View allAll Photos Tagged parallax
I had a devil of a time dealing with the parallax exacerbated by the little close up filter on my Instax. I used up nearly a whole back chasing after the elusive, "just right" framing. In the end I gave up (and went on to other cameras :) ). Viewed as a group, though, this reminds me of trying to photograph a quickly moving jelly under the water!
Another test of cutting up images into planes for simulated motion and depth. This time with prettier source material, like the Ziegfeld Follies girls!
Each image cut is created from single photographs/images. I hand-masked each image in GIMP, then brought each layer as a new image on a plane in Blender 3D. I then arranged the planes and animated the camera and each of the meshes to provide the sense of depth and movement.
I'll probably write a quick tutorial before long...
My photographs are my private property and are copyright © by me, John Russell (aka “Zoom Lens”) and all my rights are reserved. Any use without permission is forbidden.
BLUE LUG custom
SPEC
Frame: *CINELLI* mash parallax
Handle:*3T* rotundo
Brake Levers:*SRAM* s900 brake lever
Stem:*3T*
Wheels: *VELOCITY* A23 rim × *PHILWOOD* high flange track hub (silver)
Brake: *SRAM* red22
Seatpost:*THOMSON* elite seat post (black)
Saddle:*FIZIK* antaress
Crankset:*SRAM* omnium crankset
Chainring:*AARN* track chainring (black) 51T
Bartape:*CINELLI* mash parallax bartape (black)
Bell:*SPURCYCLE* black bell (black)
Playing with motion parallax for fun. No photoshopping. Just physics....
For more images like this you can go to my Parallax Set flic.kr/s/aHsjC5GgNN
Copyright Wes Taylor Photography
Playing with motion parallax for fun. No photoshopping. Just physics....
For more images like this you can go to my Parallax Set flic.kr/s/aHsjC5GgNN
Copyright Wes Taylor Photography 2012
*
Love Is A Parallax
By Sylvia Plath
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
where wave pretends to drench real sky.'
'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
is our life's whole nemesis.
So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
implacably from twelve to one.
We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
who insists his playmates run.
Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
should inflame the sleeping town.
So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
playing his prodigal charades.
The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
graves all carol in reply.
Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
while footlights flare and houselights dim.
Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
joins his enemies' recruits.
The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
an insight like the flight of birds:
Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
cycling phoenix never stops.
So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
away our rationed days and weeks.
Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
the simple sum of heart plus heart.
*
Brahms: String Sextet No.1 in B flat, Op.18 - I. Allegro ma non troppo
Brahms: String Sextet No. 1 in B flat, Op.18 - II. Andante ma moderato
*
(frame by SkeletalMess)
Playing with motion parallax for fun. No photoshopping. Just physics....
For more images like this you can go to my Parallax Set flic.kr/s/aHsjC5GgNN
Copyright Wes Taylor Photography