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Friday, 07 July 2017


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I've been enjoying the Strand book a lot, now that I've had a chance to really look at it. In his middle years he really seemed to become a master of midtones. There is a certain look to the grays that I don't think I've ever been able to get with digital images, no matter how much fiddling.

I have been digging into the Strand book. (A birthday gift from my wife.) It's magnificent and deep, befitting his great work. Eventually I plan to compare the reproductions against the many Strand books and one Strand print in our collection... a marvelous thing is that the prints are reproduced at the same size as the originals.
Thanks for putting these sales together, Mike, but please don't abuse the language and your craft by using the word 'home' as a verb. I may be a photographer first but the words are important too.

It's amusing to see readers homing in on your grammatical errors ;-)

Mark, home can be used as a verb, not as often as house perhaps but ask any pigeon.

More specifically as providing a home or domicile it goes way back

Sought he Minos the Haughty where homed in proudest of Mansions.
The Carmina of Caius Valerius Catullus

Yes I had to look it up, I'm an old fogey but not a thousand year old fogey.

@Hugh Crawford. I was amazed that Catullus was writing in English all those years before it was invented ;-) . Anyway, I thought I would find out how old the translation was so I put "Sought he Minos etc" into to Google and bloody Google replied:
"Did you mean: Sought he Minos the Haughty were housed in proudest of Mansions?" So I gave up :-) .

@Mark that was one of the examples at http://www.dictionary.com/browse/homed
that I thought was appropriately absurd

I could swear that there is a Robert Service or Kipling poem that uses homed in a repeating stanza, but can't remember. Something about Alaska or India, too cold or too hot, father used to recite working on the farm when the usual verses and expletives were inadequate.

Gads, now I'll have The Cremation of Sam McGee stuck in my head for the rest of the day
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee...."

Ah Ha


When I was small the Lord appeared
Unto my mental eye
A gentle giant with a beard
Who homed up in the sky.
But soon that vasty vision blurred,
And faded in the end,
Till God is just another word
I cannot comprehend.

I envy those of simple faith
Who bend the votive knee;
Who do not doubt divinely death
Will set their spirits free.
Oh could I be like you and you,
Sweet souls who scan this line,
And by dim altar worship too
A Deity Divine!

Alas! Mid passions that appal
I ask with bitter woe
Is God responsible for all
Our horror here below?
He made the hero and the saint,
But did He also make
The cannibal in battle paint,
The shark and rattlesnake?

If I believe in God I should
Believe in Satan too;
The one the source of all our good,
The other of our rue . . .
Oh could I second childhood gain!
For then it might be, I
Once more would see that vision plain,--
Fond Father in the sky.

Robert William Service :

Well not repeating, but still...

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