Every essay — page 10
What survives Constructing a view Where to stand Surfaces that are not flat The other systems Light and mirrors Mirrors that are not cameras Measuring from one picture Through water and glass The real instrument The second eye What a pair is for Many pictures at once The eye that moves Systems that kept the measure What each system gave up What a machine computes The rectangle behind the lens The second projection Drawn confidently
Light and mirrors
A shadow is a projection from the lamp; a reflection in a flat mirror is the view from a camera on the far side of it. Neither needs a new method, and both are computed with the projections already here — which is exactly why the mirrors that bend get a field of their own.
A dent breaks the terminator
A ball's lit boundary is one closed curve, 313.2 cm around; press a dimple into its top and, at 45° of elevation, the walk that traces it finds 181 crossings where a point still faces the light but is occluded by the body's own rim — a second curve, 23.1 cm long, that a convex surface can never produce. The two curves meet where the dent's own deepest point goes dark, at 50.952°, with the ray's clearance reaching zero at a stationary point rather than merely a small one.
A shadow edge read as a profile
A lamp, a stick and a camera recover a stepped object's profile to 4.9e-15 m rms when the marks are exact, and to 10.4 mm once they are read to two tenths of a pixel — the same linear law a fitted exponent of 1.001 confirms. What actually sets that number is the angle between the sweeping light plane and the camera's own ray — the amplification is least, 17.0 times a pixel, broadside at 6°, and grows without bound toward -36.1°, where the plane contains the camera's own eye and the recovery keeps none of its marks at all.
The lamp and the floor cannot both be recovered
Every member of a one-parameter family of lamp-and-floor pairs draws the identical photograph to a fraction of a thousandth of a pixel — one member swings the lamp 90 cm and tilts the floor 4.3° and the picture does not move at all. A tape measure or a post of known height each pin the true member uniquely, and so does a wall known in advance to be square to the floor, whose angle to the recovered floor peaks at exactly 90° at μ = 1.000 and nowhere else; a receiver merely known to be parallel drifts thirteen times more weakly.
Many pictures at once
Raise the count and the answer changes character. A sequence determines its own camera track and the scene together — up to seven numbers that no quantity of pictures supplies, counted here in the Jacobian and then walked along to show that they are free rather than merely small.
The track and the scene together
Six photographs go in and one hundred and sixty-eight numbers come out — every camera's position and orientation and every point's place in space, solved for at once. Nothing in the solve was ever told where a camera or a point was.
Seven numbers no picture can name
Shift a whole reconstruction by a metre and a half, turn it half a radian, scale it by 2.7, and every photograph of it stays where it was to a hundredth of a billionth of a pixel. Move one point by fifty millimetres and they move by two thirds of a pixel.
A chain and an adjustment
Composing pairwise poses along a sequence is supposed to drift. Measured over five links it wanders instead — one chain ends closer to the truth than its own worst link — and the real cost of chaining turns out to be something else entirely.
Where the adjustment stops
Given exact marks the reprojection error falls to a hundredth of a billionth of a pixel, which is arithmetic. Given the same marks read to a whole pixel it falls to a third of a pixel and stays there, and a solver that reached zero on those would be fitting the rounding.
Another picture of the same sweep
Going from three views to seven across the same sixty degrees leaves the reconstruction exactly where it started, and at one point makes it worse. What a reconstruction is short of is angular spread, not photographs.
Far enough away, a pair is one eye
Hold the baseline and walk the scene away, and the parallax a single homography cannot explain falls as the distance to the power −0.968 — one over the distance, which says the ratio of baseline to depth is the whole of it. The recovered translation direction follows it down, from 3.3° at four metres to 74.5° at two hundred and fifty-six.
An uncertainty is quoted from something
One adjustment, one set of marks read to a pixel, and its uncertainty written four ways. Held at the first camera, the last camera is 105 mm from certain; held at nothing, every camera is within 4 to 6 mm. A ratio of two distances carries 0.1465 per cent in all four, to two parts in a billion.
The eighth held number bends the scene
Four surveyed points, each 10 mm out in a different direction. Hold seven of their coordinates during an adjustment and the courtyard's shape moves by a trillionth of a millimetre; hold eight and it moves by 0.59 mm, because seven numbers choose a frame and the eighth makes a claim the pictures disagree with.
A narrow view keeps a second answer, inside out
Six pictures of a courtyard through a 3° field, every mark exact. Started from the scene turned inside out, the adjustment settles there — near points far, far points near — and misfits the marks by under a pixel. The misfit grows in proportion to the field and to the sweep of the cameras, and vanishes only where perspective does.
A scale chain leans rather than wanders
A camera driven 200 m along a street, each pair's scale handed to the next through the points they share. Across sixteen streets the scale does not spread the way a random walk would — 7.3 per cent after 199 links, where independent ties would give 108 — and its average leans by an amount the choice of average decides, from +28.6 per cent to −12.2.
Closing a loop mends its ends
Twenty-four cameras walked once round a ring of walls, every mark read to a pixel. Recognising the twenty-two points seen at both ends makes the last camera six and a half times better placed relative to the first — and the worst camera, across the ring, only a fifth better. A closure mends the ends of a walk and barely touches its far side.
The spread a point gets
A track of sixty degrees gives no point of the scene sixty degrees. The nearest receive 89 and the furthest 41, a factor of 2.2, and their errors run from 1.5 to 8.4 millimetres — following the angle at the point as its −1.68 power, with 94 per cent of the variation explained. The arc a track covers is one number for forty-four different situations and predicts none of them.
A loop's far side is a length
The worst camera on a closed loop of twenty-four is 411 mm from certain along the line from the start and 64 mm across it. A picture taken across the ring from the start tripod measures directions and moves the worst camera from 418 mm to 405. One distance measured across the ring to 10 mm moves it to 74, and a four-metre length measured on the start wall to 112. What the far side of a loop lacks is not a connection but a length.
A survey is trusted at its own accuracy, unless its error has a shape
Entered into an adjustment with a stated accuracy, a survey whose errors are random gives the smallest shape error when the stated accuracy is the true one — at 1, 5 and 20 mm alike. Stated twenty times too tight it can cost thirteen times the error; twenty times too loose, almost nothing. But twelve surveys all 10 mm out in fixed directions are best trusted anywhere from 0.3 mm to 10 mm, and the size of their error cannot say which.
A start needs the sign of its depths, not their size
Started part of the way from a courtyard toward its inside-out twin, a bundle adjustment returns to the truth from every start less than 42 per cent of the way — a start with a sixth of the true relief, the right way round — and falls into the twin from every start past 56. Between, neighbouring starts settle in different answers. The band sits in the same place at a 3° field, where the twin misfits by under a pixel, and at 25°, where it misfits by seven and a half.
Measuring from one picture
A photograph read backwards for the scene that made it: a height from a cross-ratio, a façade flattened by a homography, a plan of the ground. Every measurement is a ratio, because a single view has no size — and that is shown rather than said.
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.
The plan hidden in the photograph
Rectifying the ground is the same operation as rectifying a wall, and it turns a photograph into a site plan. The horizon is not an input to it and comes out as a consequence — the plan's points at infinity land on it, at first order, which is the check that the plan is a plan and not a plausible warp.
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.
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.
The wall under the paint
An anamorph's design is a set of rays from a known eye, fixed before any paint is applied — so the marks are a calibration target whose rays are known exactly and whose shape is not. One ordinary photograph supplies the second ray for each mark and the wall comes back at the arithmetic floor, on a dished floor, a ridged one, and a floor with a step in it. What it says between the marks is nothing, by the sagitta.