Peeling stories out of darkness is like a dance.

Introduction

Night. When the darkness enfolds you and the metronome of day is stilled. Time becomes elastic: minutes stretch into hours; hours drift by. While others sleep, the minds of the wakeful open. The carapace of convention melts and in the shadows we perceive something more immediate, essential. It is in this nocturnal dimension that the German artist Lara Wilde creates her radiantly melancholic work, the black of night a canvas on which she paints with light itself.

Light painting is a process by which an image is built up over an extended period of time. The camera shutter is held open in darkness. Then, using a torch or other hand-held light source, the artist plays a beam of light over the areas they wish to be featured in the final image, while avoiding those that are to remain in shadow. The technique lends a strange luminescence to the image because the light falls on the subject from many angles. It has no direction and no apparent source, casts no shadows, with the result that the subject looks to be glowing from within.

In her light paintings, Lara Wilde suggests the psychological mood of her subjects while its origin remains unspoken. Together, in the darkness, artist and subject have shared confidences, revealed themselves. But, while this informs the creative process, those secrets are not simply depicted. The undertow of narrative must be discovered, interpreted, inviting the viewer to reach empathically into the image. To share in each nocturnal encounter.

Alasdair Foster

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Interview

What drew you to light painting?

In the first instance, necessity. I love complex and intense light setups, a cinematic moodiness, but I didn’t have the money for it. So, I turned to light painting. However, to photograph people in this way is not easy. It took me a lot of trial and error but after a while I started to get some results… I also noticed something else: normally in photography everything is fast and it’s all about capturing this one moment. By extending the process it became easier for me to connect with the subject; to take the busyness out of it. I was more present and that gave me time to think about the story I wanted to tell. And, because each shot took so long, it forced me to be precise in what I wanted and not just let the model do the job for me. Peeling stories out of darkness is like a dance. It is just an absolute joy, though it’s also physically exhausting.

Your work first became widely known through your series ‘Exposed Landscapes’. How did that begin?

When I started this series in 2016 I had a fulltime job. I was bored and wanted to fill my nights with something exciting. I have always had a thing for strangers. So, I posted a call on social media for people to invite me into their homes at night for a cup of tea and a photograph. Later, when I felt they looked interesting, I also asked people in cafes or bars if I could visit them. It was a leap in the dark…

I did not know these people before. The night I was there was usually the only time I ever saw them. I always asked them not to tidy up for me or dress in a special way. I wanted to meet them as directly as possible and just use light to find the story within. So, for me, this work has a documentary heart. But, because I light the scenes to hide or accentuate certain things, it is also staged.

Later, I sent them their pictures to review, at which point they could, if they wished, withdraw their permission to use them. For me, this was a good way to find out if they felt seen in the picture.

Entering a stranger’s home at night could feel awkward or even dangerous. How did you negotiate this?

I wanted to overcome the fear of ‘stranger danger’. And I think being a woman made it easier for people to invite me in. There were a handful of people where the conversation before felt somehow off, so I didn’t visit them. But I never turned tail once I got there. Of course, sometimes it felt awkward to enter, because there is no protocol for this. The protagonist and I needed to figure out how we were going to act around one another. I found that most people are lovely and, in time, came to trust my intuition. I never had a bad encounter.

But you could not know in advance what you would find beyond their front door…

To be a guest in someone else’s world also meant for me to accept them as they are, no matter how their situation unfolds. Most people that responded to my call where lonely or lived alone. Some of them had just got divorced or lost someone. The conversations I had with them were so honest… I learned a lot about life and how to survive in a city, especially how to age in an urban setting.

I just couldn’t stop making this work. I got deeper and deeper into it to the point where I became so sleep deprived that I could no longer focus. I decided to quit my day job. I had no clear plan and just hoped that the universe would cut me some slack.

Who chose the location, the pose, the objects that are highlighted?

We would make an initial tour of the apartment while I tried to get a feeling for the place: which things seemed significant. Then we sat down for a tea or coffee and chose together. I learned to adapt quickly. I read a lot about radical compassion and this helped me avoid awkwardness when people responded in unexpected ways. There was one woman who spoke through her glove puppets. In another house I wasn’t allowed to touch any surfaces, even after washing my hands. Some people wanted to be photographed naked. I tried to incorporate all their ideas and wishes as long as I felt it was safe. Most of the time I photographed them in one location making between five and ten exposures in all.

How significant was it that these images were made at night?

I have always worked best at night. Some people say nothing good happens after 2.00am – I totally disagree. I think we allow ourselves to be more open and vulnerable during the small hours. To be fully present at night is wonderful. And I find that being with other people at night, in the dark, brings us closer. Our sense of time slows and social conventions fade. Sitting motionless in the dark for extended periods can create an almost mystical sense. I felt really close to them. The conversations we had were intense and deep. They shared secrets. And this shaped the sensibility of the photographs themselves. I wanted to discover the person behind the mask; to make the unseen visible.

The darkness and the need to stay motionless for long periods also helped avoid those poses we all have where we know how to ‘look good for the camera’. You just can’t tuck in your tummy or extend your back for long periods. You relax into your body in a more natural way. And darkness can become very relaxing.

You have a master’s degree in psychology. Has that informed your creative approach?

This is a funny one, because I am not sure that it has helped me much. When I studied psychology, I was still in film school and thought it would help me tell more engaging stories. In the first years I think it did the opposite… Human behaviour is so complex. We know so little about what’s really going on that I got lost in overthinking everything. In the end, it just made it more difficult to tell stories that were clear enough to be understood.

Now, I do find it helps me cut through the bullshit and just be present with people. To see them and their environment as unique. Not to jump to conclusions or intervene too quickly.

How do people respond to your work?

I think we live in an era when photographs are expected to have some kind of social or political interpretation. Much of my work is more about a puzzle. A puzzle where the conclusion you reach says more about you than about the picture itself. Maybe it’s a bit like a Rorschach test… At exhibitions, I often encourage discussion about what one sees in a picture as a way to discover one’s own prejudices. When I showed the ‘Expose Landscapes’ series in Norway, two women discussed one of the images in great detail. In the picture the subject sits next to a pile of books. One women said that this was about getting rid of knowledge, while the other thought it was about despair. Then, a little girl came by and said that the woman in the picture was thinking about getting a spoon for the cake that she had hidden earlier. For me, the image was about the irony of the message on the pillow… Who is right?

…I still love the cake story though.

[Left] © Lara Wilde ‘Like laundry detergent and cheap perfume’ 2020 from the series ‘Smells Like Heartbreak’
[Right] © Lara Wilde ‘Warm and deep, but sharp and cold at the same time’ 2020 from the series ‘Smells Like Heartbreak’

Your series ‘Smells Like Heartbreak’ moves from portraiture to still life. How did this work begin?

During the pandemic restrictions. As a photographer of people, it was hard to create something that had meaning. At the same time, my friends, with time on their hands, phoned me a lot. I started to experiment with the idea of photographing human smells: the ways people describe the smell of another person. I realised that the most intense descriptions were from lovers… especially those who are no longer together. Of course, when I asked my friends to talk about their exes, I got more than smells! Nothing about this was objective, mostly the descriptions were filled with anger, hatred, or totally exaggerated.

So, I began trying to portray the smell of ex-lovers as a kind of portrait in another form.

How did you go about that?

Smell is something so subjective. It’s hard to describe because we have to compare it with something else. The descriptions I got were complex and hard to visualise.

“Nothing really, with a hint of garlic” was one description I got. But how do I portray nothing? As empty space? As whiteness? As darkness?

“Like the garbage he was but, man, so sweet.” Is that actually a smell or is it more a behavioural description?

[Left] © Lara Wilde ‘Nothing really, just a hint of garlic’ 2020 from the series ‘Smells Like Heartbreak’
[Right] © Lara Wilde ‘Like the garbage he was but, man, so sweet’ 2020 from the series ‘Smells Like Heartbreak’

So, I set about trying to visualise smells; smells that were, in turn, ways of describing people. That’s like translating a message from one language into another that nobody knows or speaks. You have to discover the grammatical rules as you go. What is the syntax? Do the elements I want to use have a specific colour and, if so, does that fit some vocabulary of colour as feeling? If not, do I still use them? How do you build metaphor?

Each image is accompanied by a text. Where did these come from?

These are all actual messages. After I finished the pictures, I realised that all the human smells I had portrayed where from memories, because the people involved were no longer in contact with each other. I asked each person who had described the smell of an ex-lover when they had last been in contact; what was the last message they received? That message was like a relic of a relationship between two people who had once loved each other. And I knew that I wanted to incorporate those messages into the photographs.

I think it is so strange that these days we can so completely break contact with a person we once felt so close to. Me included: two of the images are about my exes… but I’m not telling you which! [laughs]

Your images have a painterly richness and poetic melancholy reminiscent of another century – perhaps because in an earlier age melancholy was understood as a positive creative force and not a ‘failure to be always happy’ as it seems to be today. It’s one of the things I really like about your work.

Thank you. I think I always had a melancholic tendency. When I was five, I spent a few months sleeping in a wooden box because I wanted to know how it felt to be in a coffin. (Shout out to my poor mother who let me do this when she must have been more than a little worried.) I remember a lot of daydreams hankering after past eras. And I still think there is a beauty in longing for something or love unrequited.

When we form our visual language, we incorporate what we like and what we feel drawn to. When I don’t plan and just work freely, without controlling anything, the result is either bizarre or has a melancholic calmness. Maybe that is my happy place…

In your most recent series, ‘I know how I got here, but I don’t know how to leave’, you return to semi-staged nocturnal portraiture. What are you exploring in this new work?

For me it is about a new kind of pessimism that I feel all around me: that on a global scale the best days are over and it’s all downhill from here… climate crisis, pandemic, political tension. We have so much to deal with. It’s as if giving up and believing in absolute doom has become chic. I wanted to play with that feeling; try to escape some of the seriousness of it. The metaphor is of a party where people are hanging on long after it is all over.

Do you think this mood is specific to Berlin just now, or reflective of a wider Zeitgeist?

Both. We live in a chaotic complex world in which it feels like things are coming to an end. But it is also about Berlin, a city where artists once flocked because it was cheap to live here. Now property is getting so expensive. There are just not a lot of places left to work in.

This series was shot in empty apartments that some artists had taken over, painting on the walls and creating installations there. The building was due for renovation and all the art on the walls would soon be gone. Everyone there knew that this was the end. Yet, for me, it was inspiring to see them just keep on working. But then, what else is there to do? Should you stop creating just because you know it will all be destroyed?

I think the overall vibe of that space is deeply woven into the conceptual heart of this series.

[Left] © Lara Wilde ‘Unfinished’ 2023 from the series ‘I know how I got here, but I don’t know how to leave’
[Right] © Lara Wilde ‘Masked’ 2023 from the series ‘I know how I got here, but I don’t know how to leave’

In making this work, what have you learned about yourself that you did not previously understand?

Just trust the process. In the beginning, I thought I needed a plan, a message, a mood board, a shot list in order to make a body of work. Now, I just call people I know, or someone I saw somewhere, and ask if they have time to spare. The less I plan, the more present in the process I need to be, the more awake. And then the happier I feel.

What I have learned about myself as a person is that I am a softy. I worked so hard to become part of the ‘industry’ and (as a tiny woman – I am a little under five foot tall) to be taken seriously that I forgot my other side. I am a sensitive, caring person and that is what I now love about myself.

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Photo (detail): Victoria Kaempfe

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This interview is a Talking Pictures original.

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