View allAll Photos Tagged Featureless
The endless changing scenery of South Iceland of flat plains, to featureless ash fields, to high mountains.
We were taking to this vast area in South iceland. One may describe it as 'featureless' or a volcanic ash desert but like many deserts there is always beauty. Very hard to capture the scale and the aura in one shot even after post productions.
We learned that many of the Apollo astronauts including Neil Armstrong trained here before going to the Moon. It is indeed very moon-like. In fact 9 of the 12 astronauts who ever set foot on the Moon trained in Iceland.
Almost like flipping a switch, the typical almost featureless altostratus of winter have mostly disappeared and puffs of cumulus are appearing more and more often.
I don't think I'll ever feel that business is complete at any location. Not even at the so often photographed lighthouse at Godrevy, eleven miles down the road that appears in a disproportionate percentage of my posts as well as the avatar I use here and elsewhere. I'll never capture the perfect shot- and if somehow that happened, I suspect some form of disillusionment would follow - but at the same time there are pictures that make us happy as we develop them into a pleasing final result. Especially so when we return to a place for the second time to find the star of the show has actually bothered to put in an appearance. As Lee said to a fellow tog on the beach here "Well I've been to Vestrahorn twice, but this is the first time I've seen it." The young English photographer apparently furrowed his brow questioningly, waiting for a further explanation. "When we came here in 2019, the entire mountain range was covered in a blanket of cloud that went all the way down to ground level," Lee continued. "We stayed here for about three hours, hoping things might change, but they only got worse, and we needed to move on."
Lee's retold tale took us back to what was without question the most disappointing episode of that whistle stop tour three years earlier, the only other visit either of us had made to Iceland when we'd circled the entire country in a bright yellow VW campervan named Brian. The day beforehand we'd driven from the far north for hours and hours through increasingly bad weather and disappearing visibility. The mysterious southeast corner between Egilsstadir and Djupivogur remained almost entirely a mystery, the occasional hint of untouched fjord looming silently out of the mist as we made our way south. We arrived at Eystrahorn, just forty minutes away to spend the small hours hoping for a change in the weather, but the morning only delivered more of the same. And when you're attempting to encircle a nation of this size in six days where road conditions and speed limits are designed to keep progress at the steadiest of paces, you can only give a location so much time before you have to move on. By the time we arrived at Vestrahorn and paid the entrance fee to get down to the celebrated viewpoint we'd dreamed of seeing for so long, its total absence from the scene was received in the manner of a firm blow being delivered to the solar plexus. We weren't happy. Ironically, I did eventually turn the camera around to take what was later received on Flickr as one of the most successful images from the trip in "The Life of Brian." I've shamelessly added a link to the bottom of this story as a plug. Later, we moved on to Hofn and then to Jokulsarlon glacier lagoon and Diamond Beach, which happily delivered happier results.
So if nothing else happened on this return to the scene, what we wanted to do was actually see Vestrahorn in all of its magnificence. Whether we'd get any worthwhile images under such a bland sky was a question in point, but as we were staying nearby for four nights, we'd get at least a couple of stabs at laying the spectre of that July morning 2019 to rest. The sense of anticipation in the car as we made our way along the sometimes bumpy track from the main road was infinitely palpable. Every corner turned found us expecting to see the iconic view at last, but what we hadn't realised was that you can only really see Vestrahorn once you head out over the causeway towards the dunes. If we'd had a glimpse on the previous expedition we'd have known that. "Where is it?" I screeched excitedly as I drove slightly more urgently than I should have done. "Have they moved it since last time, just to annoy us?"
Of course, it was there. Why after all would the custodians remove it when they do such a roaring trade charging entrants 900kr a head for the pleasure of seeing the place. We can all rant about being charged to stare at a mountain range, but I find that if you've done your research and know the only way you're going to get a good view is to reconcile yourself to the fact you'll be parting with cash to do so, it at least makes things easier. In fact, we happily parted with the fee on two consecutive days to be here, and I've no doubt we'd have gone again given the time to do so. After all, what a place it is when you finally get to see the mountain range that's featured in countless images for yourself. If there were architecture prizes for natural landscapes, this one would definitely be on a shortlist for a major prize. And when you do arrive, you're immediately faced with so many opportunities. You can shoot reflections over a tidal lagoon, or you can choose a golden grassed dune to perch upon or behind as you try to eliminate the billion footprints on the volcanic black sand. You can zoom in to only include one part of the range, but it would be rude not to take the wide angle lens and consign the entire majesty of it to your SD card. And then you can head down to the water and shoot the incoming tide as big sweeps of white water leave streaks across the shoreline. I could happily spend days here, learning the location and capturing it in every imaginable mood. Even the fact that every tog in southeast Iceland will be competing for elbow room here with you as the light intensifies seems tolerable to me. As I stood in this spot, opening the shutter again and again, earning a welly boot full of seawater for my efforts, I was surrounded by a collection of clackers from across the globe, each seemingly lost in their own happy worlds. Some would smile in the knowledge that they were spending hard earned precious time in one of the world's great photography meccas, while others stood behind their tripods with fixed expressions, knowing this might be their only chance to return from this magical land with an image worthy of their wall or their online gallery.
In this image, which was the sixteenth edition of the original, I found myself sacrificing the immediate foreground drama continued by that big sweep of seawater, by cropping the bottom of the shot to bring the viewer closer into the scene. It definitely falls into the "best viewed large" category, so I hope you've switched the computer on to take a closer look. The almost featureless sky was rescued by a yellow sunset glow to the west, while a couple of tufts nestled pleasingly atop the highest peaks on Vestrahorn. And that foreground wash of water towards me made the shot an easy selection from the many I took of this wide angle view. I've got to confess I'm pretty pleased with the result, and the ghost of 2019 has been happily banished from the back catalogue of despondency. Vestrahorn had made its peace and repaid us for that dismal afternoon three years ago. Happy? Well, yes, I rather think I am this time.
The Life of Brian -
www.flickr.com/photos/126574513@N04/49476904751/in/album-...
I was using up my last day of annual leave for this year and decided on an early start in Glen Affric as it is local and the weather conditions were forecast to be cool and calm.
Unfortunately the sky was featureless but at least some wispy, hazy mist occasionally drifted through the scene.
After bagging a few snaps I was home for 8:15 in time to take my wife to work (you have to keep the brownie points ticking over for the next trip).
A silhouette is the image of a person, animal, object or scene represented as a solid shape of a single colour, usually black, with its edges matching the outline of the subject. The interior of a silhouette is featureless, and the silhouette is usually presented on a light background, usually white, or none at all.
As well as reprocessing from scratch using the latest tool versions, I also used Photoshop's new 'sky replacement' feature to add a little texture into an otherwise featureless background.
The Lincolnshire Beaches can be a bit featureless, so unless you have the talent of a Martin Birks (check his flickr!) you have to make the most of any opportunity for a focal point.
This tree branch had been washed up on Sutton Beach. So inspired by Martin's recent photos from Mablethorpe (just down the road) I tried some long exposures to catch the wave wash. Not sure whether I prefer this colour version or black and white, so will post both.
Full disclosure. The waves may have gone way over my boots on at least one occasion during the shoot...
I find Great Links Tor difficult to photograph. But the walk up to the summit is wonderful, and it offers spectacular views south towards Brat Tor, Sharp Tor (amongst others) and the surrounding hills. On this occasion there wasn't enough cloud cover to provide the kind of backdrop I prefer for the wider views. But I was able to isolate small sections of the hills with my long lens as sporadic cloud wheeled overhead, giving shape and definition to a landscape that can appear almost featureless under flatter lighting conditions.
Nikon Z7, MC 105/2.8 S. Original photograph copyright © Simon Miles. Not to be used without permission. Thanks for looking.
Just having some fun, at the expense of my credibility.
A shameful creation of AI, this began as an underexposed snapshot with a blank featureless sky.
The raven was actually perched there.
After leaving Lochan na Stainge post sunrise we made the 'obligatory' stop at the River Coupall/Buchaille Etive Mor. Shortly after our arrival a snow shower blew down the valley leaving the sky and mountain a flat, featureless grey. We therefore felt obliged to return and try again in the late afternoon after a fairly unproductive run along Glen Etive.
Taken in North Yorkshire on the walk down to the Strid near Bolton Abbey. The sky was misty white and featureless so didn't want to include it.
A re-visit of an image from a few winters ago.
On the moors a short drive from where I live above Halifax. Not much to work on..featureless for the most part!
Calderdale, Yorkshire, UK
After a cloudy but dry and smoke-filled summer the sky has finally cleared up and has been cloudless for a few weeks. Leaves have turned and the cottonwoods are presenting themselves in all their glory. Fall colors are done in the higher elevations but are in full swing between 6-and 7000 feet.
I know that big expanses of featureless blue sky in photos are frowned upon by some but I simply couldn't resist. These are very typical skies in the fall before the winter storms come our way.
After watching 2 gorgeous sunrises develop from the living room window on Monday and Tuesday I decided to head down to Loch Ness this morning before work.
Alas, the forecast of broken cloud did not materialise and I was met by almost clear, featureless skies.
Having made the effort I wasn't going to work without a shot or two in the camera!
I liked the way the waves in the water and the ripples in the sand combined in this one.
We're firmly in December's grip here in northern Ohio. The vivd colors of mid-Autumn have yielded to muted earth tones and an overall desaturation of the landscape. The effect is dramatized by bare trees and dead plant life. But the worst of it is the feeling of omnipresent darkness as the winter solstice approaches. Even the midday sun does little to brighten the mind this time of year. It hangs absurdly low in the sky, and creates more glare and shadow than it does warmth and iight. But it is overcast days when the gloom seems to settle over you like a sickness. The grayness sucks away shadow, depth and contrast. And that's when the landscape feels particularly featureless. Some days it's a real struggle to overcome the tendency seek the shelter and comfort of home. I venture out like a dark tourist to experience the depths of the season. It's one of those times when photography feels almost incidental to the seasonal melancholy. Even when the desire to take photos was the underlying motivation. Circumstances sometimes overwhelm my intentions. I'm at my best when there is some congruence between the two. The result is a tangible sense of desperation in the visuals that I capture.
Offering up some post-processing tricks for Sliders Sunday. Two cattle egrets, in a Pas de Deux, ...
and the Anhinga, Anhinga anhinga, not very well exposed against a bright featureless sky, with careful level adjustments and a substitute background.
You may notice that it's the same sky in both, with the aspect ratio adjusted to fit the subject. I just don't have very many suitable photos of skies. I'm using the same image for my virtual Zoom background.
400mm, f/8, 1/1250s, -.33ev
June 16, 2020, 10:08am
This view of the Green River Desert region of eastern Utah may appear flat and featureless, but it's not. Not at all. The LDP45 "Dirt Train" is conquering a 1.76% grade between Banning and Columbia Junction on the Sunnyside Sub. UP 3121, 3538 and 3574 have 25 loads of contaminated soil and construction waste for burial at the ECDC landfill on Aug. 6, 2008.
This is the other shot, picked out from my CD dating back to 2009, which I thought would work well in black and white. Now I'm not so sure, the sky is rather featureless. The original shot can be seen here.
CORRECTION - I have just noticed the colour version is not the dame shot, it was taken from about 5 yards to one side.
My last trip China was dominated by overcast days where there was blanket cloud cover everywhere - the light was quite diffuse and, for me at least, natural scenes were difficult to photograph - featureless skies (I added the clouds above) and very little contrast , altho it looks pleasantly foggy after post-processing! I need to learn how to photograph effectively in these conditions! :D
Textures by Flypaper.
I only left the house because the van needed a run. Our mechanic keeps telling us there’s nothing these old high milers love more than a long drive to keep them ready and raring to go. But at half past two on a grey December afternoon, deep in the heart of Twixmas, a quick blast down the A30 would have to do. Loggan’s Roundabout and back. I had plenty of stuff to be getting on with at home, and I do like a good black and white film during the festive period. More out of habit than anything else, I threw the camera and a couple of lenses in the bag and put them in the cab. Just in case I decided to stay out for a bit.
It was inevitable really. Even though the ceiling outside the van was drearily grey and lifeless, I really needed to shake off the Christmas lethargy. The fact that two consecutive Wednesdays had fallen on bank holidays meant there was no football to burn off the twin cheese and chocolate overdoses, so an energetic hike across the dunes seemed like an idea. When I arrived at the car park, it quickly became clear that I wasn’t the only one who felt the need to kick away the cobwebs and get some fresh air. There were far more cars than you usually see here on a Monday afternoon. But even so, you can easily find space up on the dunes, and so I set off towards the west, grabbing the bag and the tripod. Even if the contents stayed unused, the extra weight wouldn’t hurt. By now I’d eaten an awful lot of cheese and we had started on the second giant Toblerone. Friday football remained unaffected by the seasonal calendar this time around, but one game a week really wasn’t enough to tackle the torrent of cholesterol that was swirling around my insides by the day before New Year’s Eve.
It’s no secret that the middle of winter is my favourite time here. Isn’t it great that a hobby such as this makes the darkest months something to be enjoyed rather than feared? The short daylight hours come with their challenges, but when I do go out with the camera I know I’m going to be home at a sensible hour, even if I’ve been down to the furthest reaches of Land’s End or Cape Cornwall and Botallack. The Towans of Gwithian are comfortably under half an hour away and the big council car park (at least for now) remains free to users from November to March. It’s the perfect place to watch the evening set in over the Penwith hills to the west. Even when the light isn’t doing much. And the sky had been pretty well featureless as I marched across the rolling greens and yellows, following the smaller footpaths where I could be more or less alone with my thoughts as I went. But now, as so often happens, an envelope of light opened up through the greys and started to gently glow, just in the right place. I took a few shots from one of the higher dunes and continued my walk. Maybe I’d end up down on the beach, I wasn’t sure. Further along my route, I came to the point where the sands suddenly open up in front of the viewer, and found a place near the cliff edge in which I’ve planted the tripod more than once in the past. I was surprised by just how many people were down there on the beach, one or two of them braving the ocean, while a kite surfer charged across the waves. For now I wouldn’t head down to the sand. I was enjoying watching the world from here. I set up the tripod.
Just in time as it turned out. Within moments, the sun dropped into the glowing envelope to set the sea on fire, clouds of spray growing into a hazy golden mist that hovered over the water and lit up the centre of my frame while everything around it disappeared into secretive shadows. Dozens of silhouettes continued to stroll purposefully along the sand, many of them picked out by the soft rays that reached down and touched them through the gap in the doom laden clouds. A host of Christmas hangovers, walking off the cheese and Toblerones. The magic lasted for no more than two or three minutes, and then the window in the sky closed for the evening. To think that all I was going to do was to whizz down to the big roundabout and back. Blink and you so easily miss these moments.
I did make it down to the beach afterwards, but only so I could be next to the sea for a while before clambering back up onto the dunes. Chased by a dusk lit shower I made a point of climbing all of the tallest dunes on the way back to the van, even running over a couple of them, just for the sake of compensating for the football games I was missing this Christmas. Hopefully by the time we get back to business as usual, I won’t pass out in a pile of cheese within five minutes of kick off.
Been meaning to edit this one since is shot it a couple of weeks ago. I love the central vanishing point subject. That's what got me into photography all those ten years ago. lol At eh moment i'm searching my area like i have never before and i am finding more then i thought we had. I'm quite naive sometimes about my area. But i do still feel generally it is featureless.
Hope you enjoy this verto :-)
A ruddy turnstone preens its breeding plumage as it prepares for an annual migration from Hawaii to nesting grounds on the tundra of Alaska, Canada, and Siberia. The trip spans over approximately 3,000 miles of open ocean requiring an exhaustive, marathon effort of 3 to 4 days and nights of nonstop flight. Turnstones use the stars and the earth’s magnetic field to find their way over the featureless ocean to the same small patch of territory every year. They may use the earth’s magnetic field visually with the magnetoreception molecules of cryptochrome in their retina. This one winters in Hawaii. The Hawaiian name, ‘akekeke, mimics the bird’s call.
I managed to get up to Staffordshire last Sunday as part of a recce prior to a school geography field visit. My recce involved finding the source of the River Dove on Axe Edge Moor near Buxton. However, prior to this, I decided to stop off at Ramshaw Rocks for sunrise. This is my first ever visit to this particular spot, though I have visited The Roaches and Hen Cloud, which can be seen in the distance, many times. In an otherwise featureless sky, I fel that the moon was an essential part of the composition.
Offering up some post-processing tricks for Sliders Sunday. Two cattle egrets, Bubulcus ibis, captured in a single exposure doing this Pas de Deux, but ... not nearly this close together and against a featureless sky. I recomposed and added a background in Photoshop.
And the Anhinga ...
You may notice that it's the same sky in both, with the aspect ratio adjusted to fit the subject. I just don't have very many suitable photos of skies. Using the same image for my virtual Zoom background.
400mm, f/10, 1/1250s 0ev
June 4, 2020, 11:05am
A kolea, or Pacific golden plover, enjoys a warming sunrise while billing through the leaf litter after returning to the tropics. Kolea migrate back to Hawaii after a five month breeding season in Alaska. The return trip spans over approximately 3,000 miles of open ocean requiring an exhaustive 3 to 4 days and nights of nonstop flight. A superb navigator with territorial fidelity, kolea use the stars and the earth’s magnetic field to find their way over the featureless ocean to the same small patch of territory every year. They may use the earth’s magnetic field visually with the magnetoreception molecules of cryptochrome in their retina. This one winters in Hawaii. Some will continue their migration into the southern hemisphere. Pluvialis fulva, non-breeding plumage.
- Voltaire.
|| insta || blog || photostream ||
Nightmare rock is a well-known landmark that greets visitors at Alabama Hills. However, I always had mixed feelings about this little artwork. On the one hand, it’s a horrible defacing of a beautiful natural landscape, while on the other hand, it’s a piece of street art that has withstood the test of time and has become a tourist destination in its own right. So, on my first couple of visits, I ignored the rock but finally broke down and decided to take up the challenge of photographing the rock art.
Then I had to figure out a good composition. My main challenge was to show the rock and the artwork as part of the larger Alabama Hills landscape. We also had a clear sky that day, making it more difficult. To be honest, I drew a blank and just took a couple of images from the parking spot. But while looking over the photos later, I realized that the image looked impressive without the featureless sky. Removing most of the sky put the focus right back on nightmare rock, and the panorama crop worked well with the Alabama Hills landscape.
Pale Flycatcher, formerly known as a Mouse-coloured Flycatcher Bradornis pallidus. "A dull, featureless bird, and mostly silent"!
Two pairs of eyes peered doubtfully at the mist filled world outside the café window, where sheet after sheet of driving rain filled a featureless grey sky. We wondered whether the journey here would ultimately be worth it in such drab conditions - I know that damp dreary weather goes hand in hand with woodland, but there are limits. We’d driven nearly forty miles mostly nose to tail along the A465, which is currently masquerading as a building site in the area around Merthyr Tydfil while the corridor along the south of the Beacons is being improved, before finally arriving at an uncluttered stretch of road with easily moving traffic, where the scenery and a brief appearance of the sun smiled through our windscreen and invited us further west. Of course the minute we’d arrived at this quiet open carriageway the sign appeared at the left hand side, announcing we were almost at our destination. Pontneddfechan, the “Bridge over the Little Neath” could so easily be overlooked if you didn’t know what was lying in wait beneath the tell tale wooded valley that climbed the slopes to the north of the village.
I’d been very excited about the falls along the River Neath ever since one of you had shared their existence with me. Thank you Clive for letting me know they were there. Another of you (thank you Norbert) let me know that the small car park high above the village would probably still be closed, and that the café at the bottom was worth a visit in any case. I can confirm that although I have no affiliation with and do not stand to make any financial gain from said café, that it definitely is worth stopping by for refreshments before the excitement begins. Well I might gain financially when they give me the prize for the best photo on Instagram with them tagged, but they haven’t been in touch just yet. Must be something to do with the signal there I expect.
The café was warm and seductive, and we were doing our best to ignore the dessert menu, especially with less than three hours of daylight on what would prove to be a path where wandering about in semi-darkness without a torch seemed inadvisable at best. Finally, after as much prevarication as was sensible allowed and during a break in the worst that the weather had thrown at us, we headed out of the sanctuary into the drizzle and made our way through a gate onto the path beside the river. Onwards and upwards we went, for a mile or more, engaged by the energetic fury of the powerful torrent that raged to our right that bore no resemblance to the place where bathers gathered in some of the summer images I’d found online. Barely a soul was at large, giving us this playground almost entirely to ourselves and in time little side tracks would appear, inviting cautious approaches to the water’s edge from time to time.
And then we found ourselves here, at the magical Sgwd Gwladys, where I ignored the viewing platform, continuing along a small beaten track to this viewpoint. The autumn colours were only just beginning to arrive – I expect it looks all the more splendid by now. I almost lost my woolly hat (by now soaking) my lens cloth (again!) and more worryingly, two of my favourite Kase filters, which landed on a rock and finished their journey clinging perilously close to the angry froth. But somehow everything made it back into pockets and rucksacks safely for the continued adventure further along the path. Four more waterfalls appeared as we made our way along the path, each with its own characteristics, each demanding far more time than I had available in the dull and ever fading light. Next time I really do intend to do this properly, picking a suitable autumn day, going for the duration and taking sandwiches, a flask of coffee and a bucketload of Haribo All Stars for company. A place as stunning as this deserves that level of attention you see, and I really don't like rushing about when I could stand and stare for any amount of time before even reaching for the camera.
If it’s your turn to go soon, I hope you get the dappled light and the autumn golds, yellows and browns. But more than that I hope you get the chance to enjoy it quietly, without the crowds as we did. With half term upon us you might want to wait another week then.
This Laysan albatross nestling will grow much larger over the next couple months, lose its fuzzy down to resilient flight plumage, and be abandon by its parents. It will unfold its 6 foot wingspan and learn to fly by its own primal, genetically programed urge. It will traverse thousands of miles of pelagic ocean, yet rarely rise above 75 feet into the air; its world flat and visually featureless far from land. Its acute olfactory sense will guide it to ocean upwelling sites where it will surface forage for squid and fish eggs. In 3 to 5 years, it will find its way back to the tiny terrestrial colony of its birth and began prospecting for a future mate through an elaborate courtship ritual of visual displays, sounds, and scent. Beginning at 5 to 8 years of age, it will co-nurture its own nestling for several months with its monogamous mate, then return to nomadic, solitary soaring over the sea. It will return to find its mate and produce and egg most nesting seasons for more than 60 years.
The lands north-east of Vienna possess pleasantly undulating if featureless expanses up to the border with Czechoslovakia.
A branch line idyll, BR93 pair 93 1368/1421 approach Pirawarth heading 14.57 Zistersdorf-Stammersdorf service placed a short walk from the town toward Zistersdorf.
These secondary branches believed now abandoned.
The 'ride experience' of the 4-wheelers is easily imagined!
Commercial scan / 35mm KD25
21st April 1975
Another one from yesterday's sunset on the beach, the same beach which is rather featureless at high tide :)
So, the same old posts, only from the other side.
An abandoned house sits in profound silence as an early winter snowfall swirls down from the featureless sky. A gravel road runs past the property. It is a couple miles to a wider, better-maintained gravel road, and many more miles to the nearest village and supply centre.
Imagine living here in the 1930s. I can't.
The people who settled here were tough, but that didn't matter to the forces of nature and society. In the Great Depression, a lot of farms failed; a lot of good people lost their homes. They are mostly forgotten now. Sometimes it seems to me there is a deep sadness embedded in these fields and disintegrating structures.
Photographed at Rosefield, Saskatchewan (Canada). Don't use this image on websites, blogs, or other media without explicit permission ©2022 James R. Page - all rights reserved.
There’s no denying that my home county is full of famous spots, many of which are regularly besieged by photographers of all kinds throughout the seasons. Whether you’re a phone wielding Instaselfie sensation showing yourself off in front of legions of admiring followers, or a humble old curmudgeon with a bag of camera equipment and a rather more modest audience, you'll find plenty of things to take pictures of, and there’s always room for a new addition to the list of favourite places on the local circuit. I hope to photograph Godrevy, Holywell Bay, Wheal Coates and Botallack many more times before my bearings give out, but at the same time I’m consciously looking for new locations on the doorstep to photograph. Fortunately for me, it’s a bountiful doorstep.
Less than two weeks since the first time I’d ever taken photographs at Bosigran Head, we were back here again. And once again, my sunset plans were overtaken by something else that had caught my eye. In this case, it was something I’d noticed on our first and only previous visit, two years earlier on a sunny May afternoon. I remembered thinking it would be the ideal winter shot, with the sun sinking into the back of the frame near Pendeen Lighthouse on a colourful December afternoon. Surely there was little point in looking at it until then was there? Big waves smashing onto the rocks under a soft winter sun? Perfect.
But then again, why not today? I was here with heather on my mind, and on top of the headland I was struggling to find any that met the brief as far as foregrounds go. For a while, Ali and I found comfortable rocks upon which to sit near the top of Bosigran Head, listening to the sea and the squeezebox cries of riotous choughs coming screeching across the still air. It’s a wonderful place to tune out of life; to sit and watch the world on a lazy summer afternoon. Every so often a climber or two would appear from beneath the ridge, hard hat first as they made their final moves to the top. Quite where they’d started from and how they got there, I can’t really say. One young lady asked us if we were climbing too. Given our ages, we were both quite flattered that it had even crossed her mind we might be capable of scaling the sheer cliffs that plunge decisively into the ocean below. I was getting wobbly legs whenever I looked over the side. And I don’t have any particular issues with vertigo. If you do, you might want to bring a blindfold. And somebody you trust your life with.
After a while, we decided to walk towards Porthmeor Cove, just a short distance to the north of here, along a very quiet South West Coast Path. We met just one couple coming the other way, him sitting nobly on an outcrop like Rodin’s Thinker, reading a novel while she laboured up the slope some distance behind with a red faced grin. One uphill and two downhills later, I recognised the low rocky area I’d spotted two years ago. Now it was Ali’s turn to sit at the top, her nose buried in a book, while I disappeared down towards a rocky area of scrub not far from the water, where I found some strategically placed purple heather that was in perfect bloom. And just like that previous visit a couple of weeks earlier, it felt like a case of now or next year, because those flowers don’t last forever. In the golden hour, the scene might catch a touch of summer glow. But there were still nearly three hours until sunset. Besides which, this was just a walk. The camera was in the van, a twenty minute (mostly) uphill yomp away. Back to the van for supper, and then I’d reverse that yomp back to this exact same spot.
I still think the area around Bosigran Head has immense winter potential, and I’ve never seen another photograph of this stunning view towards Pendeen Lighthouse. But while I certainly plan to return towards the end of the year, I was clearly wrong to write off its ability to harness a summer sunset. And there’s enough interest in a scene like this to overcome a featureless sky as far as I’m concerned. We all love a colourful cloudscape, but it doesn’t have to be a deal breaker. Sometimes it can even be a distraction. For me, there’s enough going on in the sea and on the land to hold the eye here. This beautiful wild place at the edge of the world can stand up on its own, especially when the heather is in full bloom. A new favourite now sits on the local circuit, waiting for the next time, whatever that may bring.
This is why I still go to airshows after all these years. There are few things as impressive as this kind of precision formation flying. You can wish for a better weather day or different winds but you still need to have great pilots and training to see a grouping like this. I don't even mind the featureless white cloudy background because this still reaches my on a beauty scale due to the sights and sounds of their performance.
Wondrous Solstice to all my friends on flickr!
"That Sun’s not going down at all;
the Earth is turning somersaults!"
Peter Mayer, "The Play"
map location only approximate _0289h
Addendum 2 Oct 2021. I believe this is the first in a very long series, spanning multiple years, of what appeared to the casual observer as nearly featureless grey floors in commercial spaces, repurposed from industrial uses, illuminated by mix of natural and artificial available light. Strenuous saturation enhancement of single exposures reveals a balanced, complementary palette, and shapes that—often, with a little luck—form strong compositions.
A silhouette is the image of a person, animal, object or scene represented as a solid shape of a single colour, usually black, with its edges matching the outline of the subject. The interior of a silhouette is featureless, and the silhouette is usually presented on a light background, usually white, or none at all.
Pikes in reflection - Golden hour dawns on the Langdale Pikes and Side Pike in mirror perfect reflection on the supremely still waters of Blea Tarn on a rather unseasonably mild February morning.
My first proper early morning shoot in what seems like ages; it was great to be out on a 'Dawn Raid' and experience some decent conditions at long last. Even though the relatively featureless rather blue sky was not overly welcome, the superb light and incredible stillness at Blea Tarn, in part, made up for it.
Lake District, Cumbria
Running as the 973, NS 5642 leads the Operation Awareness and Response safety train east at MP45 on the NS Southern-West District, just west of Bartelso, IL.
Thanks to WR for the early-morning heads up on this move, which dominated my morning planning. Crap clouds all around but at least it wasn't a slate-gray featureless sky. Friendly crew too.
The most amazing thing happened on Sunday. This is a wisp of cloud, alone in a featureless sky. It suddenly became prismatic, and then a moment later it was just a normal white cloud. What other wonders pass unnoticed overhead? (Completely Unedited)
If it is possible to be cursed with good weather then I was. Blue featureless skies for many of the days in the Northern Fells. Hence the choice of B&W. This is the best way up to Skiddaw in the upper left corner of the image. You might be able to make out a few hikers on its slopes.
It will be interesting to read comments about this shot. It was take on a cold day in Cowdray Park near Chichester. The sky was really drab and in fact bloody featureless. In Photoshop I change the sky with one of its new functions. It will be interesting to hear what other people have to say. Does it have a place or is it a "NO NO".
It will also be interesting to see how many people on Flickr just Fave it and don't read what I have put or even look at the picture. Unfortunately the days of constructive comment seems to have gone on Flickr now.
www.barryturner-fineartphotography.co.uk/
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights
Always feel a bit sorry for any butterfly tagged as "dingy". I guess that the other side of these wings are a bit brown and featureless!
Seen in the track-side growth in the Townsville Town Common.
One may describe it as 'featureless' or a volcanic ash desert but like many deserts there is always beauty. And so with this panaroma in South Iceland. Very hard to capture the vastness and the aura in one shot. We learned that many of the Apollo astronauts including Neil Armstrong trained here before going to the Moon. It is indeed very moon-like. In fact 9 of the 12 astronauts who ever set foot on the Moon trained in Iceland.
“Yes. Cut off by the tide and eaten alive by the local insect population!” That’s what I should have said in reply when Ali, from the safety of the pavement twenty metres away, asked me whether I was getting anything. But I’ve never been quick when the opportunity for hilariously witty sarcasm arrives. Nor even just plain sarcasm for that matter. Besides which I was yet to realise I was now marooned on a tiny patch of shore and that the tide was beginning to wash around the feet of my tripod. All I could manage was “yes I think so,” as I batted another mosquito away. Of course there were mosquitoes here at this time of day. Why on earth would I think that there wouldn’t be at the edge of the water, standing next to a decidedly boggy patch of wetland? But then again you’ve already learned that I’m not the sharpest chisel in the toolbag at times. And if further proof of that were needed, just a few moments later, I was sloshing back to the safety of the pontoon through sinking sand as the sea slipped into the inlet from the direction of Fornells behind me. Pursued by a cloud of hungry miniature winged vampires.
By now I was getting used to the fact that things don’t always go according to plan here. And despite the online research suggesting this would be a relatively easy subject to get to, it was proving almost elusive as that cove I never found my way to a week earlier. Yet the low white boathouse lay hidden in plain sight at the edge of the estuary. How difficult could this be? Google Maps weren’t quite as helpful as usual today though. The road that supposedly led towards it turned out to be somebody’s drive with a chained gate barring further progress. A series of planks across a swampy area led to the side of the water, but some distance short of the target. I could try and climb those rocks, but the local wildlife was more belligerent than ever there and I retreated like a scalded cat in a hurry with his tail between his legs. In the end the only option seemed to be to trust the long end of a budget lens and hope for the best.
A few moments later I was standing on the pavement overlooking the water, at least two hundred yards from the boathouse, while Ali disappeared along a nearby pontoon to inspect the yachts. Soon she called me over, the implied suggestion being I might get a better shot from where she was standing. So I wandered over to where she was, and before long decided to advance the last few yards that were available to me, squelching across a tiny beach that despite appearances seemed to consist of more mud than sand. Still, there was no going back now, and the vantage point I had was as good as it was going to get. Well I suppose I had Monte Toro, the highest point on the island (and rival candidate for this evening’s final port of call) in the background as a compositional bonus. If all of those huge masts can be considered as an aesthetically pleasing addition that is. No I’m not sure either, but then I never trust people who are certain about things.
I found Ali back at the car, hiding from the vampires as in vain I tried to brush off the mud and sand soup from my shoes before climbing in. And as we began the journey back towards the hotel, we couldn’t help noticing that one of those curious reverse sunsets was happening. To the west the sky was clear, warm but featureless with a yellow glow. Yet to the east, where there were no immediately obvious compositions, a bank of low cloud was filled with the pinks, oranges and fiery reds that so many of us lose our heads over, rare as they are on our rain sodden cluster of islands further north. But I knew it was a losing game. Not only did I have no idea of where I might get a shot, but down here in the Mediterranean, the distance between golden hour and dusk is a short journey. I sighed and accepted it. Or at least I did until I noticed the pull in near the roundabout, where I jumped out of the car and over a limestone wall, losing my footing on the red earth before scrambling up a small rise through trees to arrive at a vista that sadly offered nothing of note. Already the colours had mostly departed, even though scarcely five minutes had passed. You can’t have it all. I sighed and scrambled back down the slope and over the wall. My shoes, still wet from the soggy sand, were now coated in a brighter shade of red than the ones we’d just seen in the sky. It was time to leave and trust that the bargain basement bit of glass I bought from eBay and the boathouse shots from the mosquito coast had delivered.
One of the permanent features in my garden is a small pod of water lilies that bloom all year round, attracting a steady stream of visitors - mostly from these sting-less bees.
I love photographing these little bees, they are quite tolerant of my presence, going about their routine without any fuss, and generally posing well for my shots. The only thing that might be a bit of a letdown is that they don't have any markings or features that make them standout - they're just black all over, and are quite small too.
Thus, the only good photos are when they are contrasted against a strong light colored background so they don't look that boring and featureless.
A challenge of a dawn shoot. A bright, cloudless sky illuminated the opposite fell bright orange, but what to do to make the most of it? I decided to use a Lee 'Little Stopper' ND Filter to blur the moving water and smooth out a reflection which could be used as a replacement for the featureless sky. Bordering on abstract rather than traditional landscape work, but it would be a shame to waste such an early alarm call.