Earlier I spoke about the “blank canvas” that every painter faces—though perhaps painters actually have the unfair advantage, since their canvas really is blank. There is nothing to distract their attention, and they are free to place whatever they choose, wherever they choose. (Painters can also take their time, whereas photographers, faced with diminishing light or impatient subjects, must often create their masterpieces in a fraction of second.)

This is in marked contrast to the view that often confronts photographers when they look through the viewfinder: pure and utter chaos. Yes, we can move some objects out of the way or to a better place, but we must also learn to see an empty canvas before we begin. If not, the viewer will be forever tripping over and running into objects that have nothing to do with the intent of your photograph.

Throughout my more than thirty-five-year career, I have had my share of photographic critiques by my peers. The overall feedback has been that my overall style and composition are simple and clean, vibrant and colorful, bold and graphic, and profoundly stated. My eye has a learned ability to see my camera’s viewfinder as a blank canvas, and to recognize and embrace with zeal my freedom to place whatever subjects I wish on that canvas. Just as a painter uses his brush, I use my eyes, letting them move across the canvas, placing color, lines, and shapes at will. I do not expect to see these photographs already composed in front of me but rather the ingredients to the image. My job is to arrange the ingredients in a pleasing and compelling manner. For example, by simply changing my point of view and/or my lens, I can alter not only what ends up on my canvas but where it ends up, too. If I am dealing with subjects that can be moved, or with animate subjects that respond to suggestions or commands, the exact placement of these same objects is further ensured. Of course, I cannot move mountains, trees, buildings, or spitting cobras, but in these situations, I often have the option of diminishing or emphasizing their importance by, again, just changing my point of view and/or lens.

How do you see the empty canvas before you? Training the eye to do this is actually rather easy. Begin with the most basic of blank canvases, such a brick wall free of posters or graffiti, or the side of a barn. Alternatively, point the camera down at that concrete slab you call a deck or the sidewalk in front of your house. Using your street zoom (meaning, your 24–105mm or 18–200mm lens), fill the frame with nothing more than the brick wall, the weathered wood of the barn, or the concrete of the sidewalk. And, to be clear, I am talking about filling the frame—edge to edge, top to bottom—with just a brick wall, the weathered wood of the barn, or the concrete deck or sidewalk. Now just stare at this empty canvas and ask yourself, “What can I now add to this canvas?” If you are shooting down on concrete or green grass, I suggest a single flower, a feather, a small piece of fruit like a strawberry, or a screw from your toolbox. If you’re shooting against the wall of a barn or a brick wall, pose your spouse, child, or friend. After spending no more than a few days at this exercise, you will soon migrate toward other “simple canvases,” such as a pebble-strewn shoreline, a sandy beach, large pieces of driftwood, or tree bark. Soon you will observe that on sunny days you can always turn your attention to the empty canvas of the sunset or blue sky above, and shoot any number of subjects against it. These are not complicated compositions at all, but rather simple and clear. Best of all, everyone will “hear” these compositions, since they present a singular message and have no distracting background interruptions.