Kitabı oku: «The Evolution of Photography», sayfa 22

PHOTOGRAPHY AND THE IMMURED POMPEIIANS

Every one must be sensible of the many and varied applications of photography. Even photographers themselves, familiar as they are with the capabilities of the art they practise, must necessarily have their wonder excited occasionally at the scope of their art-science, especially when they consider that the process, as practised at the present day, is not more than seventeen years old. That it should be the historian of the life and manners of the present period more fully and faithfully than any written account, is not so much a matter of surprise. Appealing, as it does, to the vanity and affections of the people, it is at once a recorder of the changes of fashion, a registrar of marriages, births, and deaths, and a truthful illustrator of the times in which we live; but that it should be brought to bear upon the past, and make the inhabitants of the world in the nineteenth century familiar with the forms, fashions, manners, life, and death of the people of the first century of the Christian Era, is something to be marvelled at, and at first seems an impossibility. Yet such is the fact; and photography has been made the cheap and easy means of informing the present generation of the manner in which the ancients behaved, suffered, and died in the midst of one of the most appalling catastrophes that ever overtook the inhabitants of any part of the world, ancient or modern, as vividly and undeniably as if the calamity had occurred but yesterday.

The foregoing reflections were excited by seeing very recently some photographs from plaster casts of the forms of human beings as they had fallen and died when Pompeii and Herculaneum were destroyed by the first known and terrible eruption of Mount Vesuvius. The photographs alluded to reveal with a fearful fidelity the dreadful agonies of some of those who perished at Pompeii, and, while looking at the pictures, it is very difficult to divest the mind of the idea that they are not the works of some ancient photographer who plied his lens and camera immediately after the eruption had ceased, so forcibly do they carry the mind back to the time and place of the awful immurement of both a town and its people.

That these photographs were not obtained from the lifeless forms of the Pompeiians the reader will readily understand, for their bodies have not been preserved entire from that day to this. The question then naturally arises, “How could plaster casts be obtained from which the photographs were produced?” To answer that question I must briefly explain that Pompeii was not, as is generally understood, destroyed by an overflow of red hot lava, which would have burnt up every particle of human flesh with which it came in contact almost instantly, without leaving a mould or impress of the form which it surrounded. The black mud which flowed from Vesuvius into the doomed town of Pompeii entombed the houses and inhabitants—covered them up and formed a thick crust over them, which gradually hardened, and as the bodies crumbled away to dust a mould or matrix was left, from which plaster casts of great beauty and finish might have been obtained of almost everything that was destroyed. Unfortunately, this was not discovered until very recently, after many of the beautiful moulds had been destroyed by the process of hurried, thoughtless, and unsystematic excavation. It was only a short time ago, since Naples was united to Italy, that careful and intelligent excavation secured to future generations impressions from those matrices made by the most terrible process of natural mould making.

Sig. Fiorelli, who was appointed superintendent of excavations at Pompeii, happily thought of obtaining casts from these natural moulds by pouring in soft plaster of Paris, and thus secure more useful mementos than by preserving the moulds themselves. Amongst the first casts thus obtained were the forms of four human beings, described as follows in the Quarterly Review for 1864:—

“These four persons had perished in the streets. Driven from their homes, they sought to flee when it was too late. These victims of the eruption were not found together, and they do not appear to have belonged to the same family or household. The most interesting of the casts is that of two women, probably mother and daughter, lying feet to feet; they appear from their garb to have been people of poor condition. The elder seems to lie tranquilly on her side, overcome by the noxious gases. She probably fell and died without a struggle. Her limbs are extended, and her left arm drops loosely. On one finger is still seen her coarse iron ring. Her child was a girl of fifteen; she seems, poor thing, to have struggled hard for life. Her legs are drawn up convulsively. Her little hands are clenched in agony. In one she holds her veil, or part of her dress with which she had covered her head, burying her face in her arms to shield herself from the falling ashes and from the foul, sulphurous smoke. The form of her head is perfectly preserved. The texture of her coarse linen garments may be traced, and even the fashion of her dress, with its long sleeves reaching to her wrists. Here and there it is torn, and the smooth young skin appears in the plaster like polished marble. On her tiny feet may still be seen her embroidered sandals. At some distance from this group lay a third woman, apparently about the age of twenty-five, and belonging to a better class. Silver rings were on her fingers. She lay on her side, and had died in great agony. Her garments had been gathered up on one side, leaving exposed a limb of the most beautiful form. She had fled with her little treasure, two silver cups, a few jewels, and some silver coins, and her keys, like a careful matron. The fourth cast is that of a man of the people, perhaps a common soldier. He is almost of colossal size. He lies on his back, his arms extended by his side, and his feet stretched out, as if, finding escape impossible, he had laid himself down to meet death like a brave man. His dress consists of a short coat or jerkin, and tight-fitting breeches of some coarse stuff, perhaps leather; heavy sandals, with soles studded with nails, are laced tightly round his ankles. On one finger is seen his iron ring. His features are strongly marked, his mouth open, as in death. Some of his teeth still remain, and even part of the moustache adheres to the plaster.”

Such is the description of the plaster casts; and the photographs which I possess of those casts convey to the mind at one glance all that is there written. Wonderful photography! How eloquent in their silence are thy pictures! To what more dignified and sublime uses could any art be put? Only a few can look upon those casts of the dead Pompeiians in the Museum of Naples, but the whole world may view the photographs taken from them, and look upon the Pompeiians in their forms and habits as they died, and read a page from the unwritten histories of those terrible death-struggles, when the strong man, the tender, placid mother, and the young and delicate maiden were all entombed in that fearful sea of mud, amidst darkness and horrors that can never be adequately described.

Such an awful catastrophe will never cease to interest the student of ancient history, and photography will now be the means of deepening his interest, and revealing to his mind with greater force and lucidity many scenes that actually occurred at the very moment of the appalling destruction of Pompeii, on the 24th of August, A.D. 79.

A SIMPLE MODE OF INTENSIFYING NEGATIVES

Undoubtedly the best possible practice of photography is that which requires no after intensification in the production of a first-class negative. This, however, though a “consummation devoutly to be wished,” is not always attained, even by the most experienced photographer. Every operator knows that there is sometimes a condition of things that renders a simple and efficient process of intensifying afterwards indispensable.

Of all the modes of intensifying—and their name is legion—I think the readiest and most generally useful has been much neglected. The persulphate of uranium and ferridcyanide of potassium process gave wonderfully charming results. But what of that? It was completely impracticable, and a failure, in consequence of its tendency to go on increasing in intensity in the hands of the printer.

The bichloride of mercury and iodine processes, unlimited in number, also went on increasing in an unlimited degree, and no amount of “roasting” could reduce the negatives so treated to the desirable degree of transparency that would enable any printer to obtain good impressions. There is, however, one of the bichloride of mercury processes, published some years ago, which I modified so as to give the most satisfactory results. It rendered the negative sufficiently intense, and preserved the most exquisite modelling, without changing afterwards; but the process was very troublesome, and not very agreeable.

The simplest, cheapest, and most reliable process of intensifying negatives that I know of is with sulphuret of potassium (liver of sulphur) used in the following manner:—

Make a very dilute solution of sulphuret of potassium, put it into any old gutta-percha or porcelain bath; and, after the negative is developed as far as is desirable with the ordinary iron developer, fixed, and washed in the usual way, immerse the plate in that state at once into the solution of sulphuret of potassium, in the same manner as in sensitising the plate in the nitrate bath, by using a dipper, and leave it there until sufficiently intense, which is generally in about the time required for coating and sensitising another plate, so that, if the operator be working single-handed, very little, if any, time is lost in the process of intensifying.

The solution may also be flooded over the plate in the same manner as the developer, after fixing and washing as before.

When sufficiently intense, rinse the plate with water, dry, and varnish in the ordinary way. But it is best to use the intensifier in the manner first described, which is by far the most cleanly and economical plan, both in the saving of time and solution. By using it with the “bath and dipper,” it is not offensive, on account of its extreme dilution, and not being disturbed so much, or immediately under the olfactory nerves of the operator, it may be worked in the ordinary dark room with the greatest safety and convenience.

A STRING OF OLD BEADS

He is a rash man who announces “something new” in these days. I believe there is nothing new under the sun, and in photography especially. If any man be rash enough to rush into print with what he considers a new idea, some other man rushes into print also and says the idea is old, exploded, useless, worthless, or worse.

I lay no claim to originality. I have lived so long in the atmosphere of photography, I don’t know where or how I picked up my knowledge—such as it is. Some of it I may have stumbled on, some of it I may have found, and some of it I may have stolen. If the latter, I forget from whom, when, or where, and in all such cases a bad memory is a good and convenient thing. But I will endeavour to atone for such sins by publicly restoring all I may have filched from other men’s brains for the benefit of all whom it may concern. I shall not count the beads; that would be like running over a rosary, and I object to sub rosa revelations; neither shall I attend to the order of stringing the beads, but will put them on record just as they come to hand; and the first is—

How to Make Vignette Papers.—Take a piece of sensitised paper, lay it under a piece of glass and let it blacken. Then take a camels’-hair pencil dipped in a weak solution of cyanide of potassium, and paint the extreme size and shape of the desired aperture. Let it dry, and with a little stronger solution of cyanide paint within the size and shape, and then with a stronger solution paint the centre, which will be perfectly white and semi-transparent. The object of using the three strengths of solution and painting three separate times is to obtain gradation, and the edges will be yellow and softened like a vignette glass. These vignette papers can be attached to the back of the negative or to the outside of the printing-press, and can be used either in shade or sunshine without materially prolonging the time of printing. The cost of production is trifling, as any waste piece of paper and spare time can be employed in making them, and they do not occupy much time in making; in fact, one can be made in less time than will be spent in reading this description. I need not expatiate on the advantages of being able to make a special vignette quickly. Every photographer must have experienced the difficulty of purchasing a special size and shape to suit a particular subject.

How to Point a Pencil.—Rub the pencil to a point in the groove of a corundum file. This is a better and cheaper pointer than a Yankee pencil-sharpener, and it puts a finer point to a blacklead pencil than anything else I know. Retouchers, try it.

How to Ease a Tight Stopper.—There is nothing more annoying in the practice of photography than to take up a bottle and find the stopper fixed. In many instances the bottle is broken and time wasted in trying to remove the fixed stopper. When such an obstinate stopper gets into your hands, run a little glycerine round the top of the bottle. Set the bottle down, and in a few minutes the stopper will be free. Prevention is better than cure. Keep a little glycerine on all your stoppers. Glycerine agrees with every chemical in photographic use, and prevents stoppers and bottles coming to grief. In a thousand and one ways a little glycerine is beyond all price.

How to Prepare Albumenized Prints for Colouring.—Pour over them a little matt varnish. This removes the greasiness, and gives a fine tooth and ivory-like surface for the artist to work upon.

How to Remove Silver Stains from the White Ground of a Vignette.—Touch it with a solution of cyanide of potassium, and wash off immediately. The other parts of the picture will not be injured.

How to Stipple a Window White or Yellow.—For white, mix a little dextrine and kaolin in water. Dab the mixture on the glass with a piece of cotton. For the purpose of obscuration that is quite enough; but if sightliness be essential, finish by stippling with the ends of a hog’s-hair brush. For yellow, mix a little dextrine and deep orange chrome in powder together in water, and apply it to the window in the same manner. Dabbing once or twice with a piece of cotton will exclude white light and make a luminous dark room. The same mixture makes an excellent backing for dry plates to prevent halation.

LIGHTS AND LIGHTING

A great deal has been written and said about lights and lighting—a great deal too much; yet more must be said and written.

Light is to the photographer what the sickle is to the shearer—a good reaper can cut well with an indifferent sickle, but an indifferent reaper never gets a good sickle in his hand. A good photographer, who also understands light and shade, can produce good pictures in an ordinary studio. It is the indifferent photographer who runs after “fancy lights,” and is, like a benighted traveller in pursuit of a will-o’-the-wisp, eventually left floundering in a bog. It is folly to construct powerful concentrators if powerful reflectors have to be employed to counteract their defects. If a limited amount of diffused light be absolutely necessary it is best to retain it and use it in its simplest and least expensive form.

When I commenced photography glass houses were scarcer in England than comets in the heavens, and the few that were in existence were all constructed on false principles. It was not until I visited America that I saw a properly-constructed studio. The Americans were, and are, prone to give stupid names to sensible things; and the names they gave to their studios were no exceptions. This, that, and the other photographer advertised his “mammoth skylight.” I went to sit, see, and be satisfied that their mode of lighting was very superior to ours. I was convinced instanter that the perpendicular sides and sloping roofs of our miserable little hothouses were mistakes and things to be abhorred, while their spacious rooms and “mammoth skylights” were things to be admired and adopted.

In one of these rooms, and almost without blinds or reflectors, the sitter could be “worked” on a semi-circle or half oval, and “lighted” either in front or on either side at pleasure, and with the greatest facility. I determined, there and then, to build my next studio on similar principles; but until recently I have had no opportunity of carrying out my intentions. To get what I required and to make the best of my situation I had to “fence and fiddle” the district surveyor: but I gained my point, and the victory was worth the foils and the fiddlestick.

My studio can be lighted from either side; but the “light of lights” is the north one, and that is a large fixed window 11 by 9 feet with a single slope of two and a half feet in the height; that is, two and a half feet out of the perpendicular at the top, with no other top light and no perpendicular side light. With this light I do all ordinary work. I can work round the light from one side of the room to the other, as under a mammoth skylight, without using either blind or reflector. If I want Rembrandt effects I have only to open a shutter on the south side, and let in subdued sunlight. That at once becomes the dominant light, and the north light illumines the shadows. The bottom of the north light is three feet from the floor.

The advantages of this form of studio are these. It is cool, because no more light is admitted than is absolutely necessary. It is neat, because no rag-like curtains are hanging about. It is clean, because there is nothing to collect dirt. It is dry, because the pitch of the roof renders leakage impossible. It is pleasant to the sitter, because of these desirabilities, and that the light is not distressing. It is agreeable to the operator, because the work is easy and everything is comfortable.