wooden building, covered with decayed and moss-grown thatch. We get out the old punt, in which there is room for ten or a dozen people. This we draw to the bank to the right of our picture, and it makes a grand object for our foreground. It should keep clear of the boat-house, which is to the left, and allow the boat and any figures we may have to appear dark against the shining waters of the lake beyond. In the middle distance is a tiny island with a tree or two on it, and beyond a beautiful curve of the banks of the lake, fringed with low trees and undergrowth, and backed with hills which are far enough off to look pale and atmospheric. This is not a case for rustic figures, so our models are useless. But here come some of the lazy people from the house who find it too hot to paint or play tennis. We will impress them into our service. We will take the camera a sufficient distance away to avoid making the figures too important. What we want is a landscape with a little life in it to give additional interest. The party from the house is coming nearer. Don’t let them know what you are going to do. The punt is so placed that some of them, with their aquatic propensities, cannot fail to jump aboard. It follows as I said. One of the men takes up a boat-hook and walks to the head of the punt to steady it while the others get in. Another man now jumps in, and is helping a lady to get on board, while several others stand on the bank waiting their turn. Now is your time. Yell out, “Steady all, keep your places.” They know what you mean, and keep as they are while you make a little alteration in the group—not more than you can help, and without fuss.
The man with the boat-hook should put some action into his figure, and the others should be intent on what they are doing; but don’t exaggerate; don’t let the figures look as though it were a matter of life and death to them to look natural.
Nature does not always compose. Awkward lines will happen; and there is that stupid native carpenter, who has been at work repairing the boat-house, and looks on with wonder to see what we are doing, standing just where he will come in the picture. Take him by the arm and run away with him. There is no time to explain, and he will understand nothing less. The camera should be quite ready. You know where all the points are, and have had time to focus, arrange the swing-back, and make all the other little arrangements, so that nothing is left but to expose. You cry out, “Steady all!” and in two or three seconds you have certainly secured a fine picture.
You could have taken all this with a drop-shutter, but let us see what you would have missed.
In the first place, you must have used a large aperture to your lens, and as the figures must, whatever else suffers, be in focus, the lovely distance would have been blurred and disfigured. Now I don’t mind a part of a photograph being out of focus when necessary, or when it is conducive to pictorial effect; but this is a kind of picture in which moderate definition is required in all parts. Just a little softening of the distance through being slightly out of focus would not matter, but it must not amount to astigmatism, as it would have done if the full aperture had been used. But it is not the optical point that is the most important. Your picture is now the result of design, not accident. For if it had been taken instantaneously without the figures knowing what was going on, it would have been full of faults, and all the credit you could have taken would have been for the selection of the subject and laying out the punt like a trap to catch the figures—all very creditable in its way, but not complete. As it was, you had to select your moment, improve the pose of the figures, remove the carpenter, and, as I was glad to see you do, all out of your own head, alter the oars on the ground so that they should not make objectionable lines, and improve the composition by arranging the heap of boat cushions and shawls as a balancing point.
However tempting it may be to take another picture, with variations, of the boating party, we will refrain. There can be no greater mistake than to take several pictures much alike to each other, especially if you intend to exhibit. Your pictures become simply portraits of your model in various attitudes, or hesitating efforts, without knowledge, to get the best of your view. Always conceal the art if you can, and never show your failures. Get all the lessons you can out of your mistakes, and then destroy them. I once had something to do with an exhibition to which a number of beautiful little pictures were sent by a clever photographer on your side of the Atlantic. There was one real gem amongst them, but the artist had sent several other pictures of the same subject that just missed being perfect. The gem looked like an accidental success amongst a lot of failures. I saw them before the hanging was completed, and took the perhaps unwarrantable liberty of getting the inferior pictures removed. The gem got a medal, which it thoroughly deserved, but which it probably would not have got if it had been surrounded by the various attempts to attain success.
Now for another picture. Just to the left of the boat-house, rising from a bit of land that projects into the lake, are two beautiful specimens of the graceful silver birch, called here the “lady of the woods.” The leaves of this tree are seldom still. To-day, when all Nature seems hushed in repose, affords us an opportunity we must not neglect. This must be an upright picture. No figures will be necessary, for the water-lilies, now in blossom, and the reflections, will give us all we want to make up the foreground. We shall not require any help from the swing-back. The sun is nearly full on the trees, which, in this instance, is not unsuitable, and will give you a chance for a quick exposure. A trout was rising a few minutes ago in the clear patch of water between the lilies. Wait a little while on the bare chance, and see if you can secure the surface rings he makes on the water. There he is, and you were in time with the exposure. I believe you will find them in the negative, but if not it will be no great matter, as the picture ought to be good enough without them. The lesson I want to inculcate is, never miss a chance.
I see at a little distance down the valley a shepherd gathering his flocks on the hill-side. The large mass of sheep huddled together ought to afford material for a good picture. Let us walk towards them. Here is a pretty sight! The shepherd is greatly assisted in his labors by his collie, who appears to understand every word and motion of his master, and I notice that the old dog is teaching a young one his business. This is a most interesting sight; I have only seen it once or twice before. These Welsh collies are the most intelligent dogs in the world. See how the old one runs round the sheep, and then stands at gaze on the high ground to see that all is going well and that no sheep strays. Notice how the young dog is giving his mind to his lesson. Now the old dog runs in among the sheep and detaches about a dozen of them, then barks to the younger dog to bring them back. He has done this to give his pupil some practice. We must secure this scene, if we expend the remainder of our plates on it. We will place the camera on the rising ground opposite; the back horizontal and the focusing glass swung back, for our subject gradually recedes from us. The broken hedge and the little rill between us will give a good foreground. Put in a middle-sized stop, for there is no great depth of focus required that the swing-back will not correct, and the exposure must be quick—just on and off of the cap—or the picture may be spoilt by one or two of the many sheep bolting. I may state here, as a general rule, that it is better to have a little loss of definition through using a large stop, than to have disfiguring blurs through long exposure. For all that, I like a rather long exposure when I can get it with safety.
Wait until the dogs and shepherd stand to take another look at their flock, then expose. I believe you have got them, but try another plate to make sure; you may never again have such another subject.
We have a couple of plates left, so will return to the lake. We must have a general view of the whole piece of water. We see it in a totally different aspect to that of the morning. The wind is now beginning to stir; the clouds are gathering over the far end of the lake, leaving a vivid break reaching to the horizon. The breeze is also beginning to stir the surface of the still water in little puffs, a pretty effect easily secured. The near water is broken up by picturesque groups of sedges and deep-green “horsetails,” degenerate descendants of the gigantic Equisetum of which our coal measures are largely composed. Although there is sunshine on the foreground, the distance is in gloomy shadow from the lowering clouds. The feeling or sentiment of this aspect of the lake is distinctly solitude, which should be carried out as much as possible. The figure of a heron standing silent, solitary, on that point in the foreground, just clear of the rushes, where his dark form would show as a precious spot of dark against the white reflection of the rift in the clouds, would tell splendidly in the picture; it would be a grand illustration of how tiny a point in a composition would be the making of it. This, however, cannot be. Many herons visit the lake, but it would be one of the thousand to one chances that sometimes occur to the patient photographer—who ought, however, not to trust to chance for his effects. He may and must take advantage of the accidents of nature, but if he plays to win miracles he must expect to lose this time. Here the painter has one of his many advantages over us. He could easily put the bird in at home—and so could we by double printing. One almost feels inclined to run down to the house and get out that old stuffed heron that has ornamented the hall so long, but the critics would call this illegitimate—if they found it out—though what difference a knowledge of how a picture was done should affect in the Art value of that picture I never could discover. In exposing this view of the lake, it would be well to lift the cap slowly, as if hinged to the top, and lower it slowly; by this means the foreground will get more exposure than the sky, and you will save the clouds.
Now, as all our plates are exposed, and the afternoon is far advanced, let us get home and forget photography for the day, if we can accomplish that almost impossible feat. We shall doubtless find the others of our party on the tennis-lawn, as it has become cool enough for a game before dinner-dinner always followed by those discussions in the billiard-room, chiefly on art and kindred subjects, you so much enjoyed, and of which I may, perhaps, give you a sample in a future letter.