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 Power Formula (West Virginia) and Ohm’s Law56
Common Electrician Calculations56
Sidebar 4.2: Practical Examples of Electrical Problems 56
Sidebar 4.3: Determination of Lamp Load 57
Fundamental Circuits 57
Series Circuits57
Parallel Circuits58
Direct Current Versus Alternating Current 58
Direct Current (DC)58
Alternating Current (AC) and Power Generation58
Transformers59
Power Distribution 60
Electrical Services61
Electrical Hardware 63
Wire63
Sidebar 4.4: Common Wire Gauges and Rated Capacities 64
Cables64
Data Cables66
Sidebar 4.5: Working with Cables 66
Switches67
Circuit Protection67
Dimmers68
Company Switches and Distribution Panels 68
Theatrical Distribution68
Sidebar 4.6: Tapping into Company Switches 69
Troubleshooting Electrical Problems 70
Sidebar 4.7: A Guide to Electrical Troubleshooting 70
Sidebar 4.8: Electrical Safety 71
For Further Reading 71
5 Lamps and Other Light Sources 73
Lumens, Watts, and Lamp Life 74
Lamps and Color 74
Incandescent Lamps 74
Filaments75
Bulbs76
Bases77
Tungsten-Halogen or Quartz Lamps 78
Sidebar 5.1: Light Center Length (LCL) 78
ANSI Codes 79
Arc Light Sources 79
Limelight79
Carbon-Arc80
Short-Arc and High-Intensity
Discharge (HID) Lamps80
Short-Arc Lamps80
High-Intensity Discharge (HID) Lamps81
Gaseous Discharge Lamps 81
Fluorescent Lamps82
Low-Voltage Lamps 83
Solid-State Light Sources 83
LEDs84
Sidebar 5.2: Designer Profile: Robert (Rob) Gerlach 87
Plasma Lamps90
Non-Traditional Light Sources 90
Ballasted Fixtures90

Contents  vii
 Blacklight90
Strobes91
Neon92
Fiber Optics92
Lasers92
For Further Reading 93
6 Luminaire Fundamentals 95
Basic Principles of Optics 95
Reflection and Reflectors96
Transmission98
Refraction and Lenses98
An Essential Luminaire 100
Photometrics100
Sidebar 6.1: Luminaire Maintenance 100
Beam Angle and Field Angle101
Throw Distances101
Photometric Data and Cut Sheets102
Sidebar 6.2: Two Methods for Determination of
Beam Spread 104
Choosing Luminaires 104
Conventional Luminaires for the Stage (Traditional
and Enhanced) 105
Spotlights105
Followspots112
Sidebar 6.3: Followspot Pickup Techniques 113
Floodlights113
Accessories for Conventional Luminaires 115
Optical Accessories115
Hanging Accessories116
Automated Accessories for Conventional Luminaires 117
Scrollers117
Moving Yokes118
Moving Mirror Accessories119
Gobo Rotators119
Automated Lighting 119
Sidebar 6.4: Common Automated Lighting Effect Cues 120
Attributes and Addressing120
Moving Heads (Moving Yokes)121
Scanners (Moving Mirrors)122
LED Luminaires 123
Color Mixing With LEDs123
Wash and Strip or Linear Luminaires123
Ellipsoidal Reflector Spotlights125
LEDs in Scenery and Costumes126
Sidebar 6.5: Designer Profile: Allen Lee Hughes 127
Practicals and Lighting Effects 129
Practicals129
Flame and Fire Effects129
Water Reflections130
Fog, Smoke, and Haze130
Lightning131
Sun, Moon, and Stars131
Explosions and Pyro Devices132
For Further Reading 132

viii  Contents
7 Control Fundamentals 133
Illuminance and Luminance—Five Metrics 133
Luminous Flux133
Illuminance134
Luminous Intensity134
Luminance135
Luminous Exitance135
Brightness Control and Dimming 135
Circuiting136
Sidebar 7.1: Dimmer Load Calculations 137
Mastering138
Mechanical Mastering138
Electrical Mastering138
Electronic Mastering139
Principles of Electronic Dimming 139
Gating140
Sidebar 7.2: Dimmer Curves and Trimming 142
Sine Wave Dimming142
Control Protocols 143
Analog Control143
Digital Control143
Primary Control of Advanced Lighting Gear 145
DMX Control146
Attributes and Addressing 146
Sidebar 7.3: Binary Code and Addressing 147
Sidebar 7.4: Practical Tips for Setting up DMX Networks 147
Sidebar 7.5: Programming Tips for Automated Lighting Gear 148
Lighting Networks, ACN, and RDM149
Lighting Control Consoles 150
Preset Control150
Sidebar 7.6: Common Control Functions of Preset Consoles 151
Sidebar 7.7: Rock and Roll Console Features 151
Memory Control151
Sidebar 7.8: Additional Controls in Computer Consoles 154
Automated Control Consoles154
Latest Generation Lighting Consoles155
Off-Line Editors 156
Visualization157
Show Control 159
State-of-the-Art Control 160
Sidebar 7.9: Designer Profile: Fred Foster 160
Dimmer-per-Circuit160
Multiplexing (Dimmer Doubling™)162
Distributed Dimming162
Wireless DMX and Wireless Dimming163
For Further Reading 165
8 Projections and Lighting 166
A Brief History of Projection 167
Projection Considerations 167
Sidebar 8.1: Considerations of Projection Design 168
Elements of Projection 168
Front or Rear Projection? 169
Traditional Projection Equipment 170
Lensless Projectors170

Contents  ix
 Lens Projectors171
The Ellipsoidal Reflector Spotlight (ERS)171
The 35mm Projector171
Sidebar 8.2: Calculations Regarding Projectors and Lenses 172
Scenic Projectors173
Slides and Source Materials 174
Projection Surfaces 174
Front-Projection Screens174
Rear-Projection Screens174
Other Materials/Projection Surfaces176
Practical Issues of Projection 176
Image Definition176
Two Critical Considerations: Path and Balance177
Spill and Ambient Light177
Image Size178
Distortion178
Sidebar 8.3: Keystone Correction 180
Sidebar 8.4: Mathematical Grid for Keystone Correction 180
Digital Projection 181
Media Servers181
Sidebar 8.5: Designer Profile: Wendall K. Harrington 182
Digital Projectors184
Digital Lights185
LCD and LED Displays186
Lasers and Effects Projection 186
Convergence188
For Further Reading 189

PART THREE—LIGHT: DESIGN FUNDAMENTALS 191

9 Essentials of Lighting Design 193

Special Considerations in Lighting Design 193
Directors and Collaboration 194
The Influences of Light 194
Controllable Qualities of Light (Reviewed)195
Functions of Lighting (Reviewed)195
Analysis for Lighting 195
Script Analysis196
Sidebar 9.1: Designer Profile: Brian MacDevitt 196
Sidebar 9.2: Scenic Breakdown of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible199
Analysis for Other Forms of Entertainment Design203
Style in Lighting 204
Conceptualization205
Additional Designer Preparation 205
Design Research205
Design and Production Meetings207
Rehearsals208
Developing Lighting Schemes and Concepts 211
Lighting Keys 211
Sidebar 9.3: Development of a Lighting Key 212
Communicating Design Ideas 212
Image Research212
Storyboards213
Lighting Scores213
Light Labs215

x  Contents
 Model Theatres217
Computer Design Analysis217
Digital Renderings218
Visualization219
For Further Reading 222
10 Basics of General Illumination 223
Lighting the Subject 223
Typical Theatrical Lighting Positions 224
Proscenium Theatre224
Sidebar 10.1: Proscenium Hanging Positions and
Lighting Distribution 225
Black Box Theatre227
Other Variations227
Floorplans and Sections 227
Basics of General Illumination or Area Lighting 227
Primary Formula Approaches for Area Lighting 231
Single Source System231
Wash System232
The McCandless System232
Double or Triple Hanging233
Area versus Color Control234
Alternative Systems for Area Lighting 234
Key and Fill234
The Washed Stage235
Zone Lighting235
Jewel Lighting235
Building on General Lighting 236
Special Areas237
Sculpting and Modeling Accents237
Sidebar 10.2: Focus Patterns for Common Wash Systems 238
Blending and Toning Accents238
Motivational Accents239
Additional Lighting Demands 239
Special Visibility239
Lighting for Costumes240
Lighting for Scenery240
Scrims243
Effects Lighting244
Sidebar 10.3: Designer Profile: Jeff Davis 244
For Further Reading 246
11 Plotting the Design 247
Translating Concepts and Lighting Keys Into Practical Design Choices 248
Working With Floorplans and Sections 248
Floorplans or Groundplans248
Sections250
An Approach to Plotting a Design 252
Preliminary Tasks/Preparation252
Advancing a Venue252
Rehearsals253
The Wish List253
Making a Design Practical254
The Tentative Hookup256
The Rough Light Plot256
Drafting and the Lighting Design 258
Drafting Light Plots259

Contents  xi
 Sidebar 11.1: Common Numbering Practices 264
Drafting the Section264
Lighting Schedules and Design Paperwork 264
Sidebar 11.2: Designer Profile: Steven Louis “Steve” Shelley 265
Hookup267
Instrument Schedule267
Magic Sheets267
Shop Orders271
CAD and Computers in Lighting Design 276
CAD and Drafting Applications276
Sidebar 11.3: AutoCAD versus Vectorworks Spotlight 278
Design Paperwork278
Control and Off-Line Editing279
Communication and Training280
Design Analysis and Visualization280
For Further Reading 282
12 Load-in Through Opening 283
Final Preparations for the Load-In 284
The Cue Synopsis 284
Sidebar 12.1: Cue Terminology 287
The Load-In 287
Sidebar 12.2: A Typical Academic Load-in Schedule 289
Sidebar 12.3: A Typical Commerical Production
Load-in Schedule 290
The Focus Call 290
The Level-Setting or Cue-Writing Session 293
Cueing Aids for Memory Consoles 297
Sidebar 12.4: Cueing Aids for Memory Consoles 298
Rehearsals in the Venue 299
Technical Rehearsals299
Dress Rehearsals, Previews, and Openings300
Running and Maintaining the Production 302
Sidebar 12.5: Designer Profile: Beverly Emmons 302
For Further Reading 305
13 Variations on Essential Theatrical Design 306
Designing for Specific Genre 306
Variations in the Audience/Performance Space 307
Thrust Productions309
General Lighting Techniques for Thrust Design310
Arena Productions312
Environmental Productions313
Outdoor Dramas and Festival Productions 314
Transfer Productions 315
Touring Productions 319
Repertory Productions 320
Sidebar 13.1: Designer Profile: F. Mitchell “Mitch” Dana 322
For Further Reading 324

PART FOUR—LIGHT DESIGN APPLICATIONS 325

14 The Practitioners 327

Theatrical and Live Performance Production 327
Design Professionals328

xii  Contents
 Sidebar 14.1: Designer Profile: Dawn Chiang 329
Theatrical Crews332
Sidebar 14.2: Designer Profile: Brad Schiller 334
Film and Video 336
Design Professionals336
Sidebar 14.3: Designer Profile: Patrick Cady 337
Production Crews338
Sidebar 14.4: Designer Profile: Derrick Kolus 339
Architectural Lighting 341
Unions and Certifications 342
Sidebar 14.5: Designer Profile: Gary Fails 343
Professional Organizations and Societies 345
For Further Reading 346
15 Traditional Areas of Theatrical Design (Drama, Dance,
Opera, and Musical Theatre) 347
Lighting for Drama 348
Performance Considerations348
Design Techniques349
Dance Lighting 350
Performance Considerations350
Design Techniques351
Sidebar 15.1: Designer Profile: Jennifer Tipton 354
Opera and Operetta Lighting 356
Performance Considerations356
Design Techniques358
Lighting Musical Theatre 360
Performance Considerations360
Design Techniques361
Sidebar 15.2: Common Musical Theatre Cueing Terminology 365
For Further Reading 366
16 Non-Traditional Lighting Design Applications 367
Branching Out Into Other Fields of Lighting 367
The Music Scene (Revues, Clubs, and Concert Lighting) 368
Musical Revues368
Nightclubs and Dance Club Lighting369
Concert Lighting369
Sidebar 16.1: Designer Profile: James L. “Jim” Moody 372
The Spectacle Performance 374
Headline Acts374
Arena Productions and Stadium Productions375
Sidebar 16.2: Designer Profile: Jeff Ravitz 376
Dedicated Venues378
Additional Areas of Spectacle378
Trade Shows, Industrials, and Corporate Events 379
Corporate Mentality379
Sidebar 16.3: Designer Profile: Betsy Adams 380
Corporate Production382
Film and Video Basics 382
Light and the Camera383
Key and Fill Light384
Control Elements385
Key Elements in Film/Video Illumination386
Sidebar 16.4: Designer Profile: William L. “Bill” Klages 387
Three-Point and Following Source Lighting389

Contents  xiii
 Retail and Museum Lighting 390
Lighting Layers390
Essentials of Retail and Museum/Gallery Lighting391
Sidebar 16.5: Designer Profile: Cindy Limauro 392
Architectural Lighting 394
Unique Qualities and Demands of Architectural Lighting394
Architectural Luminaire Classifications395
Key Elements in Architectural General Illumination396
The Architectural Lighting Design Process398
Sidebar 16.6: Lighting Design Questions 399
Sidebar 16.7: Designer Profile: Robert “Bob” Shook 399
Daylighting400
Lighting Green and Lighting Economics402
Landscape Lighting 402
Lighting Landscapes403
Essential Approaches to Lighting Landscapes403
Principles of Landscape Lighting404
Themed Design and Specialty Lighting 404
The Story405
Development of a Themed Project406
Considerations of Themed (Specialty) Lighting Design406
Sidebar 16.8: Designer Profile: Tom Ruzika 407
Virtual Lighting (Renderings, Virtual Reality, Gaming, etc.) 409
Sidebar 16.9: Designer Profile: Chris Wells 410
Virtual Design410
Virtual Light Sources411
Lighting Techniques for Virtual Lighting412
For Further Reading 412

Appendices415
A. Lighting Periodicals 416
B. Lighting Equipment Manufacturers 417
C. Professional Organizations and Unions 421
D. USITT Lighting Graphics Standard 422
E. IESNA Lighting Graphics 432
Glossary433
Bibliography483
Index487

xiv  Contents
 PREFACE

I T IS IMPORTANT to note that Stage Lighting: The Fundamentals is the first of a two-part companion set of
lighting design books, the second book being Stage Lighting: Design Applications and More. The chapters that form
the basis for the material presented in this book are based on the printed segment of the first edition (Stage Lighting:
Fundamentals and Applications) while the chapters on more specialized applications that were previously presented
online in the first edition are now in print in the second book (Stage Lighting: Design Applications and More). This
book, Stage Lighting: The Fundamentals, is focused primarily on materials typically found in introductory to inter-
mediate courses, while Stage Lighting: Design Applications and More is focused on a variety of specialized lighting
applications that are more characteristic of topics presented in more advanced lighting classes. That book may also
be used by more advanced readers as a personal reference. Both books have also been updated with new materials to
reflect current trends in the industry and are now printed in color. Regardless of the reader’s level of lighting expertise,
they will most likely find materials that speak to their interests and needs in both books.
Before going any further, I want to express my continued thanks to the many instructors and colleagues who
have made the first edition of the book so successful. More importantly, I’m thankful for the conversations and sug-
gestions we have had that aided me in making improvements in this second edition. Focal Press/Routledge–Taylor &
Francis Group reflects a new partnership that I feel will allow the book to continue to grow in both popularity and
usefulness to students and future lighting designers. In addition to updating, the most significant changes between
the first and second editions relate to moving the former online chapters into a second volume and printing both
books in color. This also allowed me to move Stage Lighting: The Fundamentals towards more introductory materials
while shifting some of the more advanced concepts to the applications topics in the second book. Several additional
upgrades and revisions provided in the second edition of both books include the following: printing the majority of
the images and figures in full color, updating a number of technology sections to reflect current trends and equipment
(especially in the area of LEDs, which are overtaking the lighting industry), updating several design processes (i.e.,
significant changes have been made in the recommended practices of architectural lighting since the printing of the
first edition), reorganization and consolidation of several topics to fit the manner in which instructors are using the
book, additions to the books’ resources (glossary, bibliography, manufacturer contacts, and periodical listings), and
the inclusion of nearly a dozen additional professional profiles that provide introductions to lighting professionals
who aren’t necessarily designers but who represent other avenues of employment for future lighting specialists (along
with updates to the majority of the designer profiles that appeared in the first edition).
Lighting design is one of the most influential design specializations existing in today’s society. Light gives us the
primary means by which we sense our environment. It plays a fundamental role in our perception of the world and
how we observe it. Light can hide or reveal an object and its features, modify the perceived shape of an object, suggest
motion, distort or enhance an object’s colors or texture, and can be used to create or alter moods. These are only a few
of the many ways that light can manipulate our perception of the world. This book has been written primarily for the
beginning to intermediate level student. While a certain amount of technology must be understood before moving
on to concepts involving design, the majority of this book is focused on the design process. Other topics presented
in this volume are based primarily on theatrical lighting and include the properties of light, effects of lighting, the
control and manipulation of light, theatrical lighting equipment, designing for traditional forms of entertainment,
projection, and a brief introduction to a variety of lighting applications beyond theatrical lighting. Although it is
assumed that this and its partner book will be used primarily in theatrical lighting classes, the books should also be
useful to those in the electrical engineering and architectural or interior design lighting fields as well. The books speak
to a broader audience—one that is seeking the fundamentals of lighting regardless of lighting discipline and where we
are encouraged to crossover between the many lighting specialties.
 I believe that the future of lighting design lies in a designer’s ability to understand and deliver designs in light—
period. Whether designing for an opera or a building, the basic principles of lighting hold true despite the differences
in equipment and specific design applications that exist between the disciplines. Many theatrical designers already
move naturally among any number of genres of entertainment lighting—and while most were trained predominantly
in theatrical design, there is immense potential for designing in a number of additional areas of lighting as well. Like-
wise, designers with an electrical engineering background are bringing more theatrical elements into their designs
as well. All you need to succeed can be found in a positive attitude in making the shift, becoming familiar with the
equipment and practices of the specialty, looking for opportunities to observe and learn a new discipline, and being
able to modify your techniques in order to suit the new avenue of design. Regardless of individual preferences, more
and more lighting designers are finding themselves crossing back and forth among a variety of lighting applications
as a means of maintaining a successful career. As an added benefit, these additional areas of lighting also frequently
offer larger design fees and other incentives for a project (such as permanence) that many theatrical organizations or
projects cannot provide.
The theme of both books lies in providing a link between many of these lighting disciplines. While there is a
solid introduction to theatrical lighting design (especially design process) in this book, it is my hope that you can use
both books as references that focus on lighting design and the design methodology that connects these fields rather
than simply focusing on the equipment and technological emphasis that are characteristic of many lighting books.
The topic of crossover to this degree had not really been attempted in a lighting text before the first edition of this
text. Additionally, a detailed discussion of the design process spans several chapters and forms another critical element
of this book. While the book outlines a reasonably specific process, it should not be thought of as the only process.
It is simply a place for the beginner to receive fairly detailed instructions that can then be tweaked as their skills and
processes evolve. In keeping with the more universal applications of lighting, a variety of specific lighting disciplines
are introduced in Chapter 16. Many of these are presented in considerable detail and as individual chapters in Stage
Lighting: Design Applications and More. Those chapters focus on essential design issues and equipment differences that
are unique to working in a variety of different areas of lighting design. Questions relating to special considerations,
luminaires, control and equipment needs, and design concerns that are characteristic of a particular lighting specialty
are also raised in those chapters. While technology cannot be avoided, it’s been my goal to present the technical mate-
rial as it becomes relevant and best pertains to the design needs of a “total” lighting designer. Because equipment is
constantly in a state of evolution, I have chosen to dedicate many figures to illustrations that present design concepts
rather than the traditional photographs of lighting equipment and production shots. Instead, in order to remain
current, I provide an appendix with a listing of lighting equipment manufacturers along with a link to their websites,
where up-to-date product information is always available.
Finally, the most important element of both books is to simply demonstrate the profound effect that light and a
lighting designer can have on our lives. My hope is that not only can I provide the spark of inspiration that will allow
readers to have a deeper appreciation of the art and tools of lighting, but also that these books will equip them with
enough information to use these tools to develop effective art while “painting with light.”

xvi  Preface
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A S WITH ANYTHING of this magnitude, there are many people who have provided help in producing this
project. You don’t have to work very long in this business to discover that many professionals in our line of work
are truly giving and willing to share their knowledge and experiences freely. This extends from the designers who have
worked on common projects with me, to fellow educators, to the Tony Award nominees and winners who form the
mainstay of Broadway lighting design. Colleagues who have been using the first edition of the book have also been
a great source of suggestions as we have worked on the second edition of this project. Additionally, our equipment
manufacturers and professional organizations are another group of contributors who are truly interested in sharing
their expertise and knowledge with us as well. It is impossible to mention every one of them here, but there are a
number of individuals that deserve a special mention and thank you. First, my editors and the rest of the staff at Focal
Press/Routledge and Taylor & Francis Group: Stacey Walker (acquisitions editor, who first approached me regarding
the second edition) and Meredith Darnell (editorial assistant) and Lucia Accorsi (editorial assistant) who have kept
this project on track since we first began to work on the second edition nearly three years ago. Also, to my initial
editors and staff at Pearson Education/Allyn & Bacon who brought the first edition of the book to life. I am most
appreciative of all of these individuals and their helpful suggestions as we have gone through the process of producing
both editions of the books. I also want to thank all of the designers and manufacturers who shared materials with me
or who were kind enough to be interviewed and let me feature them in the sidebars. These are among some of the
busiest people in the business and I appreciate their willingness to share their knowledge with the next generation
of lighting designers. Also, I want to thank the many students that I have had the pleasure of teaching, and in some
cases learning from, over the 30-plus years that I have been involved in lighting education. Nobody is an expert in all
areas, and the breadth of these books makes this an even more relevant issue. This is especially important for those
topics that are featured in Stage Lighting: Design Applications and More—and to that point I enlisted several colleagues
and friends who graciously read and offered comments and corrections on materials I have presented on various
specialty areas of the lighting industry. Many, but not all, of these individuals are featured in the sidebars, but to
make sure that none are missed I want to publicly acknowledge and thank the following individuals for their support
and comments: Marilyn Lowey, Jim Moody and Jeff Ravitz (concert and spectacle lighting), Bill Klages, (film and
television lighting), Bob Shook and the late Bill Warfel (display, landscape, and architectural lighting), Tom Ruzika
(themed/specialty design), and finally Mike Hussey and John Kundert-Gibbs (virtual lighting). These folks are all at
the top of their respective specialties. I also want to thank those colleagues who reviewed portions of the manuscript
as I went through the revision/updating process; I am appreciative of the comments and suggestions that came from
these individuals for both editions of the books. It’s difficult to be a sole writer on a project as large as this, and the
books are much improved through the comments and input that I received from all of these individuals. Finally, as
in the first edition, a very special thank you to my family (my very supportive wife, Joelle and our children, Chelsea,
and Richy) as well as our many friends and extended family who once again had to deal with the fact that “the books”
were always somewhere in my list of priorities over the last several years.
Richard Dunham, Spring 2018
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Richard E. Dunham, LC, IESNA (professor and head of design at the University of Georgia) has been involved
in lighting design for close to 40 years—more than 30 in lighting education. He has hundreds of design credits in
both academic and professional lighting/scenic design with credits in drama, dance, musical theatre, opera, concert/
music festivals, and various architectural projects. Several lighting credits include designing for the Brunswick Music
Theatre (Maine State Music Theatre), Music Theatre North, Springer Opera House, Atlanta Lyric Theatre, and many
New York metropolitan and Off/Off-Off Broadway productions with companies like Broadhollow Theatres, The
Circle Repertory Lab, and Jean Cocteau Repertory Theatres. He is a USITT Fellow, and has served on the board of
directors and has been active in the leadership of the lighting commission of USITT for many years—most notably
as lighting co-commissioner from 1998 to 2006. He is a frequent presenter at conferences and has authored articles
on theatre design and technology, edited the second edition of Practical Projects for Teaching Lighting Design: A Com-
pendium, was on the editorial committee of the second volume of the compendium that was published in 2016, and
has won two Herbert D. Greggs Honor Awards for his articles. He also coordinated the latest revision of the RP-2
Recommended Practice for Lighting Design Graphics (2006). In architectural lighting, he holds the LC certification
granted by the National Council for Qualifications for the Lighting Profession (NCQLP) and is a member of IESNA
and an associate member of IALD. He can be contacted through his website (rdunhamdesigns.com).
 PART ONE

LIGHT:
THE MEDIUM
 Taylor & Francis
Taylor & Francis Group
http://taylorandfrancis.com
 CHAPTER 1

THE NATURE OF LIGHT

B EFORE YOU CAN learn to design with light it is important to gain a basic under-
standing of the nature of light. Unlike other areas of design, light isn’t tangible: it appears
to be mysterious and can cause unpredictable results, yet it has an impact on everything it
touches. Light is controlled in ways that require at least some understanding of optics and
electricity—topics that easily intimidate many people. As lighting designers, light itself is our
medium, and we can usually convey our design ideas only through indirect methods such as
with pencils, paints, or computer simulations. This is very different when compared to other
artistic disciplines where the media are tangible. You can’t easily draw or render light as you
would in a rendering of a scenic or costume design or with a sketch of a building, where a
viewer can easily gain an understanding of a structure and color schemes that are created by
a designer. The effects of light are in many ways a mystery until the lights are turned on and
a subject is illuminated. Because of this, it is important to develop an understanding of the
actual medium of light. What is it? How does it behave? How might we control it? What is
its effect on other objects? With experience, you can predict many of the answers to these
questions, but even then, you can’t be completely sure of your design choices until you see
them actually revealed in light.
In this chapter I examine the physical properties of light, its makeup, and how it moves
through space. I will also provide you with several methods that we use to describe light.
Finally, I examine how light functions within our daily lives. These fundamental principles
hold true not only in lighting dramas and other entertainment programs, but also for lighting
buildings and natural settings where the sun and other light sources can be observed.

What is Light?
Quite simply, light is a form of energy. Specifically, it is a form of radiant energy that is
associated with a given portion of the electromagnetic spectrum. Radiant energy is a form
of energy given off by radiant bodies (heat/light sources) such as stars, like our sun. Radiant
energy moves away from its source at a constant speed while light is but one form of radiant
energy which has a speed of 186,000 miles/second. Most of us know this as the “speed of
light.”

The Electromagnetic Spectrum

The electromagnetic spectrum represents all forms of radiant energy. Some researchers
identify the electromagnetic spectrum with a particle-based theory while others refer to a
wave-theory approach. Regardless of the theory, the general principles are the same. In each
case, energy is thought to pulsate outward from a source at the speed of light in oscillations
that create a wavelike effect and form patterns that can be measured. In fact, the variables
that we generally use to describe radiant energy are based on wave theory. Most commonly
we make distinctions between different forms of radiant energy through measurements of
either frequency (f) or wavelength (λ). Wavelength is the distance between similar points
in a waveform over the time that a wave completes one cycle, while frequency refers to the
number of oscillations or cycles that a waveform completes over a given time. These variables
are inversely proportional to one another: as frequency
increases, the wavelength gets shorter, or as frequency
decreases, the wavelength gets longer. The strength or
amplitude of the waves is commonly called the intensity
(I). In visible light we often refer to this as the bright-
ness of the light. Figure 1.1 illustrates the relationship
between intensity, frequency, and wavelength.
In lighting, we generally use a measurement of
wavelength to make a distinction between different types
of light. The range of wavelengths produced by radiant
sources is extreme. At one end of the electromagnetic
spectrum we find electrical waves with wavelengths
measured in miles. The 60-cycle electrical currents that
are used in our homes may have a wavelength of more
than 3,000 miles. Many other forms of electromag-
netic radiation (ER) are associated with wavelengths so
small that a special unit, the angstrom (Å), has been
introduced to measure them. One angstrom is equal to
1/254,000,000 of an inch. At the opposite end of the
electromagnetic spectrum from electricity are cosmic
rays, which may have wavelengths as small as 1/10,000
Å. The electromagnetic spectrum is a collection of differ-
ent types of radiant energy that can be specified through
their varied wavelengths.
The Visible Spectrum
What concerns us as lighting designers is a very limited
range of wavelengths contained within the electromagnetic
Figure 1.1a Wave relationships. a. Relationship of inten-
sity (I), wavelength (λ), and cycle or frequency (f)
Figure 1.1b Frequency (f) and wavelength (λ) are inversely
propor­tional
4  Light: The Medium
spectrum that we commonly refer to as the visible spec-
trum. This is a collection of wavelengths that can be
sensed by the human eye. Those energy forms that lie
outside of our perception with wavelengths that are lon-
ger than we can sense include infrared, radar, television
and radio waves (with increasingly longer wavelengths).
Energy forms with progressively shorter wavelengths that
also lie outside the realm of our visibility include ultravi-
olet, x-ray, gamma and cosmic rays. Figure 1.2 illustrates
the relationship between wavelength and the individual
classifications of energy that make up the electromagnetic
spectrum.
The visible spectrum can be further broken down
into smaller components representing individual
colors—each color representing a specific wavelength of
radiant energy. We have all witnessed the rainbow effect
produced through the refraction and separation of light
into these individual colors by a prism, a storm cloud,
or water spray from a hose or fountain. Every color rep-
resents light of a different wavelength or frequency. The
range of wavelengths generally found within the visi-
ble spectrum extends from approximately 400 (violet)
to 700 (red) nanometers. A nanometer is one-billionth
of a meter. A second manner of expressing wavelength
has already been introduced through the measure-
ment known as an angstrom. An angstrom is 1/10 of
a nanometer. In this case, the visible spectrum would
be expressed as having wavelengths in the approximate
range of 4,000–7,000 Å.
The Eye and Seeing
Our observation of the world around us is based solely
on the manner in which we sense our environment.
We can’t directly observe anything without the aid of
various senses. If you think back to a basic biology
class you will probably remember that the human
body is equipped with five sensory devices. The senses
that these manage include sound, touch, smell, taste,
and sight. Each sense consists of a series of sensory
organs that convert physical phenomena into nervous
impulses that our brains process in a way that helps us
to observe the world around us. Our skin allows us to
feel, our ears allow us to hear, and our eyes allow us to
see.
The visible spectrum represents the range of wave-
lengths to which the human eye can sense light. If
we were sensitive to light relating to a different range
of wavelengths, our visible spectrum would shift to a
different portion of the electromagnetic spectrum. An
infrared camera, such as the ones used in defense or
security systems, is sensitive to a different portion of the
electromagnetic spectrum than the human eye. Hence,
in a situation such as a dark night where we cannot see
the movements of people like prowlers or soldiers, the
camera is able to “see” for us.
Figure 1.2 The electromagnetic and visible spectrums
The Controllable Qualities of Light
It is important at this point to introduce a vocabulary
that enables us to define and describe light. One of the
most difficult tasks for a lighting designer is in describ-
ing the lighting envisioned for a project. Light is our
medium and it cannot be illustrated effectively through
an indirect means such as with a model or rendering.
A scenic designer can illustrate to a reasonable degree
of success a final design and color palette for a project
through the use of markers, pencils, or paints. Like-
wise, in addition to renderings, a costumer can present
swatches or scraps of fabric to indicate the materials
from which a costume will be created. This isn’t so with
a lighting design, where light itself is the medium and
where nobody can get a true sense of the outcome of a
design until the actual lights (luminaires) are placed in
the performance space, colored, and balanced through
setting specific brightness levels for each light. Because
of this, several descriptive qualities have been defined
to help us communicate with one another about light.
These are generally not thought of in terms of quanti-
tative elements but are used instead to help us set up a
comparison between various lights and lighting effects.
While absolutes may come into the discussion, most
of these qualities are used solely within a descriptive
or comparative basis. These qualities are also universal
and can be translated to any field of lighting, whether
working in traditional theatre or lighting an office tower,
garden, or the latest Rolling Stones tour. While there
may be slight variations in terminology between light-
ing disciplines, most designers have come to refer to
four primary qualities for describing light. Any light,
no matter how produced or modified can be described
through these four attributes. The variation of any one
of these qualities will make a distinction between any
given example of light. These qualities include intensity,
distribution, color, and movement. As a whole, these
are essentially the same qualities that Stanley McCand-
less described in 1932 when he first wrote A Method of
Lighting the Stage.
Intensity
The most easily described quality of light is intensity,
which refers to the brightness of the light. While it
might be described very specifically and can be evalu-
ated through measurements such as the candela or foot-
candle, it is more often described through a comparative
basis. “This light is brighter than that light,” “this light
is approximately half the intensity of another light,” or
“that light is as bright as the moon” are examples of this
type of comparison. The human eye can perceive light
at an extreme range of intensities. In World War II,
soldiers learned that a German scout plane nicknamed
“Bed Check Charlie” could see the tip of a lit cigarette
from several miles away. If they were spotted, soldiers
could anticipate a visit from a bomber sometime later
The Nature of Light   5
that night. At the other extreme, the intensity of a light
can be so bright that it becomes harmful and could
even cause damage to our eyes. Examples of this would
include looking directly into the sun or being exposed to
the bright light that accompanies welders as they strike
an arc. In most theatrical venues we are generally con-
cerned only with the relative appearance of the light and
whether there is enough visibility to see what has to be
seen at any given moment on the stage. In video and
film lighting, the intensity isn’t as flexible, and there is a
minimum threshold of intensity that a director of pho-
tography must provide to maintain a proper exposure
for a setting. We have all taken photographs of last Fri-
day night’s party or some other special event to find that
the results that our phone or camera captured produced
only shadowy silhouettes that we think we recognize as
our friends. Even with today’s mobile phone cameras we
often find that images can suffer from poor lighting and
are either under or overexposed. Architectural lighting
designers speak of a minimum amount of illumination
for a given visual task or job. These tasks require a mini-
mum number of footcandles or lumens of illumination.
For example, the lighting levels required for a personal
home are much lower than those needed at a retirement
home, where elderly residents often have trouble seeing,
while a meeting room requires higher intensity levels
than a restaurant seating area—although none of these
settings would require the illumination levels needed for
an assembly line producing high-tech products. Regard-
less of whether describing a specific level of illumination
(i.e., footcandles) or simply describing intensity on a
comparative basis, intensity becomes one of the most
important ways of helping us distinguish between dif-
ferent types of light and lighting.
Another important element of intensity relates to
the principle whereby the intensity of a light drops off
dramatically as the distance from the source is increased.
This is expressed through a concept/formula known as
the Inverse Square Law. This law will be presented in
more detail in Chapter 7, but simply states that the illu-
minance of a light source is inversely proportional to the
square of the distance from the source. A quick exam-
ination of this principle can be demonstrated by playing
a flashlight on a wall and noting the apparent brightness
and coverage of the light while varying the distance that
the flashlight is held from the wall.
Distribution
The second controllable quality of light is known as dis-
tribution. McCandless described this as “form.” Most
lighting designers relate distribution to two specific
properties of light: angle (or direction) and quality.
Angle refers to the direction from which the light is
coming. Where are you hanging the light source? How
does it play upon the subject? Where are the highlights?
6  Light: The Medium
Where do the shadows fall? A light coming from behind
the subject presents a completely different image and
associated mood than a light coming from in front of
the subject. A couple walking hand-in-hand into a sun-
set presents a much more dramatic image than if the sun
were directly overhead. Dracula would most likely not
appear so scary if we chose to light him in any other way
than through a silhouette. The angle of the light helps
to define or reveal the form of an object. Light directly
from the front tends to flatten a subject and will cause
the subject to appear two-dimensional, while from the
side it tends to sculpt and etch the subject away from its
background. Backlight tends to push objects forward,
while downlight tends to squash the subject. A light
from below generally appears unnatural and can be used
to create effects that clue audiences into peculiarities
within a production. Architects can use these principles
to make a room appear larger or smaller.
Quality refers to the texture and characteristic
features of the light. Some lighting may be harsh and
crisp—representing strong parallel rays—while other
lighting will reflect a soft diffuse quality. Are the edges
of the light and shadows sharp and well-defined or are
they soft and fuzzy? Compare a clear sunny day in sum-
mer with the cold gray light associated with a December
afternoon. Is the light even in distribution, or are there
patterns? A typical contemporary classroom lighting
scheme will most likely result in a soft, even wash of
light over the entire room with some form of fluorescent
fixtures. In comparison, a warehouse set in 1930 would
probably be lit with single-bulb fixtures with simple
shades that would produce cones of light throughout
the structure. A walk on a sunny day through an open
field exposes you to a very different kind of light than
the textured light that you would expect once you move
into a wooded area, where the trees create patches of
light and shadow along your path. Lighting designers
can create their own textured light by inserting patterns
known as gobos into the fixtures that illuminate a space.
While gobos were first utilized in entertainment designs,
they have now become elements of architectural and dis-
play lighting as well.
Color
The third controllable quality of light is color, which is
considered by many to be the most dynamic of the con-
trollable qualities of light. Light will have an associated
color that is determined through the specific collection
of wavelengths present within its makeup. Hence, you
might have a lavender light, a red light, or a blue light—
each one distinguished from the others by those wave-
lengths of light found within its composition. However,
color is actually a perception based on how specific wave-
lengths of the light stimulate the photo sensors in our
eyes. Light, more importantly, has a major impact on
the color of any objects that it falls on, and the resultant
color is a factor of both the object’s surface color and that
of the light that strikes the object. All objects selectively
absorb or reflect various wavelengths of light—which
becomes the means by which we determine the color of
any object. The use of a light containing some or all of
the wavelengths of light that are naturally reflected by
an object will generally result in enhancing that object’s
color. On the other hand, the use of a colored light
with limited or no common wavelengths with that of
an object will result in a distortion and graying of that
object’s color. Color is produced through the spectral
makeup of the light source itself, through the removal of
specific wavelengths of the light through filtering, or by
the selective absorption of a light’s wavelengths by a sur-
face. While it is generally agreed that color is the easiest
quality of light to observe, it is also commonly acknowl-
edged that due to the unpredictability of its results, it is
perhaps the hardest quality to master and control.
Movement
The final quality of light is movement, which refers to
changes in the light from moment to moment. This
might be represented in a number of different ways:
First, the actual movement of the light source. This is
quite common and can be illustrated by a candle or
flashlight carried across a room, where you actually see
the source move from one location to another. A sec-
ond form of movement involves observing the move-
ment of the light without actually observing the light
source directly. Two examples of this include watching
the effect of a followspot on a rock musician and the use
of a progression of lamps to light actors as they move
from one stage position to another. In the first exam-
ple, you see the effect of the light following the musi-
cian, but you can’t see the actual spotlight because it is
located somewhere behind you at the rear of the audi-
torium or arena. In the second example, lights slowly
come up along the path that the actors walk such that
Sidebar 1.1 DESIGNER PROFILE
A creative force in the New York theatre since the
mid-1970s, Ken Billington is one of Broadway’s most
successful lighting designers. He remembers his first
attraction to stage lighting from when he was in the
fourth grade. From that point on, all Ken “wanted
to do was lighting,” but it wasn’t until he was in
junior high school that he realized that there were
actual “lighting designers” in the world and that it
was a proper design discipline. Finishing high school,
the individual lights precede the arrival of the actors to
specific locations on the stage. For even more effect, the
individual lights could also slowly dim down once the
actors move beyond their positions to other locations
along the path. The last element of movement relates
simply to changes within the lighting over time. This is
the one that theatrical lighting designers deal with most
often as they create cues for a production. For all prac-
tical purposes this would come about through making
changes in any of the other three controllable qualities
of light. Lights suddenly getting brighter or dimmer,
shifting to another color, or slowly moving to a different
angle all form examples of this kind of movement. The
movement may be nearly instantaneous (i.e., flipping a
light switch on or off) or could involve long transitions
like sunset sequences that are so subtle that a viewer
isn’t aware of the lighting changes being made from one
moment to another. Movement can also be thought of as
a transition in lighting. While there are occasions where
the lighting for an environment may be static, most of
us consider transitions in lighting to be just as important
as the images that a designer creates for a given project.
In summary, all lighting conditions reflect the
manipulation of these four qualities. Whether you light
a building, a museum display, an opera, or any other
form of entertainment, each moment that a viewer
observes can be associated with a given combination of
intensity, color, and distribution in the lighting. Move-
ment can most often be directly related to the transi-
tions between different “moments” (also called “looks,”
“states,” or “cues”). Each of these terms refers to names
that a designer may use to refer to a static view of the
lighting. Movement provides the fluid, dynamic qual-
ity required in a lighting design—a quality that many
of us believe is just as important as the combination
of fixtures, colors, and intensities that one sees at any
given time. If mounted correctly, the lighting can greatly
enhance a production or project. If done incorrectly, it
can quickly become an interruption or distraction for
the viewers.
he went directly to Manhattan to study at The Lester
Polakov Studio and Forum of Stage Design, appren-
ticing with both Peggy Clark and Tharon Musser. In
fact, he often claims that he went to “Musser U”
and credits that legendary designer with his first big
break.
Ken has designed a hundred Broadway shows,
70 off-Broadway shows, and operas for compa-
nies worldwide, as well as for concerts, theme park
The Nature of Light   7
Ken Billington
Credit: photo courtesy Ken Billington
shows, and architecture. He is often associated
with lighting large musicals and spectaculars, with
design credits that include the original Sweeney
Todd, White Christmas, Footloose, and Chicago (the
longest-running American musical in history). For 27
seasons, he designed the Christmas and Easter shows
at the Radio City Music Hall and has lit a range of
celebrated personalities, including Ann-Margret,
Shirley MacLaine, Carol Channing, Liberace, and
Hugh Jackman. Ken’s designs have enhanced such
extraordinary projects as Fantasmic at Disneyland,
the lavish aquatic show at Seaworld Parks (Orlando,
Florida; San Diego, California; and San Antonio,
Texas), productions at Busch Gardens (Williams-
burg, Virginia), and spectacular ice shows, includ-
ing Stars on Ice. His television work includes many
PBS theatre, concert specials, and several episodes
of the NBC series Smash. His architectural designs
have highlighted such New York landmarks as Fein-
stein’s 54 Below and Tavern on the Green. Ken has
been honored with most of the awards presented
for lighting design in the theatre, including a Tony
Award for Chicago and the Distinguished Lighting
Designer Award from the United States Institute for
Theatre Technology (USITT). In 2016, Ken became
only the third lighting designer to be inducted into
the Theatre Hall of Fame.
8  Light: The Medium
Ken considers himself primarily a “Broadway”
designer, but his career embraces many creations
beyond the New York stage. “I have done as many as
five Broadway shows in a year,” he says, “and only
one the following year, but that year might include
six shows that tryout and hope to come to New York.
As a freelance designer, you have no idea where the
jobs will come from each year.” He expanded his
career beyond the theatre, he declares,
“I know
by using “common sense” to apply what
about stage lighting in other areas of
lighting design. The basics of lighting—angle,
color, intensity, and concept—remain the same
in all venues. The manner of execution may
differ, and you may need a different technical
language as you move from collaboration with
a stage electrician to working with a contrac-
tor, but the final product is the same: designed
lighting.
”
Ken’s experience has underscored his belief that
lighting is a collaborative process, and the chal-
lenges, rewards, and personal friendships that come
with being part of a creative team are what keep
him excited about his art: “I can’t paint or draw a
picture, but I can paint with light. It is the same for
any artist. Why do you do this? And, of course, it’s
always thrilling to sit in a theatre and see what you
have created on paper come to life.”
In order to remain current in his always-evolving
craft, he reads the trade magazines, attends con-
ventions, and makes himself available to sales
people who come to his studio, talking directly to
company reps about innovations in technology. He
maintains, however, that the best way to remain
up-to-date is simply going out and admiring what
his colleagues are doing and observing the current
trends for himself. He remains an enthusiastic the-
atregoer. When asked what he considers Rule Num-
ber One in lighting design, Ken is firm: “Concept!
No matter what the project, big or small—if there
is no concept, you will usually get yourself and
the production into trouble.” Ken also believes in
hands-on training:
“ing,Thenobest way to learn how to light is by light-
matter what the project. You might do a
great job or just an okay job, but remember that
even if you really screw up, the worst that will
happen is that you’ll get fired—they don’t take
you out back and shoot you. No matter what the
project, learn from it—look at what worked and
what did not work and file it away and remem-
ber it for the future.
”
Functions of Lighting
There are numerous functions associated with lighting.
Light is used to reveal. Many of the functions of light-
ing relate specifically to the manner in which light is
used to reveal an object(s) or setting. While most light-
ing designers agree in principle with many of the named
lighting functions discussed in the following sections,
sometimes designers may combine several of these func-
tions into larger groups or associate a different term with
a given function. In these cases, what is important is
the performance of the function rather than the specific
name used by a given individual. In reality, lighting
designers combine and modify the controllable quali-
ties of light to produce the varied functions that we find
within any specific lighting. I will discuss the functions
of lighting from a more traditional theatrical or enter-
tainment background first and then go on to relate sev-
eral other functions of lighting that are more specific to
other practices. Again, it is important to be aware that
many of the functions are characteristic of all types of
lighting design.
Visibility
Most lighting designers would argue that the most
important element of lighting is visibility. Many even
refer to it as the primary function of lighting. After all,
isn’t this why we created artificial light in the first place?
Visibility simply refers to the principle of using light to
reveal or illuminate objects. In the early days of light-
ing, the job of the designer was nothing more than to
create enough light so that the audience or occupants
of a space could see. In many ways this philosophy of
lighting was based on the premise that more was bet-
ter and that the more footcandles or lumens of light
placed on a stage or in a room, the better visibility that
you had. Since the 1950s or ‘60s, theatrical designing
moved towards a concept that we call selective visibil-
ity, which simply refers to revealing to an audience only
what needs to be seen. Hence, a less-revealing image on
stage might be more appropriate for the dramatic action
than a fully illuminated stage. In selective visibility, areas
of low intensity, shadows, silhouettes, and high contrast
can become effective elements in a lighting designer’s
arsenal of tools. An image of Dracula appearing from
the shadows is much more terrifying than seeing him
come to his next victim in full light. Until recently,
architectural lighting has been known for being largely
dependent on the quantity rather than the quality of its
lighting, and most recommended practices of the past
carefully specified the minimum number of footcan-
dles that were required for a given task or environment.
Finally, while it may appear obvious that the level of
illumination plays a dominant role in the visibility of
an object, it is not the only control that has an effect
on whether you see something or not. The angle of the
light also determines how much or little of an object is
revealed to you. The color of the light might help an
object either blend in or pop out from its background
and will also enhance or gray the object’s color. These
are just a few of the additional elements that can have an
effect on visibility.
Mood
Another function of lighting relates to creating mood.
Mood refers to the observer’s emotional response to the
lighting. Lighting can be foreboding or inviting, care-
free and light, energetic versus passive, or tragic and
oppressive. In all of these and many more moods, the
light provides an atmosphere or ambiance for the envi-
ronment that is being lit. Other than visibility, mood
is probably the function of lighting that has the next
most important impression or effect on a viewer. Stud-
ies have shown that light can have a profound effect on
individuals and their moods. In entertainment lighting,
we often produce extreme ranges of mood for a given
theatrical production or special event. These moods
may also be changed many times throughout a two-
or three-hour performance. Mood changes may occur
quickly or may be so subtle that the audience isn’t nec-
essarily aware that the changes have even taken place.
A well-lit production will have lighting that reflects
the varied moods of a piece while also following the
rhythm of the changes that occur throughout the script.
In architectural lighting, more subtle choices are used
to produce environments for more productive offices,
more welcoming reception areas, and to provide calm-
ing effects for patients in medical facilities. Lighting has
also been used to influence sales volumes and turnover
rates in retail markets. As an example, consider the
lighting associated with a fine restaurant like a favorite
bistro versus any number of fast-food restaurants. The
soft, amber lighting associated with a bistro is very dif-
ferent from the harsh, bright, fluorescent lighting that
is characteristic of most fast-food restaurants, where
turnover is key to a successful business. In this case,
the lighting helps create an environment that prevents
patrons from becoming too comfortable in fast-food
establishments.
Establishing a Scene
Some functions of lighting are related specifically to the
discipline that you are designing within, while others
are consistent with almost any kind of lighting. For
instance, in a theatrical production it would be critical
for the lighting to help establish or communicate spe-
cific information about the play or environment that
is being created. Time of day, season, and geographical
location are all parts of this function. Many refer to this
The Nature of Light   9
as establishing a scene. In short, the lighting, as well
as all the other elements of the scene, must combine to
create a single cohesive environment that creates a “true”
world of the play. A play that requires a night scene
must be lit in some fashion that would be suggestive
of night. This could be a night with lights on or lights
off, lights that would suggest a specific interior lighting
(i.e., a chandelier versus a fireplace or table lamp), or
even lights that are suggestive of a specific type of light
source or historical period (electric versus gas or candle-
light). All of these form specific design considerations
that lighting designers should consider as they light the
given night scene. Establishing a scene is much more
important for an entertainment lighting designer, who
is concerned with creating a world for a performance,
than an architectural lighting designer who is simply
lighting a particular space. In reality, though, even the
architectural designer must create a design that deals in
some manner with establishing a scene that is consistent
with producing the proper response or ambience for a
building or environment. An example would be in cre-
ating the appropriate lighting for a five-star restaurant
versus an office suite. There is an appropriate and unique
approach to lighting each of these projects.
Modeling
Another common function of lighting is in modeling
or sculpting. Some designers refer to this as “revelation
of form.” This function relates to using light for enhanc-
ing the three-dimensional qualities of an object. We
can best distinguish form through carefully observing
the highlights and shadows of an object. Highlights
represent the flashes of reflected light from areas that
are directly illuminated by a light source, while shad-
ows may be represented by either the area of an object
that is not lit or the area of darkness or shadow that is
cast by a lit object (cast shadow). Areas that are raised
are prone to highlights, while recessed surfaces usually
fall into shadow areas. However, this revelation of high-
light and shadow is dependent on both the angle and
number of lights that strike an object. As an object is
lit from different directions more, or less, of its surface
textures and associated form are revealed to the observer.
As a rule, the best light for revealing an object’s form
or three-dimensional qualities is to its side. Angles that
come from either behind or in front of an object tend to
create more of a two-dimensional or profile-like image
of the subject. The vertical angle of the light source(s)
also has an effect on how the object is revealed to an
observer. As an experiment, try shining a light on a
piece of molding (like a cornice) from different angles.
The light can change your perception of which parts of
the molding are inset or raised. In fact, when lit from
straight front, the individual shapes might even be
masked and may not reveal any depth at all.
10  Light: The Medium
Focus
Focus is a lighting function that relates to drawing atten-
tion to various elements within an environment. Archi-
tectural designers often refer to this as accent lighting.
It is actually common to have several different layers of
attention or focus established for a stage or given space.
The single most important focus is generally referred to
as the primary focus of a scene or environment. While
a given subject may be less prominent than the primary
focus, it may well appear more prominent than the rest
of the environment, which results in creating a second-
ary focus for a scene. One role of a lighting designer
is to help point out where a viewer or audience mem­
ber’s attention should be directed at any given time. In
a typical theatrical application the audience members’
view is confined to the stage, while in a building, occu-
pants have the potential to look wherever they wish.
The signage at an airport should be lit in a manner that
allows passengers to easily navigate between locations such
as gates, ticket counters, and baggage claim areas. On
a stage, what should the audience be watching at any
given moment? Who in the band has the solo? How
do you bring attention to a specific scenic element of a
setting? Techniques that a lighting designer can use to
control focus include many familiar tricks. One example
is simply blacking out an entire stage except for those
areas where the focus must be directed. Highlighting an
actor delivering a monolog within a single spotlight or
pulling lights down to a single light on a significant prop
like an empty wheelchair form examples of this type of
directed focus. In a more subtle manner a designer may
simply boost or raise the intensity of the light around an
area to which they want to direct your focus. Brighten-
ing the lights around furniture clusters such as tables or
seating areas is a common practice for lighting relatively
long conversations that take place in specific locations.
Another example of this is when an entrance is pointed
up by boosting the level of a special that is focused on
the door from which an actor will enter. It is import-
ant to understand that we use relative brightness to help
direct focus. While I have spoken of raising the intensity
of light on a subject, an equally valid and at times even
preferred technique involves lowering the intensity of
the areas surrounding the point to which we want to
draw focus.
An architectural lighting designer uses the same
concepts to draw an occupant’s attention to various
details in a room or building. Directing track light-
ing onto wall hangings or photographs, placing more
light around a hotel lobby’s reservations desk, or creat-
ing focusable lighting for product displays in a depart-
ment store all form examples of using light to direct
focus. The eye will usually focus on the element within
our vision that is different from other objects in view.
Lighting designers can also use color to establish focus.
Placing a single white light on the lead singer while the
rest of a band is bathed in magenta-colored light is an
example of this. A designer does not necessarily have to
make use of extreme color differences to make use of this
principle. A night scene in which the entire stage is cast
in blue light, with bluish lavender moonlight streaming
through the French doors where Dracula is to appear,
can be just as effective of a use of contrast in color.
Composition
Composition is a function of lighting that relates
to combining all of the elements of a stage or room
together into a complete visual package. We see noth-
ing until it is revealed to us through light, and one of
the lighting designer’s primary responsibilities lies not
only in choosing what to reveal to us but also how it is
revealed to us. While other collaborators give us the pri-
mary elements of a composition, such as the scenery and
costumes, the actors or characters, and the furniture, the
lighting designer can reveal these objects in an infinite
number of ways. By comparison, the lighting designer
often makes the largest single contribution in determin-
ing the overall composition of a stage or environment.
The same objects or space can appear quite differently
with just a couple of simple alterations to the lighting
of the environment. The lighting also determines how
all of the individual objects and designs tie together as
a whole; it becomes a unifying element for most design
projects.
Style
Style represents yet another function of lighting. It
relates to creating visual traits that allow a characteristic
overall visual quality to be connected to a given produc-
tion. In reality, style is specifically determined through
the collaboration and discussions of the entire produc-
tion team. While we may discuss the style of any given
production, we may also use style to compare and con-
trast a project with other productions or projects. An
architect may refer to postmodernism, while a director
might speak about absurdism. In each case, style is rep-
resentative of various visual qualities that are character-
istic of each school or movement. The scenic designer,
director, costume designer, and lighting designer must
share a common understanding of the style of a pro-
duction in order to realize a successful unified proj-
ect. Most importantly, once the style is agreed upon, a
production should remain consistent in the manner in
which it approaches style. A number of designers will
discuss theme as an element of style. How is the play
constructed? Does the playwright use a specific type of
delivery? Are there social and visual themes within a
production? A lighting design must help reinforce the
visual quality associated with the remaining elements
of a project. One manner in which style becomes most
readily identified is through establishing the degree of
realism in a production. How literal is the world that
we are creating? Could this be a naturalistic environ-
ment? Are there any symbolic elements? Are there any
recurring themes to be reinforced or emphasized? Are
we simplifying our image so that it contains only those
elements that are absolutely essential to the action? Are
period realism and historical accuracy important to the
piece? Should there be a limited color palette? How are
the traditional elements of design (line, form, texture,
etc.) characterized within a given project? Are partic-
ular conventions used in the production? All of these
questions form examples of issues that will help a design
team define a project’s style.
Staging the Story
In the case of entertainment design we also need to
consider the actual techniques of production as another
function of lighting. A number of designers refer to this
as staging the story. In principle, this simply means
taking the script and finding a proper mechanism for
presenting it to an audience. In a production making
use of a single box setting, a design team may simply use
the act curtain and a series of blackouts to make distinc-
tions between various scenes. Lighting transitions have
become one of the most important means of enabling
us to quickly shift the reality of a play from one location
to another. A very different approach would be required
for a production containing 20 independent scenes in
which each scene requires a different location. Do we
need to observe the entire space, or can we break it up
through using smaller locations such as platforms? Is a
unit set part of the design solution? Can tightly con-
fined specials be used to define the spaces required by
the action of the play? What scenic mechanisms might
we utilize to move from one scene to another? What
theatrical conventions will be used throughout the pro-
duction? Are there specific lighting techniques or equip-
ment available that will help us present the play to an
audience? How are transitions handled? The answers to
these and other similar questions will help establish the
style of both the production and its lighting.
Rhythm
A final function of light that relates primarily to enter-
tainment lighting is rhythm. Rhythm in lighting relates
essentially to movement and transitions; it may be very
subtle and unobserved or dramatic and very apparent
to the audience. Rhythm can relate to transitions based
simply on the logistical needs of making the production
workable for an audience (staging the story), or more
importantly, rhythm can follow the dramatic tensions
of a production. Do changes from one scene to another
The Nature of Light   11
occur in a natural, fluid manner, or are they disruptive
to the flow of the show? We’ve all witnessed those times
where the lighting isn’t quite in sync with the actors,
scene changes, or other elements of a production. A sec-
ond form of rhythm relates to the changes that occur
as a result of various movement patterns (blocking)
with the actors, changes in mood, focus, or any other
requirements that make a dramatic comment on the
play through the lighting. As tensions mount and are
resolved, the lighting should underscore the associated
emotional changes throughout a production. Often, the
lighting will build as a scene moves towards its climax.
A well-designed production will be dynamic and will
have lighting that follows the rhythm of the rest of the
show. In fact, it has been demonstrated that lighting
that remains too static may have a negative impact on
audience members. Even contemporary architectural
lighting applications now make allowances for rhythm
when lighting many projects. Not only is rhythm varied
throughout the day in offices and other workplaces, but
it also can become a major design element for large exte-
rior objects such as building facades and towers, land-
scape architecture, and even bridges. In these cases, the
12  Light: The Medium
lighting of a structure may change color through inter-
vals of as little as 30 seconds to as long as 30 minutes
or longer. Rhythm can also be observed in something
as simple as the spacing intervals and patterns that are
created when laying out a group of luminaires, such as
an arrangement of ceiling fixtures.
For Further Reading
DiLaura, David L., Kevin W. Houser, Richard G. Mistrick,
and Gary R. Steffy. eds. Illuminating Engineering Society–
The Lighting Handbook Tenth Edition: Reference and Appli-
cation. New York: Illuminating Engineering Society, 2011.
Illuminating Engineering Society of North America. IESNA
Lighting Education 150 (Intermediate Level). New York:
Illuminating Engineering Society of North America, 1993.
Illuminating Engineering Society of North America. IESNA
Lighting Ready Reference. 4th ed. New York: Illuminating
Engineering Society of North America, 2003.
McCandless, Stanley. A Method for Lighting the Stage. 4th ed.
New York: Theatre Arts Books, 1958.
McCandless, Stanley. A Syllabus of Stage Lighting. 5th ed. New
Haven, CT: Yale University, 1941.
Rae, Mark. ed. IESNA Lighting Handbook. 9th ed. New York:
Illuminating Engineering Society of North America, 2000.
 CHAPTER 2

LIGHT AND PERCEPTION

T HE IMPORTANCE OF light in the perception of our world cannot be overstated.

Light, by its very nature, allows us to see and therefore perceive the environment around
us. Because we observe the world through images that are created through the stimulation
of our optic nerves and nerve impulses, we have to account for the fact that what we sense is
actually an indirect means of observation. Therefore, images can be interpreted very differ-
ently from one person to another. This, to some degree, is due to our personal backgrounds,
which add interpretive elements to these observations that are based on our past experiences.
In addition, we may simply experience different degrees of stimulation from one individual
to another. For instance, we learn to define the color that we call “red” based on our experi-
ences of what our parents taught us was the color red. After a time, we learned to associate
the color red with a given experience of sight. However, if we are given a more complex
color, such as an orange-red or an orange-orange-red, we may have trouble distinguishing
the point at which the orange-red shifts into becoming an orange-orange-red as we add more
yellow to the color. In this case, we define the new color based on our personal experience,
and one person’s experience may be quite different from that of another’s. The color hasn’t
changed—only our perception of that color. Another manner in which we might perceive
different experiences in light comes from sensing the light in different ways from others. For
example, some people are color-blind. Their experience of the world is considerably different
from those of us who have normal color vision. Other people are light sensitive and may find
even moderate levels of brightness to be painful, while others have acute night vision. All of
these factors relate to people sensing light in different ways. In most cases, our sense of sight
actually undergoes changes throughout our lives. Young people might have to wear contacts
or glasses, people in their late 40s to 50s may need reading glasses, and the elderly often have
difficulties with night vision. While some of these experiences are determined by the actual
physical properties of light and our eyes, others are related to our psychological perception of
light and the environment.
Possibly more important than the way that we experience light through our senses is the
manner in which light is used to modify or reveal an object. In the last chapter I discussed
the importance of light and vision. To be seen, an object must be capable of reflecting some
degree of light. This is in addition to assuming that it can be sensed through a sensory device
like an eye or camera. Without a surface to reflect upon, light will continue to expand out-
ward unnoticed. We have all seen the effect of a car’s headlights becoming observable in the
mist of a foggy night while on a clear night it is often impossible to distinguish the edges
of the beams that the fog so clearly defines. Through light, we can reveal an object in any
number of different ways. We can use varied degrees of brightness to allow differing degrees
of visibility. The angle between the viewer and light source might be modified to create very
different revelations of an object. The color of the light could also be changed to create a
significantly different response in the way that the subject is seen by an observer. Everyone
knows that a white T-shirt under red light will appear red even though we know that the color
of the shirt remains white. All of these represent examples of light being used to modify a
viewer’s perception of an object.
 In this chapter I examine many of the ways in which
light can be used to shape a viewer’s perception of the
world around them. The chapter begins with a look at
the eye and how it functions, then moves into discus-
sions of several fundamental principles of composition
and visibility, and how light can affect our perception
in both positive and negative ways. What are appropri-
ate techniques that a lighting designer may use to reveal
a subject to an audience? What are several aspects of
control that we can use to create a given response in
a viewer? Are there issues that may negatively affect an
observer’s experience? How much of a subject or setting
does a designer have to reveal to an audience? Each of
these questions and many like them relate to how our
vision is impacted by light and its manipulation. Effec-
tive lighting designers will learn to take command of
the immense range of possibilities that are both available
and acceptable for completing the task of visibility. At
the same time, they must remain sensitive to the reper-
cussions that might also come from lighting an object or
environment inappropriately.
Physiology of the Eye
In order to understand the eye and vision, we often
make a comparison between the eye’s anatomy and the
manner in which a camera is constructed. Figure 2.1
illustrates the principal components of an eye. The pri-
mary structure of the eye is the sclera, which is most
recognizable as the white portion of the eye that sur-
rounds all of the other components. The eye is an assem-
bly of essentially three primary component groups.
Each of these is responsible for a step that is required
for vision. Each is also directly comparable to a part of
the optical system found in any camera. The first group
controls the amount of light that enters the eye. Basic
components of this group include the cornea, which is
the clear outer layer of the eye; a layer of fluid (aqueous
Figure 2.1 Physiology of the eye
14  Light: The Medium
humor) directly behind the cornea (anterior chamber);
the iris, which is the area of the eye that has color; and
the black dot at the center of the eye that we call the
pupil. Finally, a lens is located directly behind the iris,
and a second area of fluid is found between the lens and
the back surface of the eye (vitreous humor). The cor-
nea and anterior chamber function much like a lens to
focus the light on the back surface of the eye where the
optical sensors are located (much like the film or sensor
plate in a digital or video camera). The size of the pupil
is controlled by a set of muscles in the iris that regulate
the amount of light entering the eye. The more light
that the eye is exposed to, the smaller the pupil becomes.
The lens is controlled by a second set of muscles (ciliary
muscles) that modify the shape and thickness of the eye,
enabling it to focus on different objects and at different
distances.
The second primary component group of the eye
includes the retina, the interior wall at the back of the
eye. This is the portion of the eye where optical sen-
sors are located and where the eye attempts to focus its
images. A special portion of the retina known as the
fovea is located near the center of the retina. This area
has a much higher concentration of photosensitive cells
and is responsible for much of our ability to distinguish
both colors and detail. A second area of the retina is the
optic disk, which forms the location where the nerve
endings of the photoreceptors are bundled together to
form the optic nerve. The optic nerve carries nerve
impulses to the brain where they are processed into
images.
The third and final group of primary eye compo-
nents includes the photoreceptors, specialized cells that
convert light exposure to a neural impulse that is sent to
the brain. A typical human eye contains approximately
128 million photoreceptors. There are two types of pho-
toreceptors, each with a different function. The first,
the rods, are sensitive to light across a wide range of
wavelengths and luminous levels. The rods are predomi-
nantly responsible for our sight both at low levels of illu-
mination and for distinguishing our peripheral vision,
which is often referred to as scotopic vision. The second
type of receptors, cones, are responsible for both our
color and detail vision within light levels associated with
typical interior and exterior illuminances. This type of
vision is known as photopic vision. The fovea contains
cones, while the remainder of the retina contains both
cones and rods. Rods and scotopic vision are associated
with night vision, and cones and photopic vision with
day vision.
The structure of the eye and its various photorecep-
tors ultimately determine an individual’s sight. When
the structure of the eye is abnormal, and the lens doesn’t
focus the light properly on the retina, an individual can
be either near- or farsighted and must wear corrective
lenses. The structure of your eye may change throughout
your lifetime as the lens slowly ages, becoming more
rigid and less pliable. LASIK surgery reshapes the lens
in order to refocus the light properly onto the retina.
Some of us are light sensitive and find a bright sunny
day to be a painful sensation while others have problems
seeing objects in the dark. Color blindness is another
condition in which the eyes don’t perform normally. The
causes of these problems are often related to a physical
impairment of the eye.
In addition to any problems with the eye itself,
there are a number of psychological effects that can
have an additional impact on your vision. Some of these
can improve your sight, while others can create prob-
lems. More importantly, these effects usually relate to
your perception of light and vision, not necessarily to
the actual amount of light that your eyes sense. In any
case, a lighting designer must be aware of these effects
in order to create designs that will compensate for any
of these issues. Later portions of this chapter discuss sev-
eral of the most important issues related to light and
perception.
Composition
Since light is the primary means by which we sense an
environment, it is through its revelation of composi-
tion that we can comprehend a space. Without light,
our perception of an environment is severely impaired.
Whether you are lighting a stage, exhibit hall, or office,
the entire environment is seen as a total composition.
The architectural or scenic units, people and their cloth-
ing, as well as furniture and building materials are all
elements that are revealed through the lighting. Light
provides us with a means of indicating depth; it modi-
fies the colors and textures of the other elements, reveals
form, and indicates areas of focus or interest within
the composition of a stage or room. Elements that are
more important will usually be treated with higher light
intensities, while the degree of overall visibility can be
established by setting threshold levels that illuminate the
environment as a whole. At any given time, there will
always be a complete composition for an environment—
and much of the way that it is revealed to us is through
the basic task of illumination.
While many environments incorporate relatively
constant lighting treatments, entertainment lighting
generally makes use of ever-changing compositions and
a very dynamic lighting style. Unlike a painting, which
has a static composition, the stage is constantly evolving
into new compositions. Where is the focus at this par-
ticular moment? How bright does the room absolutely
have to be? Is there an area we wish to take an audience’s
attention away from? Can a certain color be enhanced
at a particular time? All of these questions relate to
how the composition and lighting might change from
one moment to another. The idea of creating dynamic
lighting was for many years limited to the entertainment
field, but today’s architects and illuminating engineers
also recognize the need for creating dynamic environ-
ments for their clients. Although it is generally subtle in
comparison to theatrical venues, the lighting of build-
ings, trade shows, and exhibits can also employ active
lighting elements for many projects.
Visibility
Visibility refers to allowing the viewers’ eyes and mind
to be stimulated to such a degree that they can make an
observation. Visibility, however, is a relative term, and
we need to examine it in terms of specific contexts. In
the most basic sense, it refers to the effect of providing
enough visual information so that viewers can establish
a meaning from what you have presented them with. In
a way, visibility becomes a means of communication. If
done well, the message is received—but if done poorly,
the message becomes confused or is lost. Historically,
there have been two basic approaches for creating vis-
ibility through light. The first is based on providing
good uniform illumination over a widely dispersed area,
where quantity of light is considered a major compo-
nent of visibility. The second relates to the quality of
the visual experience and refers to visibility in terms of
what needs or doesn’t need to be seen by an observer—a
concept that we refer to as quality of light. In other
words, we increase visibility to a point where we reveal
only enough of a subject to bring meaning to an audi-
ence and therefore become more selective in what we do
or don’t reveal. Most lighting designers refer to this as
selective visibility—revealing only what is necessary to
bring meaning to a viewer. Directors of the 1940s and
’50s were frequently trained to believe that the audience
had to see the actors’ faces in order to hear them, a con-
cept that by today’s standards is severely limited. Today,
shadows, distorted colors, and even low intensities have
become common techniques for manipulating lighting
to express mood and style associations, which can actu-
ally produce a more effective image than simply bring-
ing visibility to an environment.
Illuminating engineers generally refer to the demand
for successful vision or the ability to see accurately as
visual acuity. This essentially refers to being able to
manipulate the visual stimulus and environment in
such a way that a given visual task can be completed.
Visual acuity is actually a function of factors such as
the size of the object, distance between the object and
viewer, surface reflectivity of the object, and amount of
illumination present, as well as sensitivity of the optic
sensors. For example, small text has a more limiting
effect on visual acuity than large text. A reading lamp,
on the other hand, might be used to help raise the visual
acuity of a page. A general rule has been to associate
more critical tasks with the need for more illumination.
Light and Perception   15
Hence, working in a classroom demands brighter con-
ditions than eating in a restaurant, while performing
surgery in a hospital operating room would require
still higher levels of illumination. However, a number
of consequences have also been associated with main-
taining overly consistent levels of illumination within
a given environment—especially when those levels are
maintained at either relatively high or low intensity lev-
els. A number of these effects are examined a bit later in
this chapter.
Intensity or Brightness
While visibility may be modified through any one of
the controllable qualities of light, we often associate the
most important element of visibility with the control of
intensity or brightness. For now, we’ll primarily examine
the effects of intensity on vision. The other controllable
qualities and their effects on vision will be addressed
throughout later portions of this chapter. The eye is an
amazing mechanism in that it can observe an incredi-
ble range of light intensities. While at one extreme we
might observe light so bright that it could damage our
eyes (such as in looking at the sun or a welder’s arc) we
can also observe light in intensities as low as that of a
candle flame or match strike from more than 10 to 15
miles away (once again using the example of the military
scout plane to spot enemy troops at night). Additionally,
we can perceive relatively small variations in intensity
across our field of vision. This extreme range of sensitivity
is characteristic of the human eye and cannot be found
in equipment such as cameras or other optical sensors.
A camera is usually not as sensitive to these variations and
will recognize only the broader extremes of illumination
levels within a given camera frame. When we work with
cameras, we often refer to their contrast ratio, which
refers to the range of intensities between the brightest
and darkest elements of a camera’s view. The reason many
of us shoot so many “bad” photographs is due most com-
monly to the limited sensitivity and contrast ratios of the
film and/or cameras that we are using. Fortunately, tech-
nology continues to improve: cameras are ever more sen-
sitive to light and offer a wider range of contrast ratios.
The personal digital camera that I currently own (and
quite possibly my smartphone camera) probably has bet-
ter light sensitivity than many of the commercial cameras
that were available just a few years ago.
Relative Intensity
In many cases, what is more important to a theatrical
lighting designer is the perceived, rather than the actual
or absolute, brightness of an object or light source. We
have learned that simply adding more light to an environ-
ment doesn’t always produce better visibility. An object’s
perceived brightness is a function of several items, not
16  Light: The Medium
just the amount of light focused onto it. Other factors
include the distances between the source, object, and
viewer; the reflectivity of the object; and the sensitivity
of the optical device (eye or camera). In the early days
of television and film lighting, cameras weren’t nearly as
sensitive as they currently are, and directors of photogra-
phy were much more concerned with creating minimum
intensity thresholds so that the cameras could simply
process the information necessary to create an image.
The film speeds that you would select on a single-lens
reflex film camera help you adjust the camera’s light sen-
sitivity to a given film or digital sensor plate. If you set
the ASA (American Standard Association) setting incor-
rectly you will end up with photographs that are either
over or underexposed. Even though cameras are vastly
improved, it is still quite common for designers working
in the video and film industries to use a light meter to
ensure that both even and minimal intensity levels are
created for a shoot.
As a whole, we consider the brightness of a sub-
ject compared with that of both the surrounding envi-
ronment and other objects—the relative intensities of
these objects. What is important is that an object often
receives focus if it is lit more brightly than the objects
that surround it. On the other hand, our attention
might also be drawn to the darkest part of a stage—like
the upstage entrance tunnel of a cave in a production of
Swiss Family Robinson. In both cases, the eye is attracted
to the most different element of the scene, and the rel-
ative intensities of the objects play a more significant
role in determining the focus than the actual intensities.
We also refer to brightness perception when we con-
sider all of the variables that result in determining the
overall brightness of a particular subject. The amount of
light falling on the object, our optical sensitivity, and the
degree of reflectivity are all factors in determining the
perceived intensity of an object.
Psychological Responses
Finally, there is the element of psychological response to
the intensity of light. Most importantly, this plays a role
in the determination of the mood of the occupants in a
lit environment. As a whole, well-lighted environments
produce an emotional response in the occupants that
is positive and healthy. Poorly lit rooms and corridors
can produce gloomy environments that tend to have a
negative impact on the inhabitants’ moods. Studies have
indicated an association between people’s mood and the
hours of sunlight exposure that they receive in a typical
day. A condition known as Seasonal Affective Disor-
der (SAD) is a form of depression that affects people
during the winter who live in latitudes where they aren’t
exposed to enough sunlight in a typical day. Elevated
brightness has been associated with increases in an indi-
vidual’s heart and respiration rates, while studies have
Another random document with
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 DANCE ON STILTS AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, NIUCHI

Newala, too, suffers from the distance of its water-supply—at least

the Newala of to-day does; there was once another Newala in a lovely
valley at the foot of the plateau. I visited it and found scarcely a trace
of houses, only a Christian cemetery, with the graves of several
missionaries and their converts, remaining as a monument of its
former glories. But the surroundings are wonderfully beautiful. A
thick grove of splendid mango-trees closes in the weather-worn
crosses and headstones; behind them, combining the useful and the
agreeable, is a whole plantation of lemon-trees covered with ripe
fruit; not the small African kind, but a much larger and also juicier
imported variety, which drops into the hands of the passing traveller,
without calling for any exertion on his part. Old Newala is now under
the jurisdiction of the native pastor, Daudi, at Chingulungulu, who,
as I am on very friendly terms with him, allows me, as a matter of
course, the use of this lemon-grove during my stay at Newala.
 FEET MUTILATED BY THE RAVAGES OF THE “JIGGER”
(Sarcopsylla penetrans)

The water-supply of New Newala is in the bottom of the valley,

some 1,600 feet lower down. The way is not only long and fatiguing,
but the water, when we get it, is thoroughly bad. We are suffering not
only from this, but from the fact that the arrangements at Newala are
nothing short of luxurious. We have a separate kitchen—a hut built
against the boma palisade on the right of the baraza, the interior of
which is not visible from our usual position. Our two cooks were not
long in finding this out, and they consequently do—or rather neglect
to do—what they please. In any case they do not seem to be very
particular about the boiling of our drinking-water—at least I can
attribute to no other cause certain attacks of a dysenteric nature,
from which both Knudsen and I have suffered for some time. If a
man like Omari has to be left unwatched for a moment, he is capable
of anything. Besides this complaint, we are inconvenienced by the
state of our nails, which have become as hard as glass, and crack on
the slightest provocation, and I have the additional infliction of
pimples all over me. As if all this were not enough, we have also, for
the last week been waging war against the jigger, who has found his
Eldorado in the hot sand of the Makonde plateau. Our men are seen
all day long—whenever their chronic colds and the dysentery likewise
raging among them permit—occupied in removing this scourge of
Africa from their feet and trying to prevent the disastrous
consequences of its presence. It is quite common to see natives of
this place with one or two toes missing; many have lost all their toes,
or even the whole front part of the foot, so that a well-formed leg
ends in a shapeless stump. These ravages are caused by the female of
Sarcopsylla penetrans, which bores its way under the skin and there
develops an egg-sac the size of a pea. In all books on the subject, it is
stated that one’s attention is called to the presence of this parasite by
an intolerable itching. This agrees very well with my experience, so
far as the softer parts of the sole, the spaces between and under the
toes, and the side of the foot are concerned, but if the creature
penetrates through the harder parts of the heel or ball of the foot, it
may escape even the most careful search till it has reached maturity.
Then there is no time to be lost, if the horrible ulceration, of which
we see cases by the dozen every day, is to be prevented. It is much
easier, by the way, to discover the insect on the white skin of a
European than on that of a native, on which the dark speck scarcely
shows. The four or five jiggers which, in spite of the fact that I
constantly wore high laced boots, chose my feet to settle in, were
taken out for me by the all-accomplished Knudsen, after which I
thought it advisable to wash out the cavities with corrosive
sublimate. The natives have a different sort of disinfectant—they fill
the hole with scraped roots. In a tiny Makua village on the slope of
the plateau south of Newala, we saw an old woman who had filled all
the spaces under her toe-nails with powdered roots by way of
prophylactic treatment. What will be the result, if any, who can say?
The rest of the many trifling ills which trouble our existence are
really more comic than serious. In the absence of anything else to
smoke, Knudsen and I at last opened a box of cigars procured from
the Indian store-keeper at Lindi, and tried them, with the most
distressing results. Whether they contain opium or some other
narcotic, neither of us can say, but after the tenth puff we were both
“off,” three-quarters stupefied and unspeakably wretched. Slowly we
recovered—and what happened next? Half-an-hour later we were
once more smoking these poisonous concoctions—so insatiable is the
craving for tobacco in the tropics.
Even my present attacks of fever scarcely deserve to be taken
seriously. I have had no less than three here at Newala, all of which
have run their course in an incredibly short time. In the early
afternoon, I am busy with my old natives, asking questions and
making notes. The strong midday coffee has stimulated my spirits to
an extraordinary degree, the brain is active and vigorous, and work
progresses rapidly, while a pleasant warmth pervades the whole
body. Suddenly this gives place to a violent chill, forcing me to put on
my overcoat, though it is only half-past three and the afternoon sun
is at its hottest. Now the brain no longer works with such acuteness
and logical precision; more especially does it fail me in trying to
establish the syntax of the difficult Makua language on which I have
ventured, as if I had not enough to do without it. Under the
circumstances it seems advisable to take my temperature, and I do
so, to save trouble, without leaving my seat, and while going on with
my work. On examination, I find it to be 101·48°. My tutors are
abruptly dismissed and my bed set up in the baraza; a few minutes
later I am in it and treating myself internally with hot water and
lemon-juice.
Three hours later, the thermometer marks nearly 104°, and I make
them carry me back into the tent, bed and all, as I am now perspiring
heavily, and exposure to the cold wind just beginning to blow might
mean a fatal chill. I lie still for a little while, and then find, to my
great relief, that the temperature is not rising, but rather falling. This
is about 7.30 p.m. At 8 p.m. I find, to my unbounded astonishment,
that it has fallen below 98·6°, and I feel perfectly well. I read for an
hour or two, and could very well enjoy a smoke, if I had the
wherewithal—Indian cigars being out of the question.
Having no medical training, I am at a loss to account for this state
of things. It is impossible that these transitory attacks of high fever
should be malarial; it seems more probable that they are due to a
kind of sunstroke. On consulting my note-book, I become more and
more inclined to think this is the case, for these attacks regularly
follow extreme fatigue and long exposure to strong sunshine. They at
least have the advantage of being only short interruptions to my
work, as on the following morning I am always quite fresh and fit.
My treasure of a cook is suffering from an enormous hydrocele which
makes it difficult for him to get up, and Moritz is obliged to keep in
the dark on account of his inflamed eyes. Knudsen’s cook, a raw boy
from somewhere in the bush, knows still less of cooking than Omari;
consequently Nils Knudsen himself has been promoted to the vacant
post. Finding that we had come to the end of our supplies, he began
by sending to Chingulungulu for the four sucking-pigs which we had
bought from Matola and temporarily left in his charge; and when
they came up, neatly packed in a large crate, he callously slaughtered
the biggest of them. The first joint we were thoughtless enough to
entrust for roasting to Knudsen’s mshenzi cook, and it was
consequently uneatable; but we made the rest of the animal into a
jelly which we ate with great relish after weeks of underfeeding,
consuming incredible helpings of it at both midday and evening
meals. The only drawback is a certain want of variety in the tinned
vegetables. Dr. Jäger, to whom the Geographical Commission
entrusted the provisioning of the expeditions—mine as well as his
own—because he had more time on his hands than the rest of us,
seems to have laid in a huge stock of Teltow turnips,[46] an article of
food which is all very well for occasional use, but which quickly palls
when set before one every day; and we seem to have no other tins
left. There is no help for it—we must put up with the turnips; but I
am certain that, once I am home again, I shall not touch them for ten
years to come.
Amid all these minor evils, which, after all, go to make up the
genuine flavour of Africa, there is at least one cheering touch:
Knudsen has, with the dexterity of a skilled mechanic, repaired my 9
× 12 cm. camera, at least so far that I can use it with a little care.
How, in the absence of finger-nails, he was able to accomplish such a
ticklish piece of work, having no tool but a clumsy screw-driver for
taking to pieces and putting together again the complicated
mechanism of the instantaneous shutter, is still a mystery to me; but
he did it successfully. The loss of his finger-nails shows him in a light
contrasting curiously enough with the intelligence evinced by the
above operation; though, after all, it is scarcely surprising after his
ten years’ residence in the bush. One day, at Lindi, he had occasion
to wash a dog, which must have been in need of very thorough
cleansing, for the bottle handed to our friend for the purpose had an
extremely strong smell. Having performed his task in the most
conscientious manner, he perceived with some surprise that the dog
did not appear much the better for it, and was further surprised by
finding his own nails ulcerating away in the course of the next few
days. “How was I to know that carbolic acid has to be diluted?” he
mutters indignantly, from time to time, with a troubled gaze at his
mutilated finger-tips.
 Since we came to Newala we have been making excursions in all
directions through the surrounding country, in accordance with old
habit, and also because the akida Sefu did not get together the tribal
elders from whom I wanted information so speedily as he had
promised. There is, however, no harm done, as, even if seen only
from the outside, the country and people are interesting enough.
The Makonde plateau is like a large rectangular table rounded off
at the corners. Measured from the Indian Ocean to Newala, it is
about seventy-five miles long, and between the Rovuma and the
Lukuledi it averages fifty miles in breadth, so that its superficial area
is about two-thirds of that of the kingdom of Saxony. The surface,
however, is not level, but uniformly inclined from its south-western
edge to the ocean. From the upper edge, on which Newala lies, the
eye ranges for many miles east and north-east, without encountering
any obstacle, over the Makonde bush. It is a green sea, from which
here and there thick clouds of smoke rise, to show that it, too, is
inhabited by men who carry on their tillage like so many other
primitive peoples, by cutting down and burning the bush, and
manuring with the ashes. Even in the radiant light of a tropical day
such a fire is a grand sight.
Much less effective is the impression produced just now by the
great western plain as seen from the edge of the plateau. As often as
time permits, I stroll along this edge, sometimes in one direction,
sometimes in another, in the hope of finding the air clear enough to
let me enjoy the view; but I have always been disappointed.
Wherever one looks, clouds of smoke rise from the burning bush,
and the air is full of smoke and vapour. It is a pity, for under more
favourable circumstances the panorama of the whole country up to
the distant Majeje hills must be truly magnificent. It is of little use
taking photographs now, and an outline sketch gives a very poor idea
of the scenery. In one of these excursions I went out of my way to
make a personal attempt on the Makonde bush. The present edge of
the plateau is the result of a far-reaching process of destruction
through erosion and denudation. The Makonde strata are
everywhere cut into by ravines, which, though short, are hundreds of
yards in depth. In consequence of the loose stratification of these
beds, not only are the walls of these ravines nearly vertical, but their
upper end is closed by an equally steep escarpment, so that the
western edge of the Makonde plateau is hemmed in by a series of
deep, basin-like valleys. In order to get from one side of such a ravine
to the other, I cut my way through the bush with a dozen of my men.
It was a very open part, with more grass than scrub, but even so the
short stretch of less than two hundred yards was very hard work; at
the end of it the men’s calicoes were in rags and they themselves
bleeding from hundreds of scratches, while even our strong khaki
suits had not escaped scatheless.

NATIVE PATH THROUGH THE MAKONDE BUSH, NEAR

MAHUTA

I see increasing reason to believe that the view formed some time
back as to the origin of the Makonde bush is the correct one. I have
no doubt that it is not a natural product, but the result of human
occupation. Those parts of the high country where man—as a very
slight amount of practice enables the eye to perceive at once—has not
yet penetrated with axe and hoe, are still occupied by a splendid
timber forest quite able to sustain a comparison with our mixed
forests in Germany. But wherever man has once built his hut or tilled
his field, this horrible bush springs up. Every phase of this process
may be seen in the course of a couple of hours’ walk along the main
road. From the bush to right or left, one hears the sound of the axe—
not from one spot only, but from several directions at once. A few
steps further on, we can see what is taking place. The brush has been
cut down and piled up in heaps to the height of a yard or more,
between which the trunks of the large trees stand up like the last
pillars of a magnificent ruined building. These, too, present a
melancholy spectacle: the destructive Makonde have ringed them—
cut a broad strip of bark all round to ensure their dying off—and also
piled up pyramids of brush round them. Father and son, mother and
son-in-law, are chopping away perseveringly in the background—too
busy, almost, to look round at the white stranger, who usually excites
so much interest. If you pass by the same place a week later, the piles
of brushwood have disappeared and a thick layer of ashes has taken
the place of the green forest. The large trees stretch their
smouldering trunks and branches in dumb accusation to heaven—if
they have not already fallen and been more or less reduced to ashes,
perhaps only showing as a white stripe on the dark ground.
This work of destruction is carried out by the Makonde alike on the
virgin forest and on the bush which has sprung up on sites already
cultivated and deserted. In the second case they are saved the trouble
of burning the large trees, these being entirely absent in the
secondary bush.
After burning this piece of forest ground and loosening it with the
hoe, the native sows his corn and plants his vegetables. All over the
country, he goes in for bed-culture, which requires, and, in fact,
receives, the most careful attention. Weeds are nowhere tolerated in
the south of German East Africa. The crops may fail on the plains,
where droughts are frequent, but never on the plateau with its
abundant rains and heavy dews. Its fortunate inhabitants even have
the satisfaction of seeing the proud Wayao and Wamakua working
for them as labourers, driven by hunger to serve where they were
accustomed to rule.
But the light, sandy soil is soon exhausted, and would yield no
harvest the second year if cultivated twice running. This fact has
been familiar to the native for ages; consequently he provides in
time, and, while his crop is growing, prepares the next plot with axe
and firebrand. Next year he plants this with his various crops and
lets the first piece lie fallow. For a short time it remains waste and
desolate; then nature steps in to repair the destruction wrought by
man; a thousand new growths spring out of the exhausted soil, and
even the old stumps put forth fresh shoots. Next year the new growth
is up to one’s knees, and in a few years more it is that terrible,
impenetrable bush, which maintains its position till the black
occupier of the land has made the round of all the available sites and
come back to his starting point.
The Makonde are, body and soul, so to speak, one with this bush.
According to my Yao informants, indeed, their name means nothing
else but “bush people.” Their own tradition says that they have been
settled up here for a very long time, but to my surprise they laid great
stress on an original immigration. Their old homes were in the
south-east, near Mikindani and the mouth of the Rovuma, whence
their peaceful forefathers were driven by the continual raids of the
Sakalavas from Madagascar and the warlike Shirazis[47] of the coast,
to take refuge on the almost inaccessible plateau. I have studied
African ethnology for twenty years, but the fact that changes of
population in this apparently quiet and peaceable corner of the earth
could have been occasioned by outside enterprises taking place on
the high seas, was completely new to me. It is, no doubt, however,
correct.
The charming tribal legend of the Makonde—besides informing us
of other interesting matters—explains why they have to live in the
thickest of the bush and a long way from the edge of the plateau,
instead of making their permanent homes beside the purling brooks
and springs of the low country.
“The place where the tribe originated is Mahuta, on the southern
side of the plateau towards the Rovuma, where of old time there was
nothing but thick bush. Out of this bush came a man who never
washed himself or shaved his head, and who ate and drank but little.
He went out and made a human figure from the wood of a tree
growing in the open country, which he took home to his abode in the
bush and there set it upright. In the night this image came to life and
was a woman. The man and woman went down together to the
Rovuma to wash themselves. Here the woman gave birth to a still-
born child. They left that place and passed over the high land into the
valley of the Mbemkuru, where the woman had another child, which
was also born dead. Then they returned to the high bush country of
Mahuta, where the third child was born, which lived and grew up. In
course of time, the couple had many more children, and called
themselves Wamatanda. These were the ancestral stock of the
Makonde, also called Wamakonde,[48] i.e., aborigines. Their
forefather, the man from the bush, gave his children the command to
bury their dead upright, in memory of the mother of their race who
was cut out of wood and awoke to life when standing upright. He also
warned them against settling in the valleys and near large streams,
for sickness and death dwelt there. They were to make it a rule to
have their huts at least an hour’s walk from the nearest watering-
place; then their children would thrive and escape illness.”
The explanation of the name Makonde given by my informants is
somewhat different from that contained in the above legend, which I
extract from a little book (small, but packed with information), by
Pater Adams, entitled Lindi und sein Hinterland. Otherwise, my
results agree exactly with the statements of the legend. Washing?
Hapana—there is no such thing. Why should they do so? As it is, the
supply of water scarcely suffices for cooking and drinking; other
people do not wash, so why should the Makonde distinguish himself
by such needless eccentricity? As for shaving the head, the short,
woolly crop scarcely needs it,[49] so the second ancestral precept is
likewise easy enough to follow. Beyond this, however, there is
nothing ridiculous in the ancestor’s advice. I have obtained from
various local artists a fairly large number of figures carved in wood,
ranging from fifteen to twenty-three inches in height, and
representing women belonging to the great group of the Mavia,
Makonde, and Matambwe tribes. The carving is remarkably well
done and renders the female type with great accuracy, especially the
keloid ornamentation, to be described later on. As to the object and
meaning of their works the sculptors either could or (more probably)
would tell me nothing, and I was forced to content myself with the
scanty information vouchsafed by one man, who said that the figures
were merely intended to represent the nembo—the artificial
deformations of pelele, ear-discs, and keloids. The legend recorded
by Pater Adams places these figures in a new light. They must surely
be more than mere dolls; and we may even venture to assume that
they are—though the majority of present-day Makonde are probably
unaware of the fact—representations of the tribal ancestress.
 The references in the legend to the descent from Mahuta to the
Rovuma, and to a journey across the highlands into the Mbekuru
valley, undoubtedly indicate the previous history of the tribe, the
travels of the ancestral pair typifying the migrations of their
descendants. The descent to the neighbouring Rovuma valley, with
its extraordinary fertility and great abundance of game, is intelligible
at a glance—but the crossing of the Lukuledi depression, the ascent
to the Rondo Plateau and the descent to the Mbemkuru, also lie
within the bounds of probability, for all these districts have exactly
the same character as the extreme south. Now, however, comes a
point of especial interest for our bacteriological age. The primitive
Makonde did not enjoy their lives in the marshy river-valleys.
Disease raged among them, and many died. It was only after they
had returned to their original home near Mahuta, that the health
conditions of these people improved. We are very apt to think of the
African as a stupid person whose ignorance of nature is only equalled
by his fear of it, and who looks on all mishaps as caused by evil
spirits and malignant natural powers. It is much more correct to
assume in this case that the people very early learnt to distinguish
districts infested with malaria from those where it is absent.
This knowledge is crystallized in the
ancestral warning against settling in the
valleys and near the great waters, the
dwelling-places of disease and death. At the
same time, for security against the hostile
Mavia south of the Rovuma, it was enacted
that every settlement must be not less than a
certain distance from the southern edge of the
plateau. Such in fact is their mode of life at the
present day. It is not such a bad one, and
certainly they are both safer and more
comfortable than the Makua, the recent
intruders from the south, who have made USUAL METHOD OF
good their footing on the western edge of the CLOSING HUT-DOOR
plateau, extending over a fairly wide belt of
country. Neither Makua nor Makonde show in their dwellings
anything of the size and comeliness of the Yao houses in the plain,
especially at Masasi, Chingulungulu and Zuza’s. Jumbe Chauro, a
Makonde hamlet not far from Newala, on the road to Mahuta, is the
most important settlement of the tribe I have yet seen, and has fairly
spacious huts. But how slovenly is their construction compared with
the palatial residences of the elephant-hunters living in the plain.
The roofs are still more untidy than in the general run of huts during
the dry season, the walls show here and there the scanty beginnings
or the lamentable remains of the mud plastering, and the interior is a
veritable dog-kennel; dirt, dust and disorder everywhere. A few huts
only show any attempt at division into rooms, and this consists
merely of very roughly-made bamboo partitions. In one point alone
have I noticed any indication of progress—in the method of fastening
the door. Houses all over the south are secured in a simple but
ingenious manner. The door consists of a set of stout pieces of wood
or bamboo, tied with bark-string to two cross-pieces, and moving in
two grooves round one of the door-posts, so as to open inwards. If
the owner wishes to leave home, he takes two logs as thick as a man’s
upper arm and about a yard long. One of these is placed obliquely
against the middle of the door from the inside, so as to form an angle
of from 60° to 75° with the ground. He then places the second piece
horizontally across the first, pressing it downward with all his might.
It is kept in place by two strong posts planted in the ground a few
inches inside the door. This fastening is absolutely safe, but of course
cannot be applied to both doors at once, otherwise how could the
owner leave or enter his house? I have not yet succeeded in finding
out how the back door is fastened.

MAKONDE LOCK AND KEY AT JUMBE CHAURO

 This is the general way of closing a house. The Makonde at Jumbe
Chauro, however, have a much more complicated, solid and original
one. Here, too, the door is as already described, except that there is
only one post on the inside, standing by itself about six inches from
one side of the doorway. Opposite this post is a hole in the wall just
large enough to admit a man’s arm. The door is closed inside by a
large wooden bolt passing through a hole in this post and pressing
with its free end against the door. The other end has three holes into
which fit three pegs running in vertical grooves inside the post. The
door is opened with a wooden key about a foot long, somewhat
curved and sloped off at the butt; the other end has three pegs
corresponding to the holes, in the bolt, so that, when it is thrust
through the hole in the wall and inserted into the rectangular
opening in the post, the pegs can be lifted and the bolt drawn out.[50]

MODE OF INSERTING THE KEY

With no small pride first one householder and then a second

showed me on the spot the action of this greatest invention of the
Makonde Highlands. To both with an admiring exclamation of
“Vizuri sana!” (“Very fine!”). I expressed the wish to take back these
marvels with me to Ulaya, to show the Wazungu what clever fellows
the Makonde are. Scarcely five minutes after my return to camp at
Newala, the two men came up sweating under the weight of two
heavy logs which they laid down at my feet, handing over at the same
time the keys of the fallen fortress. Arguing, logically enough, that if
the key was wanted, the lock would be wanted with it, they had taken
their axes and chopped down the posts—as it never occurred to them
to dig them out of the ground and so bring them intact. Thus I have
two badly damaged specimens, and the owners, instead of praise,
come in for a blowing-up.
The Makua huts in the environs of Newala are especially
miserable; their more than slovenly construction reminds one of the
temporary erections of the Makua at Hatia’s, though the people here
have not been concerned in a war. It must therefore be due to
congenital idleness, or else to the absence of a powerful chief. Even
the baraza at Mlipa’s, a short hour’s walk south-east of Newala,
shares in this general neglect. While public buildings in this country
are usually looked after more or less carefully, this is in evident
danger of being blown over by the first strong easterly gale. The only
attractive object in this whole district is the grave of the late chief
Mlipa. I visited it in the morning, while the sun was still trying with
partial success to break through the rolling mists, and the circular
grove of tall euphorbias, which, with a broken pot, is all that marks
the old king’s resting-place, impressed one with a touch of pathos.
Even my very materially-minded carriers seemed to feel something
of the sort, for instead of their usual ribald songs, they chanted
solemnly, as we marched on through the dense green of the Makonde
bush:—
 “We shall arrive with the great master; we stand in a row and have
no fear about getting our food and our money from the Serkali (the
Government). We are not afraid; we are going along with the great
master, the lion; we are going down to the coast and back.”
With regard to the characteristic features of the various tribes here
on the western edge of the plateau, I can arrive at no other
conclusion than the one already come to in the plain, viz., that it is
impossible for anyone but a trained anthropologist to assign any
given individual at once to his proper tribe. In fact, I think that even
an anthropological specialist, after the most careful examination,
might find it a difficult task to decide. The whole congeries of peoples
collected in the region bounded on the west by the great Central
African rift, Tanganyika and Nyasa, and on the east by the Indian
Ocean, are closely related to each other—some of their languages are
only distinguished from one another as dialects of the same speech,
and no doubt all the tribes present the same shape of skull and
structure of skeleton. Thus, surely, there can be no very striking
differences in outward appearance.
 Even did such exist, I should have no time
to concern myself with them, for day after day,
I have to see or hear, as the case may be—in
any case to grasp and record—an
extraordinary number of ethnographic
phenomena. I am almost disposed to think it
fortunate that some departments of inquiry, at
least, are barred by external circumstances.
Chief among these is the subject of iron-
working. We are apt to think of Africa as a
country where iron ore is everywhere, so to
speak, to be picked up by the roadside, and
where it would be quite surprising if the
inhabitants had not learnt to smelt the
material ready to their hand. In fact, the
knowledge of this art ranges all over the
continent, from the Kabyles in the north to the
Kafirs in the south. Here between the Rovuma
and the Lukuledi the conditions are not so
favourable. According to the statements of the
Makonde, neither ironstone nor any other
form of iron ore is known to them. They have
not therefore advanced to the art of smelting
the metal, but have hitherto bought all their
THE ANCESTRESS OF
THE MAKONDE
iron implements from neighbouring tribes.
Even in the plain the inhabitants are not much
better off. Only one man now living is said to
understand the art of smelting iron. This old fundi lives close to
Huwe, that isolated, steep-sided block of granite which rises out of
the green solitude between Masasi and Chingulungulu, and whose
jagged and splintered top meets the traveller’s eye everywhere. While
still at Masasi I wished to see this man at work, but was told that,
frightened by the rising, he had retired across the Rovuma, though
he would soon return. All subsequent inquiries as to whether the
fundi had come back met with the genuine African answer, “Bado”
(“Not yet”).
 BRAZIER

Some consolation was afforded me by a brassfounder, whom I

came across in the bush near Akundonde’s. This man is the favourite
of women, and therefore no doubt of the gods; he welds the glittering
brass rods purchased at the coast into those massive, heavy rings
which, on the wrists and ankles of the local fair ones, continually give
me fresh food for admiration. Like every decent master-craftsman he
had all his tools with him, consisting of a pair of bellows, three
crucibles and a hammer—nothing more, apparently. He was quite
willing to show his skill, and in a twinkling had fixed his bellows on
the ground. They are simply two goat-skins, taken off whole, the four
legs being closed by knots, while the upper opening, intended to
admit the air, is kept stretched by two pieces of wood. At the lower
end of the skin a smaller opening is left into which a wooden tube is
stuck. The fundi has quickly borrowed a heap of wood-embers from
the nearest hut; he then fixes the free ends of the two tubes into an
earthen pipe, and clamps them to the ground by means of a bent
piece of wood. Now he fills one of his small clay crucibles, the dross
on which shows that they have been long in use, with the yellow
material, places it in the midst of the embers, which, at present are
only faintly glimmering, and begins his work. In quick alternation
the smith’s two hands move up and down with the open ends of the
bellows; as he raises his hand he holds the slit wide open, so as to let
the air enter the skin bag unhindered. In pressing it down he closes
the bag, and the air puffs through the bamboo tube and clay pipe into
the fire, which quickly burns up. The smith, however, does not keep
on with this work, but beckons to another man, who relieves him at
the bellows, while he takes some more tools out of a large skin pouch
carried on his back. I look on in wonder as, with a smooth round
stick about the thickness of a finger, he bores a few vertical holes into
the clean sand of the soil. This should not be difficult, yet the man
seems to be taking great pains over it. Then he fastens down to the
ground, with a couple of wooden clamps, a neat little trough made by
splitting a joint of bamboo in half, so that the ends are closed by the
two knots. At last the yellow metal has attained the right consistency,
and the fundi lifts the crucible from the fire by means of two sticks
split at the end to serve as tongs. A short swift turn to the left—a
tilting of the crucible—and the molten brass, hissing and giving forth
clouds of smoke, flows first into the bamboo mould and then into the
holes in the ground.
The technique of this backwoods craftsman may not be very far
advanced, but it cannot be denied that he knows how to obtain an
adequate result by the simplest means. The ladies of highest rank in
this country—that is to say, those who can afford it, wear two kinds
of these massive brass rings, one cylindrical, the other semicircular
in section. The latter are cast in the most ingenious way in the
bamboo mould, the former in the circular hole in the sand. It is quite
a simple matter for the fundi to fit these bars to the limbs of his fair
customers; with a few light strokes of his hammer he bends the
pliable brass round arm or ankle without further inconvenience to
the wearer.
SHAPING THE POT

SMOOTHING WITH MAIZE-COB

CUTTING THE EDGE

 FINISHING THE BOTTOM

LAST SMOOTHING BEFORE

BURNING

FIRING THE BRUSH-PILE

 LIGHTING THE FARTHER SIDE OF
THE PILE

TURNING THE RED-HOT VESSEL

NYASA WOMAN MAKING POTS AT MASASI

Pottery is an art which must always and everywhere excite the
interest of the student, just because it is so intimately connected with
the development of human culture, and because its relics are one of
the principal factors in the reconstruction of our own condition in
prehistoric times. I shall always remember with pleasure the two or
three afternoons at Masasi when Salim Matola’s mother, a slightly-
built, graceful, pleasant-looking woman, explained to me with
touching patience, by means of concrete illustrations, the ceramic art
of her people. The only implements for this primitive process were a
lump of clay in her left hand, and in the right a calabash containing
the following valuables: the fragment of a maize-cob stripped of all
its grains, a smooth, oval pebble, about the size of a pigeon’s egg, a
few chips of gourd-shell, a bamboo splinter about the length of one’s
hand, a small shell, and a bunch of some herb resembling spinach.
 Nothing more. The woman scraped with the
shell a round, shallow hole in the soft, fine
sand of the soil, and, when an active young
girl had filled the calabash with water for her,
she began to knead the clay. As if by magic it
gradually assumed the shape of a rough but
already well-shaped vessel, which only wanted
a little touching up with the instruments
before mentioned. I looked out with the
MAKUA WOMAN closest attention for any indication of the use
MAKING A POT. of the potter’s wheel, in however rudimentary
SHOWS THE a form, but no—hapana (there is none). The
BEGINNINGS OF THE embryo pot stood firmly in its little
POTTER’S WHEEL
depression, and the woman walked round it in
a stooping posture, whether she was removing
small stones or similar foreign bodies with the maize-cob, smoothing
the inner or outer surface with the splinter of bamboo, or later, after
letting it dry for a day, pricking in the ornamentation with a pointed
bit of gourd-shell, or working out the bottom, or cutting the edge
with a sharp bamboo knife, or giving the last touches to the finished
vessel. This occupation of the women is infinitely toilsome, but it is
without doubt an accurate reproduction of the process in use among
our ancestors of the Neolithic and Bronze ages.
There is no doubt that the invention of pottery, an item in human
progress whose importance cannot be over-estimated, is due to
women. Rough, coarse and unfeeling, the men of the horde range
over the countryside. When the united cunning of the hunters has
succeeded in killing the game; not one of them thinks of carrying
home the spoil. A bright fire, kindled by a vigorous wielding of the
drill, is crackling beside them; the animal has been cleaned and cut
up secundum artem, and, after a slight singeing, will soon disappear
under their sharp teeth; no one all this time giving a single thought
to wife or child.
To what shifts, on the other hand, the primitive wife, and still more
the primitive mother, was put! Not even prehistoric stomachs could
endure an unvarying diet of raw food. Something or other suggested
the beneficial effect of hot water on the majority of approved but
indigestible dishes. Perhaps a neighbour had tried holding the hard
roots or tubers over the fire in a calabash filled with water—or maybe
an ostrich-egg-shell, or a hastily improvised vessel of bark. They
became much softer and more palatable than they had previously
been; but, unfortunately, the vessel could not stand the fire and got
charred on the outside. That can be remedied, thought our
ancestress, and plastered a layer of wet clay round a similar vessel.
This is an improvement; the cooking utensil remains uninjured, but
the heat of the fire has shrunk it, so that it is loose in its shell. The
next step is to detach it, so, with a firm grip and a jerk, shell and
kernel are separated, and pottery is invented. Perhaps, however, the
discovery which led to an intelligent use of the burnt-clay shell, was
made in a slightly different way. Ostrich-eggs and calabashes are not
to be found in every part of the world, but everywhere mankind has
arrived at the art of making baskets out of pliant materials, such as
bark, bast, strips of palm-leaf, supple twigs, etc. Our inventor has no
water-tight vessel provided by nature. “Never mind, let us line the
basket with clay.” This answers the purpose, but alas! the basket gets
burnt over the blazing fire, the woman watches the process of
cooking with increasing uneasiness, fearing a leak, but no leak
appears. The food, done to a turn, is eaten with peculiar relish; and
the cooking-vessel is examined, half in curiosity, half in satisfaction
at the result. The plastic clay is now hard as stone, and at the same
time looks exceedingly well, for the neat plaiting of the burnt basket
is traced all over it in a pretty pattern. Thus, simultaneously with
pottery, its ornamentation was invented.
Primitive woman has another claim to respect. It was the man,
roving abroad, who invented the art of producing fire at will, but the
woman, unable to imitate him in this, has been a Vestal from the
earliest times. Nothing gives so much trouble as the keeping alight of
the smouldering brand, and, above all, when all the men are absent
from the camp. Heavy rain-clouds gather, already the first large
drops are falling, the first gusts of the storm rage over the plain. The
little flame, a greater anxiety to the woman than her own children,
flickers unsteadily in the blast. What is to be done? A sudden thought
occurs to her, and in an instant she has constructed a primitive hut
out of strips of bark, to protect the flame against rain and wind.
This, or something very like it, was the way in which the principle
of the house was discovered; and even the most hardened misogynist
cannot fairly refuse a woman the credit of it. The protection of the
hearth-fire from the weather is the germ from which the human
dwelling was evolved. Men had little, if any share, in this forward
step, and that only at a late stage. Even at the present day, the
plastering of the housewall with clay and the manufacture of pottery
are exclusively the women’s business. These are two very significant
survivals. Our European kitchen-garden, too, is originally a woman’s
invention, and the hoe, the primitive instrument of agriculture, is,
characteristically enough, still used in this department. But the
noblest achievement which we owe to the other sex is unquestionably
the art of cookery. Roasting alone—the oldest process—is one for
which men took the hint (a very obvious one) from nature. It must
have been suggested by the scorched carcase of some animal
overtaken by the destructive forest-fires. But boiling—the process of
improving organic substances by the help of water heated to boiling-
point—is a much later discovery. It is so recent that it has not even
yet penetrated to all parts of the world. The Polynesians understand
how to steam food, that is, to cook it, neatly wrapped in leaves, in a
hole in the earth between hot stones, the air being excluded, and
(sometimes) a few drops of water sprinkled on the stones; but they
do not understand boiling.
To come back from this digression, we find that the slender Nyasa
woman has, after once more carefully examining the finished pot,
put it aside in the shade to dry. On the following day she sends me
word by her son, Salim Matola, who is always on hand, that she is
going to do the burning, and, on coming out of my house, I find her
already hard at work. She has spread on the ground a layer of very
dry sticks, about as thick as one’s thumb, has laid the pot (now of a
yellowish-grey colour) on them, and is piling brushwood round it.
My faithful Pesa mbili, the mnyampara, who has been standing by,
most obligingly, with a lighted stick, now hands it to her. Both of
them, blowing steadily, light the pile on the lee side, and, when the
flame begins to catch, on the weather side also. Soon the whole is in a
blaze, but the dry fuel is quickly consumed and the fire dies down, so
that we see the red-hot vessel rising from the ashes. The woman
turns it continually with a long stick, sometimes one way and
sometimes another, so that it may be evenly heated all over. In
twenty minutes she rolls it out of the ash-heap, takes up the bundle
of spinach, which has been lying for two days in a jar of water, and
sprinkles the red-hot clay with it. The places where the drops fall are
marked by black spots on the uniform reddish-brown surface. With a
sigh of relief, and with visible satisfaction, the woman rises to an
erect position; she is standing just in a line between me and the fire,
from which a cloud of smoke is just rising: I press the ball of my
camera, the shutter clicks—the apotheosis is achieved! Like a
priestess, representative of her inventive sex, the graceful woman
stands: at her feet the hearth-fire she has given us beside her the
invention she has devised for us, in the background the home she has
built for us.
At Newala, also, I have had the manufacture of pottery carried on
in my presence. Technically the process is better than that already
described, for here we find the beginnings of the potter’s wheel,
which does not seem to exist in the plains; at least I have seen
nothing of the sort. The artist, a frightfully stupid Makua woman, did
not make a depression in the ground to receive the pot she was about
to shape, but used instead a large potsherd. Otherwise, she went to
work in much the same way as Salim’s mother, except that she saved
herself the trouble of walking round and round her work by squatting
at her ease and letting the pot and potsherd rotate round her; this is
surely the first step towards a machine. But it does not follow that
the pot was improved by the process. It is true that it was beautifully
rounded and presented a very creditable appearance when finished,
but the numerous large and small vessels which I have seen, and, in
part, collected, in the “less advanced” districts, are no less so. We
moderns imagine that instruments of precision are necessary to
produce excellent results. Go to the prehistoric collections of our
museums and look at the pots, urns and bowls of our ancestors in the
dim ages of the past, and you will at once perceive your error.
MAKING LONGITUDINAL CUT IN
BARK

DRAWING THE BARK OFF THE LOG

REMOVING THE OUTER BARK

 BEATING THE BARK

WORKING THE BARK-CLOTH AFTER BEATING, TO MAKE IT

SOFT

MANUFACTURE OF BARK-CLOTH AT NEWALA

To-day, nearly the whole population of German East Africa is
clothed in imported calico. This was not always the case; even now in
some parts of the north dressed skins are still the prevailing wear,
and in the north-western districts—east and north of Lake
Tanganyika—lies a zone where bark-cloth has not yet been
superseded. Probably not many generations have passed since such
bark fabrics and kilts of skins were the only clothing even in the
south. Even to-day, large quantities of this bright-red or drab
material are still to be found; but if we wish to see it, we must look in
the granaries and on the drying stages inside the native huts, where
it serves less ambitious uses as wrappings for those seeds and fruits
which require to be packed with special care. The salt produced at
Masasi, too, is packed for transport to a distance in large sheets of
bark-cloth. Wherever I found it in any degree possible, I studied the
process of making this cloth. The native requisitioned for the
purpose arrived, carrying a log between two and three yards long and
as thick as his thigh, and nothing else except a curiously-shaped
mallet and the usual long, sharp and pointed knife which all men and
boys wear in a belt at their backs without a sheath—horribile dictu!
[51]
Silently he squats down before me, and with two rapid cuts has
drawn a couple of circles round the log some two yards apart, and
slits the bark lengthwise between them with the point of his knife.
With evident care, he then scrapes off the outer rind all round the
log, so that in a quarter of an hour the inner red layer of the bark
shows up brightly-coloured between the two untouched ends. With
some trouble and much caution, he now loosens the bark at one end,
and opens the cylinder. He then stands up, takes hold of the free
edge with both hands, and turning it inside out, slowly but steadily
pulls it off in one piece. Now comes the troublesome work of
scraping all superfluous particles of outer bark from the outside of
the long, narrow piece of material, while the inner side is carefully
scrutinised for defective spots. At last it is ready for beating. Having
signalled to a friend, who immediately places a bowl of water beside
him, the artificer damps his sheet of bark all over, seizes his mallet,
lays one end of the stuff on the smoothest spot of the log, and
hammers away slowly but continuously. “Very simple!” I think to
myself. “Why, I could do that, too!”—but I am forced to change my
opinions a little later on; for the beating is quite an art, if the fabric is
not to be beaten to pieces. To prevent the breaking of the fibres, the
stuff is several times folded across, so as to interpose several
thicknesses between the mallet and the block. At last the required
state is reached, and the fundi seizes the sheet, still folded, by both
ends, and wrings it out, or calls an assistant to take one end while he
holds the other. The cloth produced in this way is not nearly so fine
and uniform in texture as the famous Uganda bark-cloth, but it is
quite soft, and, above all, cheap.
Now, too, I examine the mallet. My craftsman has been using the
simpler but better form of this implement, a conical block of some
hard wood, its base—the striking surface—being scored across and
across with more or less deeply-cut grooves, and the handle stuck
into a hole in the middle. The other and earlier form of mallet is
shaped in the same way, but the head is fastened by an ingenious
network of bark strips into the split bamboo serving as a handle. The
observation so often made, that ancient customs persist longest in
connection with religious ceremonies and in the life of children, here
finds confirmation. As we shall soon see, bark-cloth is still worn
during the unyago,[52] having been prepared with special solemn
ceremonies; and many a mother, if she has no other garment handy,
will still put her little one into a kilt of bark-cloth, which, after all,
looks better, besides being more in keeping with its African
surroundings, than the ridiculous bit of print from Ulaya.
MAKUA WOMEN