Sliding to the left


On Thursday, Pete and I enjoyed a six hour walk on the vast, low-tide beach of Saundersfoot Bay, returning via the Coastal Path along the cliffs.  Although the sky was overcast and it rained intermittently, I could see why Pembrokeshire is celebrated for its light.  I wanted to capture the almost-sliver of the diffused light on the sluggish sea.

My first post from Wales was all about colour, although even there I nudged the saturation and vibrancy sliders to the left, because the colours in the RAW file were almost too rich to be believed!   More and more, these days, I find myself wanting to desaturate images.  For  some beautiful images that exemplify sliding to the left, try Asmita Kapadia’s website.


People of Burano

This is the last in my series about the colourful Italian island of Burano.
I am not a street photographer and none of these shots would even begin to qualify as decent candid portraits, but they are the best I could manage, awkwardly trying not to be noticed as I furtively snatched an image or two.
I wonder what it is like living on a tiny island where every day the day trippers vastly outnumber the inhabitants.
Do the locals heave a hearty sigh of relief when the late afternoon’s long shadows see the departure of the last vaporetto and the colourful streets no longer echo with the babble of multiple foreign tongues?
Tourism and the sale of intricate lace, to tourists, are the principal/only industries on Burano so the relationship with the tourists must necessarily be one of polite encouragement.  Certainly we didn’t feel any animosity.  But it must be a strange existence.
Tourism websites are rather coy on the question of the origins of the tradition for colourful houses. They seem to agree that it began during the middle ages and had something to do with distinguishing dwellings from each other. Apparently the colours follow a well-established pattern and if one wants to paint one’s house one must apply to the government who will then provide a list of permitted colours.
I leave you with a few more shots of the colourful island.

Pure draughtsmen are philosophers and dialecticians. Colourists are epic poets. (Charles Baudelaire)


The picture will have charm when each colour is very unlike the one next to it. (Leon Battista Alberti)


Color is all. When color is right, form is right. Color is everything, color is vibration like music; everything is vibration. (Marc Chagall)

Colours of Burano


One of the delights that should never be missed when visiting Venice is the little island of Burano.


Less than an hour’s Vaporetto ride across the lagoon, Burano is a tiny island where all the houses have been painted in vibrant shades.  A photographer’s dream.


You aren’t going to win any originality contests with your photos – Burano is already copiously recorded in pixels – but still you can hardly resist snapping away like a photog possessed.





It was all yellow

Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And everything you do
Yeah, they were all yellow

I came along
I wrote a song for you
And all the things you do
And it was called ‘Yellow’

So then I took my time
Oh what a thing to’ve done
And it was all yellow

Your skin, oh yeah, your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
D’you know? You know I love you so
You know I love you so

I swam across
I jumped across for you
Oh what a thing to do
‘Cause you were all yellow

I drew a line
I drew a line for you
Oh what a thing to do
And it was all yellow

Your skin, oh yeah, your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
D’you know? For you I bleed myself dry
For you I bleed myself dry

It’s true
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine…

Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And all the things that you do.
(Coldplay, ‘Yellow’)




Red is such a very photogenic colour. It looks great against snow and ice.


And makes a vibrant focal point for a colour-popped black and white.


We love red over here, on our buses, phone boxes, and postboxes.


It is the colour of earth, from the slopes of Kauai’s Waimea Canyon…


…to the raw power of the mighty Kilauea.


It is the colour of fire, and those who fight it.


But it is also a colour flowers use to lure bees,


the colour of a robin’s breast,


and of Christmas.


From a boat on Lindisfarne’s fair and ancient shore,


to the far more ancient walls of Egypt,


deserted cliff-dwellings,


and the roof of a Quebec church,


red is all around us.


It is the colour of our very life’s blood,
and of remembrance.



Golden is the sunrise,
The hour photographers shoot

Golden is the moment
We hope not to forget

Golden are the coins
(Look better than they taste!)

Golden is the sunbeam
That gilds the silken web

Golden is the Autumn,
The poet’s mellow season

Golden are the seeds
That tango through the air

Golden is the pond
Stroked by the setting sun

Golden is the coffee
That warms a winter’s night

Golden is the star
That twists in festive light.

Hopeful green


‘A child said What is the grass? fetching it to one with full hands,
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of the hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark,
and say Whose?
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.’

Walt Whitman, ‘Song of Myself’ (1855), 6

April has been a month of rain for us here in England. As I travelled in a taxi through Hyde Park this morning I noticed how gloriously green everything was, drenched in refreshing spring showers. So today’s post is simply a celebration of green.
The top image was taken in the churchyard of St. James’s, Weybridge.