Landscapes of the Mind by Carl Chiarenza

Landscapes of the Mind by Carl Chiarenza

From Landscapes of the Mind by Carl Chiarenza
From LensWork #29
© 2000 Carl Chiarenza. All rights reserved.
Reproduced with the permission of the photographer.

Commentary
Somehow it seems fitting that an image like this wonderful abstract by Carl Chiarenza is discussed in this month of the Wolf Moon. (The Wolf Moon is the first full moon of January.) I suppose Chiarenza's suggestive title for his first book of these images, Landscapes of the Mind, helps bring such a comparison to mind, but wouldn't you agree this is very moon-like?

To evoke — I think that's the word I'm searching for — is the inherent power of an abstract. An abstract reaches deeply into us, even into our subconscious, and pulls out a response. At least, that's what we hope our abstracts do. It's not so important what it looks like, but rather what it feels like. An abstract can look like anything, a statement which is particularly true for Chiarenza's work because he is making things and then photographing them. He has dual creative powers at play — what he makes, and then how he photographs it.

This is much harder than it sounds. Why? I am reminded of that great quote from Orson Wells, "The enemy of art is the total lack of limitations." When you can do anything, it is often difficult to find a place to start. Combine this with the old maxim, "Once begun is half done," and you can see where the problem lies. In some regards, this is true of any type of photography for the simple reason that we can point our cameras at anything. There is no more persistent and nagging question for photographers than the pesky one, "What should I photograph?"

Chiarenza can help us. Start with something. In fact, start with anything. Build from there. I can imagine him seeing this large circular shape and musing, "I should do something with that." The age-old photographic advice is to eliminate the unnecessary from your compositions. It's not bad advice, but this implies that we start by seeing everything and then start pruning, cropping, moving in, eliminating, and eventually have our image distilled to its essence. Snap! I would propose the opposite approach is equally, if not more, valid. Start with one thing and build from there. Start tightly composed — too tightly composed — and start backing up, adding, including, bringing in more, until the image starts to vibrate with its own aesthetic harmony. It's easier to conceive of this approach with constructed work like Chiarenza's, but the concept works well in the grand landscape, too. In either direction, it's a matter of finding the sweet spot.

The portfolio can be seen in its entirety in our back issues — print (while still available) and our PDFs for computer, iPad, Android, and other devices. Plus, bonus audio commentary about this image is available to members of LensWork Online.

Discussion
Add your comments and observations to the discussion by using the "Comments" link at the bottom of this post.

Comments

[John Acurso]

Thanks for a great post Brooks,

Reading it, I couldn't help but think back to a situation in a class I was teaching where we were reviewing an assignment. One student, who was actually a print maker but taking his required electives, presented an image with a quality of light that most anyone would have been jealous of. Another student, a photographer who was technically proficient but fairly emulative, asked the first, "how did you get this light?" I looked at the one asking and then looked at the one asked and said "you have no idea, do you?" He smiled and answered that he didn't.

All of his images had this quality of light because it was what was inside of him, how he saw things and he wasn't looking to do what someone else did.

What should I photograph? What is inside of me.