Please don't turn on the lights

I photograph a lot of churches. I call it one of my vices. Whether at home or on holiday, I'll make a point of visiting a town or country church and 'doing' it - meaning that I'll start with some exterior shots, then explore the interior with an historic or architectural eye, camera in hand. I'm after striking or interesting features - large or small - that will make a good picture: a tomb, a memorial, a stained glass window, sometimes extraordinary statues and artworks. I'm careful where I walk, and respectful of the building's chief purpose as a place of worship. As readers know, I am not religious. But I behave in these places as if there really is a presence that knows I'm there and is watching.

Photography, particularly the shooting of dim interiors, is all about shafts of light and deep pools of shadow - brilliantly-lit sharp highlights contrasting against total darkness - which is why the black-and-white photos of yesteryear still look good, as they concentrate on shapes, textures and patterns, which church interiors have in abundance. There's no shortage of photographic material in a church. Shots in colour rely more on the play of light filtered through stained glass windows, or at least through narrow windows of the ecclesiastic kind, which never provide enough light for normal activities, but contribute greatly to the shady, silent, other-worldly atmosphere in these solemn places. People do make homes out of redundant churches and chapels, but the conversions I've seen rarely look successful, any more than barn conversions do. Barns, like churches, were never designed for living in. 

For my purpose, I like the light in churches to be natural. I'm happy to work with light that is soft and low. So low in fact that my shots will generally be under-exposed. It's almost inevitable with my newest and best camera, LXV, a Leica X Vario with a maximum aperture of only f/3.5. But it doesn't matter, because LXV's shots can stand a remarkable amount of brightening. As a technical issue, underexposure is far better than overexposure, as you can bring out the details lurking in shadows without blowing the highlights. Alternatively, you can keep unwanted clutter hidden in darkness. In any case, underexposure preserves the atmosphere of dim and serious solemnity, the abiding attraction, and the main thing I want to take away from my visit. 

So really the last thing I want is anything that will destroy that atmosphere. Such as switching the lights on. I won't do it, but one of the persons who look after the church - perhaps the person who locks up at the end of the afternoon - will 'help' me by turning on the spotlights. The motivation is a good one. Tapestries hitherto invisible in sunset shadow are now revealed. The altar and its surroundings are now aglow with yellow light. I can't blame a church custodian wanting to show me the best features of the church they love. And they do think it will make taking pictures easier and better: they say so. 

But it's not what I want. True, the spotlighting discloses things I hadn't noticed and walked past, but the light is now artificial and the atmosphere is different. I oblige them with a couple of token shots. I will keep those, but privately lament whatever I can't now photograph in natural light. The only plus point is that these helpful people are often most interesting fonts of knowledge about the church, and may well produce a key and suggest seeing the interior from some viewpoint usually forbidden to the ordinary visitor, such as the high gallery where the organist sits. I always accept, and I'm very thankful for the opportunity to shoot from a different angle. I'm not one of those arrogant souls who think the possession of a fancy camera entitles them to ignore 'no entry' signs, and intrude and trespass just as they please. I appreciate all favours that come my way.

You can do so much in natural light, however subdued. And getting back to what I was saying about the things often found in church interiors, the things I like to see and record, and occasionally make a memorable picture of, I'll continue this post with some examples. 

These first ones are from 2020. It's the Black Death Lady inside Yanworth church in Gloucestershire. She survived, but her look of misery says her family were all taken, and she now has nothing to live for. A dire warning to live righteously and not risk such a loss.

The natural light was only just sufficient to bring out the solidity and details of the stone carving. But a spotlight on it would have taken away the fourteenth century and substituted the twenty-first. 

Next, a lady who died in 1844, and was commemorated in a magnificently-carved tomb at Hatherop church, also in Gloucestershire, inside a suitably Gothic chapel:

Extraordinarily good workmanship from an Italian sculptor. (Nobody is going to erect something similar when I go. Sigh)

Moving on to 2021, my travels brought me to the memorials and artworks at Mells church in Somerset. All shot in natural light.

The main one, the most impressive one, was the man-on-horse statue in a corner of the church. He was, of course, a casualty of the First World War: 

The visitor was also urged to look at this tapestry:

This window:

And these memorials, delicately caught in the velvety light:

Much was made of the connection with Siegfried Sassoon, the First World War poet, whose grave was outside:

Moving on to 2022, I had a good time at Boxgrove Priory in Sussex late one afternoon. The priory church (unlike the Priory itself) remained intact and in use, and was full of interest. It had a maze:

And a chantry. A little roofed enclosure - practically a room - elaborately carved and fitted out, in which monks prayed for the soul of its builder. It would be endowed, so that prayers could continue forever into the future, with the purpose (I suppose) of either nudging the builder/endower out of purgatory and into heaven, or of maintaining him in heaven once he got there. Perhaps it was thought the Deity might disapprove of anyone who wasn't being prayed for, and boot them out as unworthy characters. Most chantries were got rid of after the Reformation, being judged contrary to the new religion of the time. This one survived as a straightforward monument.

Off to one side, a modern stained glass window in memory of a brave American who flew for the RAF and was shot down, complete with a Spitfire with its propeller whirring around - not the usual subject (or style) for stained glass:

Eyes upward, and a beautiful vaulted ceiling:

And close to the door, a statue of the Madonna and child, lit gloriously by shafts of sunset light streaming through more stained glass:

Which amply makes the point that natural lighting, no matter how challenging, is best.

I do like colour. And this stained glass at Clare church in Suffolk in June last year was especially a feast for the eye:

This was the detail of a lily in the bottom centre panel:

LXV caught the colours and detail rather well. Such strongly stained and painted glass blocks a lot of light. But reflective objects - such as this eagle lectern - can nevertheless still glow in a deep brassy fashion, and seem almost alive. Lit up by spotlights, he would be just another lump of shiny metal.

A couple of weeks ago I was in Hampshire, at Empshott church. The afternoon light lit up the internal arches, timber rafters, and suspended clusters of leaves, in a most attractive fashion:

The altar was mysteriously dim and ghostly in the weak, diffused light:

Then a lady emerged from the vestry, which had its own door to the outside, and proceeded to 'help' me by switching on the lights that had been installed at great expense. I didn't like to say no. Certainly, they were good lights, obviously necessary in winter. But they banished all mystery at the altar:

It was nice to see the roof beams clearly, and I politely took a photo, but it wasn't what I wanted from my visit. On the other hand, I appreciated the trouble she took. And she explained several things about the church and its history that were undeniably worth knowing. 

The long and short of it is that if a person connected to the church I'm visiting gives me some of their time, then I'm pleased and grateful. And I hope they see that I'm a serious visitor. I do wish however that more of them were photographers themselves. Then they might understand that I do actually want my subject shrouded in shadow, lit only by stray beams of light.