The thread: One machine used twice — page 2
The shadow of a ball is a conic
A cone cut by a plane is a conic section — which is the definition of the phrase, not an analogy — and the shadow of a ball is exactly that cut. So the shadow closes or runs to the horizon depending on where the lamp is, and the condition is not what anyone guesses: it is that the lamp is above the top of the ball. The ball's distance appears nowhere in it.
Mirrors that are not camerasThe cone that reads the floor
A conical mirror standing on a design turns it into a picture, and the map it performs is exact, one-to-one, and not a projectivity — a homography fitted to four of the marks returns those four to 7e-13 mm and puts the rest 2480 mm away, on a design 369 mm wide. The reason is that the cone turns the annulus inside out: the middle of the picture comes from the far edge of the floor and the rim from the near one.
Where to standThe cylindrical mirror unbends it
Put a mirrored cylinder in the middle of the sheet and the light path from the eye to the paper bends once. The map that results is not a homography and not a projection in the plane sense at all — it varies its scale by a factor of seven across the design, which is why the smear is unreadable and why the mirror can put it back.
The other systemsOblique is a shear, and the shear is the whole system
Cavalier and cabinet are usually introduced as easy perspective for people with a set square. They are not a simplification of anything — they are the answer to a demand no orthographic projection can meet, which is a front face at true size and a depth axis at full length at the same time. The two are locked on a unit circle, and buying both costs exactly 45° of obliquity.
Light and mirrorsThe 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.
What a machine computesFour numbers and a window
A projection matrix is built from six numbers and one of them is not a number at all. Four sides carry the focal length and the principal point; the near and far planes move nothing a reader can see; and the bottom row, (0, 0, 1, 0), is the only place the depth divides — set it to (0, 0, 0, 1) and the same machine draws a parallel projection.
Systems that kept the measureA picture with two eyes in it
Several traditions draw the floor from one place and the people on it from another. No single camera produces both, as an earlier essay showed. What such a picture actually is has a measurement attached: give the rays their world points and ask for the one place they all pass through, and at a stride of separation the best answer misses them by six tenths of a metre.
Measuring from one pictureThe 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.
The rectangle behind the lensThe centre has an area
Every theorem of perspective follows from a projection through a point, and no instrument has one. Give the pupil a radius and each world point images as a disc — whose centre is the pinhole's mark to 5.7 × 10⁻¹⁴ millimetres, at every aperture, every distance and every field angle. The geometry survives exactly; only the sharpness is spent.
Light and mirrorsA shadow can be un-cast
A shadow looks like a lossy record — a flattened smear with the shape half thrown away. It is nothing of the kind. The map from the occluder's plane to the floor is a plane projectivity, so it has an inverse, and the outline comes back out of its own shadow exactly. What breaks it is not the light and not the shape: it is the floor not being flat.
What survivesTwo triangles and the line nobody drew
Desargues' theorem is the reason a hand-drawn shadow construction closes. An object and its shadow are two figures in perspective from the lamp; the theorem says their corresponding sides meet, pairwise, on one line — which is the ground line. So the closure a draughtsman treats as confirmation that the work is accurate is a theorem they cannot violate.
Constructing a viewThe plane is a choice
A projection has a centre and a surface, and they move independently. Keep the eye and turn the picture plane and every point of any scene lands where one 3×3 matrix says, to 2.5e-13 px. Move the eye instead and the matrix fitted to four points is exact at those four and out by 32.0 px everywhere else. The first is a homography of the picture; the second is parallax, and nothing about the picture can undo it.
Drawn confidentlyThe forty-five degree shadow
Draw the shadow at forty-five degrees and make it as long as the object is tall. In the plan that is exactly a sun halfway up the sky. Applied on the paper it puts four posts under four different suns — altitudes from sixteen to twenty-nine degrees, azimuths thirty-two degrees apart, and shadows between one and three-quarters and three and a half times the height. No drawing angle brings them together.
Systems that kept the measureThe second eye is a shear
A picture drawn from two eyes is a picture drawn from one, of a different room. The map that puts the second eye away holds the picture plane still point by point and carries one centre onto the other, and the member of its family that matters turns out to be affine — a shear along the line joining the eyes, growing with depth, which is the same operation an oblique drawing performs.
Measuring from one pictureThe curvature a shadow reports
A flat floor makes a shadow a homology, so four marks predict the rest exactly and a curved floor mispredicts them by millimetres. Turn that round and the mispredict is a measurement of the floor. It recovers a dished floor's own curvature to a per cent — and returns 0.482 for a floor made of two planes, whose curvature is zero everywhere, with a residual of ten microns.
Mirrors that are not camerasThe caustic is the mirror's own ruler
Four of the five instruments in this row return a ratio and refuse a size. The bright curve a mirror throws is the exception, and the reason is that it is a length lying on the table rather than an angle in a picture. Its tip is the paraxial focus, so a ruler laid from the mirror's vertex to it returns the radius of curvature — 1.5996 m against 1.6, and exactly right on a paraboloid, where there is no aberration to bias the envelope.
Light and mirrorsA wall does not get darker as it goes away
The inverse square law is about a point source. A surface is not a point source, and the picture of a wall is exactly as bright at twenty metres as at two — the patch one pixel covers grows as the square of the distance and the light per unit area falls as the square of the distance, and a picture records the product. Which is why aerial perspective has to be the air.
Drawn confidentlyMeasured down from the waterline
Whatever stands so far above the water, draw its reflection the same distance below. Through a vertical picture plane that is not an approximation — it is the reflection, to the arithmetic floor. Tilt the camera twenty-two degrees and it is eleven pixels out. Draw a gull, which touches the water nowhere, and guessing its waterline point wrong by two metres of depth costs fifty.
The rectangle behind the lensA pupil sees around an edge
Two backgrounds identical everywhere a pinhole can see, differing only in the strip an occluder hides from it, produce identical pinhole pictures and pupil pictures 42 per cent apart. So no function of the sharp image — no kernel, no depth-dependent kernel, nothing — produces the picture a real lens makes, and the reach behind the edge is R(Z₂/Z₁ − 1), which is 120 mm here.
Through water and glassOne surface, two images
A water surface reflects what is above it and refracts what is below it in the same photograph, from the same plane. The reflected half has a centre of projection to 1 × 10⁻¹⁴ m and every theorem about central projection applies to it; the refracted half misses its own best-fitting point by 28.6 mm and none of it does. And the landscape manual's rule for drawing a reflection turns out to be the epipole placed at infinity, which is why it costs nothing at zero tilt and 11.5 px at twenty-two degrees.
The eye that movesA pond in a scroll is not an ellipse
A pinhole draws a round pond as an exact ellipse whose widest row is 3.58 px off the row of the pond's centre — the drawn-circle error every perspective textbook warns about. A handscroll draws the same pond widest exactly on its centre's row, and draws it as a quartic that no conic fits: the best ellipse misses it by 3.08 px. Each keeps what the other loses, and off to one side the pinhole's pond leans 9.67 px while the scroll's does not lean at all.
Light and mirrorsA lamp lights less than half a ball
Everyone knows a sphere is half lit. It is half lit by a source at infinity and by nothing else: a lamp two radii away lights a quarter of it, and the boundary it draws is a circle offset toward the light rather than a great circle. The offset is R²/D, which means a photograph of a lit ball carries the distance to whatever lit it.
Systems that kept the measureTwo grounds, and what the second one costs
The miniature convention wants its floor drawn from overhead and its figures drawn from in front, and the two optical axes it asks for are exactly ninety degrees apart. Read as a picture with two centres rather than as a picture with none, the arrangement stops being a contradiction and becomes a quantity: the rays of the composite miss their own best point by more than a metre, and the absorbed reading is a floor that leans.
The rectangle behind the lensThe corner sees an ellipse
A circular pupil viewed from off the axis is foreshortened by the cosine, so the blur patch a corner receives is an ellipse of axis ratio 0.920 at the edge of a full-frame picture with a 50 mm lens — and the light through it falls as the fourth power of the same cosine, 0.480 stops. Both are geometry, both happen to a perfect lens, and no design removes either.