Awe And Wonder — peographic

The contour of a sand dune just past sunset, with the sun's reflections in the clouds give a magenta shine that makes the dune almost look ablaze. Death Valley National Park — Awe
Death Valley National Park

Our educational systems are ostensibly designed to do more than just disseminate knowledge and cultivate skills. At their core, they aim to sharpen our intellectual focus, to enhance our ability to perceive and understand the world with greater clarity. Yet, throughout my academic journey, I discovered a glaring omission: the system's failure to foster emotional discernment. This neglect has left many of us, myself included, struggling to articulate and understand the full spectrum of our emotional experiences.

This challenge of emotional articulation was highlighted by Brené Brown in her book Atlas of the Heart, where she reveals a striking limitation in our emotional vocabulary. Through her research, involving thousands of participants asked to identify the emotions they could recognize and name, the average person could only identify three: happiness, sadness, and anger. This revelation underscores a profound disconnect between our inner emotional worlds and our ability to express them.

A wise friend once imparted a piece of wisdom that has stayed with me: "you need to name it to claim it." This principle suggests that without the ability to identify our emotions, we are unable to fully engage with, explore, and ultimately understand them. Ludwig Wittgenstein's philosophical insight, “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world,” resonates deeply within this context. Our grasp of language, or lack thereof, directly influences our ability to navigate and comprehend our emotional landscapes. The Atlas of the Heart sets out on a vital journey to chart our emotional landscapes, naming the continents, regions and countries that have previously just been Terra Incognita to us.

Badwater Basin, usually a salt flat, but this time a lake. Death Valley National Park. — Badwater Basin Immersion
Death Valley National Park
*Chamonix 4x5 View Camera, Ilford FP4*

Amidst the tranquil embrace of nature, and at times, within the confines of more structured environments, I occasionally find myself enveloped by an overwhelming sensation. This feeling, a profound and intense awareness of existence, borders on the sublime, echoing the sentiments I previously explored in Stabs of Joy. There, I described this phenomenon as a sharp influx of joy and satisfaction so powerful that it teeters on the edge of discomfort.

An insight struck me with force as I was returning home from a photographic retreat in Death Valley. Immersed in the audiobook version of Atlas of the Heart, I was captivated by a discussion on the nuances distinguishing "awe" from "wonder" in chapter four. Compelled by the depth of this exploration, I paused my journey to reflect on the profound implications of these distinctions for my understanding of my experiences and my art.

Both awe and wonder arise from a place of profound admiration and curiosity, yet they diverge significantly in their nature. Wonder prompts us to recognize a separation from the object of our fascination, coupled with an innate dissatisfaction with our lack of understanding, which fuels our desire to explore and comprehend further. Awe, in contrast, engulfs us completely, obliterating the divide between observer and observed, engendering a sense of unity and fulfillment without the impulse for further inquiry.

Brené Brown succinctly captures this dichotomy, suggesting that awe compels us to observe and appreciate, allowing the phenomenon to manifest in its full glory. Wonder, on the other hand, ignites our thirst for knowledge, driving us towards exploration and discovery. In her words,

When feeling awe, we tend to simply stand back and observe, “to provide a stage for the phenomenon to shine.” Wonder fuels our passion for exploration and learning, for curiosity and adventure.

The scholarly contributions of Ulrich Weger and Johannes Wagemann, particularly in Towards a conceptual clarification of awe and wonder, delve deeper into these concepts, offering a nuanced understanding that distinguishes the passive receptivity of awe from the active engagement of wonder. There, they argue:

Wonder does not require - but benefits from - surprise; awe, by contrast, is largely unaffected by surprise.
Wonder and awe are gestures of approach, but only awe includes an element of humbleness/humility (not fear).
Wonder inspires the wish to understand; awe inspires the wish to let shine, to acknowledge and unite.

Reflecting upon these insights, I now recognize my Stabs of Joy as instances of awe, devoid of the curiosity that characterizes wonder, and instead filled with an intense feeling of unity with the universe. My encounters with wonder are not limited to photography but extend to a myriad of experiences, both within and outside the realm of the visual arts. My inaugural visit to Death Valley, for instance, was marked by an intense curiosity about the unfamiliar scent of the Creosote Bush, leading to a fascinating exploration of its life cycle, clonal colonies, and ecological significance.

A photo of gentle, sensuous curves of sand dunes, one side white from afternoon daylight, the shade side blue, reflecting the light from the sky. Death Valley National Park. — Absolution
Death Valley National Park

This journey towards differentiating awe from wonder has profoundly enriched my engagement with the natural world and my photographic practice. It has opened up new avenues for exploration and appreciation, allowing me to perceive and interact with my surroundings with heightened sensitivity and understanding.

Through the lens of my camera, a portal to wonderment opens, revealing vistas unseen by the unaided eye. The act of encasing a fragment of reality within a frame transforms it entirely, compelling me to survey the world with renewed curiosity, pondering the appearance of all that surrounds me. This sensation, omnipresent across all cameras, finds its pinnacle through the lens of my Chamonix 4x5. Beneath its dark cloth, the world beyond the viewfinder ceases to exist, leaving only the inverted tableau on the ground glass to provoke a cascade of inquiries, each seeking to unravel the enigma of the unseen.

Similarly, a wave of astonishment washes over me when my digital camera captures the unexpected, harnessing shutter speeds so extreme they render scenes in ways my eyes could never conceive. In these moments, the camera becomes a seer, revealing hues hidden in the veil of dim light, colors my own vision fails to discern. This marvel, especially profound in the quietude of low light, reminds me that photography is not merely the act of recording, but a profound exploration into the depths of perception, where the unseen becomes visible, and the world is reborn anew through our lenses.

The process of editing my photographs becomes a third realm where wonder plays a pivotal role, guiding me through a creative exploration that reveals unexpected dimensions and interpretations within my work. Yet, the experience of awe remains uniquely tethered to the immediacy of direct encounters, a cherished sensation of unity with the cosmos that defies replication in the editing room.

Thus, in the quest for these profound emotional experiences, it becomes clear that the effort to seek them out can sometimes be counterproductive. Instead, by adopting a stance of openness and resonance with our surroundings, we allow awe and wonder to emerge naturally, revealing themselves in moments of quiet observation or sudden revelation, enriching our lives with their distinct but equally valuable lessons.