single-view metrology — where it appears
Named by 34 essays across 13 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
A height, out of one photograph
Four points on a vertical, one cross-ratio, and the height of something nobody measured. The only metric input is the photographer's own eye height, because the horizon is at eye level and that is the one piece of perspective folklore that is exactly true.
Flattening a façade out of the photograph
Four corners of a rectangle whose proportions are known are enough to undo the projection of one plane. After that the plane can be measured with a ruler — lengths, angles, areas, all of it — in units of the rectangle's own width, and lengths the map was never given come back to fifteen digits.
A lens destroys the invariant
The cross-ratio is the one thing a projection preserves, and nearly everything checkable about a photograph is checked with it. A lens returns it one and a third per cent out where the pinhole is exact to fifteen digits — and the height error that follows tracks a quantity nobody would guess.
Measuring a room off the page
A perspective picture of a floor has to be rectified before anything on it can be measured, and the rectification is a fit that amplifies the marking error. An oblique picture of the same floor is already rectified — the page is the plan, at one scale, and a ruler on the paper is a ruler on the ground.
Recovering the camera from the picture it drew
Draw a box from a known camera, forget the camera, and get it back from the twelve drawn edges alone. Agreement to one part in 10¹⁵ is a statement about the geometry, because the only thing that crossed between the two halves was a list of line segments.
The one thing a single view cannot give
Make the world a hundred and thirty-seven times larger and move the eye a hundred and thirty-seven times further away, and the picture does not change by a measurable amount. Every ratio in a scene is recoverable from one photograph and no size is, and that is not a caveat about the method — it is the shape of the method.
A map along, and a picture across
The midpoint of a segment lying along a scroll's length images to the midpoint of its image, exactly. The midpoint of a receding one lands 22% of the way off. One projection, two answers — and the direction that keeps measure keeps something a perspective picture never offers.
How wrong a measurement from one picture can be
The formula divides by a difference of two nearly equal numbers when the object is tall, which looked like the instability and is not. Measured, a taller object is recovered better and a more distant one worse — half a per cent per pixel at six metres and eleven per cent at a hundred and twenty. The argument that was wrong is as much the finding as the curve that replaced it.
What perspective gave up
The field ends by turning its own battery on the system it has been comparing everything against. Four quantities a pinhole destroys that the other systems keep, each measured by the same computation as the systems it is set against, and each the price of the one thing perspective has and they do not.
The lamp, out of the picture
Two posts and their shadows put the light's position in a photograph, exactly, with nothing given but the drawn lines and the camera's own horizon. Two posts. One gives a residual of zero and an answer that is a whole one-parameter family — the sharpest counter-example there is to the idea that a small residual means a right answer, met again in a new field.
A ruler on an isometric drawing
Isometric drawing has one scale — 0.8165 — and every account of it stops there. But that number is about three directions and a drawing has infinitely many, so a length measured off the paper and divided by 0.8165 comes back anywhere between √(1/2) and √(3/2) of the truth: 29.3% short to 22.5% long, with nothing in the picture to say which.
The horizon, and the fraction
The horizon crosses every upright at the point of it that stands at the camera's own eye height — always, whatever the picture plane is doing. It crosses at the same *fraction* of the drawn height only when the plane is vertical: tilt by 6° and the fractions spread by 0.08 percentage points, tilt by 4° and 0.06. One statement is an incidence and survives; the other is a ratio and does not.
The marks name the place, not the height
Run the camera-recovery round trip on an anamorph — hand it the floor marks and ask for the eye back — and it returns the spot on the floor to eleven decimal places with nothing assumed at all. It does not return the height. What the marks fix is the product of the eye's height with the design's aspect ratio, and no amount of looking at the floor separates the two.
The ramp has its own horizon
Every plane has a vanishing line, and a ramp's is not the ground's. Its uphill edges meet on a line above the horizon, and the angle at the eye between that meeting point and the same direction taken level is the gradient — 22.0000° recovered against 22° built, out of the picture alone, with no scale, no ruler and nothing known about the scene except that the ground is level.
Undoing a picture made on a curve
Three rounds of work here have measured what a curved receiving surface costs going forward — 5.67 mm on a dish, 9.07 mm on a ridge, 529.4 mm on a vault. None of them asked whether the design can be got back. It can, exactly, and the price is stated precisely: you have to supply the surface. Told the floor, the recovery returns a design to 1.1e-12 mm; told nothing, and fitting the four marks every rectification tool fits, it is 111 mm out.
An area, out of one photograph
A patch of ground comes back at 5.205 m² from one photograph, to 1.8 × 10⁻¹⁴, through a homography built from four marks and their four known positions. What is worth knowing is how it degrades — the patch's extent across the picture is read with an error growing as the depth, its extent into the picture with an error growing as the depth squared, and at twenty-eight metres the two are sixteen times apart — which is the depth divided by the camera's height.
The lamp is the second eye
One photograph, one lamp whose position is known, and a point's place in space comes back to 9e-16 m — the camera's ray through the point, the lamp's ray through the image of its shadow, and the intersection of two lines. It is triangulation with one of the two eyes replaced by a light, and it degrades exactly like a stereo pair: 5.9 mm of depth per pixel at 39° between the rays, 1 mm at 15.4°.
How well the floor has to be known
“Supply the surface” is an instruction with no number in it, and an instruction with no number is a wish. Here is the number: the error in the recovered design is very nearly proportional to the error in the assumed curvature — the constant varies by 1.4% across a twentyfold range — so about nine parts in a thousand of the curvature buys one millimetre on a design 1800 mm wide, and 40% out costs 43.5 mm.
Carrying a height across the room
A known height at one place on the floor, and the same height wanted at another: two lines settle it, and they settle it exactly, at every camera and every pair of positions. What the recipes never mention is that one of those two lines has to be drawn to a point that is usually not on the paper — 3,300 canvas widths away in the case drawn here — and that the repair is not to extend it further.
A light far enough away
The evidence in a photograph that its light is in the room rather than at infinity is one number — how far below the horizon the shadow lines put the light's foot. It falls off as one over the distance, from 211 px at 4 m to 10.8 px at 266 m, while the recovered height stays exact to 5e-13 of itself. What fails first is not the arithmetic; it is the evidence, and one pixel of error costs 0.21 mm of height at the near end and 0.07 m at the far one.
A picture with nothing straight in it
Every construction on this site is handed the horizon, and a photograph of a crowd, a hillside or a curved façade has no straight edge to give it. What such a picture does have is repetition — and three things of one height put the horizon exactly where the camera has it, from the picture alone. Two things do not, and three standing abreast do not either, and both refusals are the reader's ordinary situation.
An angle on the ground
An angle needs no length at all — it is scale-free, so the one thing a single view cannot give is not the thing an angle wants. What it wants instead is the plane's shape, and the difference is measurable — assume the reference rectangle's aspect a quarter wrong and the angle moves 11.5°, a length running into the picture is out by exactly that quarter, and a length along the reference's own direction does not move at all.
The answer is an ellipse
A mark read with a round error does not come back as a round region on the ground. The ray is grazing, so a pixel across the picture is worth a little and a pixel up it is worth a great deal, and the recovered point's uncertainty is an ellipse pointing at the camera — 5.07 to 1 at eight metres from a camera 1.62 m up, which is the depth over the height. Propagated and sampled agree to 0.5 per cent, and a ray that is not grazing gives a disc.
Counting cloud by counting pixels
A sky camera looks up and something counts the white pixels. On an equal-area fisheye that answer is right to 0.01%, which is the grid's own error. On an equidistant one it is 9% low, on stereographic 27% low, and on an ordinary flat lens 77% low — against a cover that is known exactly, because the clouds here are caps whose solid angles add. Weighting each pixel by the surface's area scale repairs every one of them to better than a fifth of a per cent.
Which reference to measure from
Given four candidate scale bars in one photograph, the best is not the longest and not the nearest — it is the longest in the picture. A five-point-two metre bar near the horizon is the longest thing in the scene and the worst reference in it; a four metre bar close to the camera is the best. Walk one bar outward and the term it controls falls as one over its length in pixels, with a fitted exponent of −1.08.
A close picture carries its own distance
A 50 mm lens focused at one metre stands 2.632 mm beyond its focal length, and a picture records where the lens stood. Recover that from two vanishing points, put in the engraved focal length, and the focus distance comes back — to 0.7 per cent at 1 m, 3.7 at 5 m, and as an interval 28 per cent wide at 30 m. A single picture has given a scale. What it has given is where the lens was focused, and the subject can be anywhere in a sharp band two to fifteen times wider.
The line every nosing is on
Nothing in a staircase points up the pitch. Every surface in it is level or vertical, and its picture has a vanishing point off the horizon all the same — belonging to the line the front edges of the treads lie on. That point is not free: it is collinear with the travel point and the vertical point, and the angle it makes says the rise-to-run the builder chose.
A symmetric object is its own stereo pair
A building with a plane of symmetry photographed once gives fourteen correspondences whose joining lines meet at one point to 1.9 × 10⁻¹² pixels, a skew-symmetric matrix, and the object's whole shape to fifteen digits — with no mirror anywhere and no second exposure. What it does not give is the size, and the instrument that decides whether any of it applies is the same meeting point, which opens to 12.7 pixels when the symmetry is half a per cent out.
Five facts that close the same gap
The gloss that one length has to come from outside the photograph names a single option, and there are at least five — a length on the ground, the camera's own height, a repeated object of unstated size, a standing object of known height, and the focal length with the horizon. All five give an answer on the same picture with the same noise; their spreads run from 0.36 to 3.60 per cent, a factor of ten, and which one is available depends on the photograph rather than on the arithmetic.
A shadow across a second object
A straight edge held in front of a lamp defines one plane, and the shadow's boundary is wherever that plane meets something. That turns a picture of a shadow into a measurement: a camera ray and a known plane meet in one point, and the object the shadow is falling on comes back out.
Where each closure enters the stratification
The five facts that turn a photograph's ratios into metres do not all do the same job. Read on four quantities through the map each supplies — a cross-ratio, a ratio along a line, an angle, a length — three of them return all four exactly and two return only the first three. Set the free scale ten per cent wrong and the whole ten per cent appears in the length and nothing appears in the other three, to thirteen digits.
The ball stands at a focus
A ball on a floor casts an ellipse, and the point where the ball touches the floor is a focus of it — not near a focus, on one, to two parts in ten thousand million million. That is Dandelin's theorem arriving somewhere nobody puts it, and it is the only thing about the lamp that the shadow gives away.
The stair that turns has a vanishing point that moves
A spiral stair's treads are one rectangle turned by a constant angle, so every front edge has its own vanishing point and the twelve lie on one horizon to 2.8e-14 pixels. Four consecutive of them read a cross-ratio of 1.353720, and the formula behind it holds no focal length, no principal point and no eye — so a photograph gives the builder's 12° turn back.
Figures on a street that slopes
Equal-height figures have their heads on one line, and the taught rule says the line is the horizon. On a street rising at 8.33 per cent the heads are still collinear to 2.8e-14 pixels and the line is 58.9 pixels above the horizon — the street plane's own vanishing line. The taught rule loses 1.46 m of a 1.62 m figure at the far figure, and runs out of figure altogether at 19.4 m.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
Vanishing pointHorizonConditioningerror propagationReference lengthCross-ratioHomographyPicture planescale ambiguitySensitivityFocal lengthRectification