Nostalgia and San Francisco
Nostalgia: a yearning for the past. In the present? I believe most photographs are made of nostalgia.
In San Francisco, you stroll and walk over, underneath or besides magic on a regular basis. I have never lived there but I miss it. I long for it. It's a city that mesmerized me by its delicate sense of distinctiveness in individual details, like no other place in the United States has.
I found that magic lingering in a language I heard a passerby speaking, but I didn't recognize. I found it in a palace in the middle of the city, very close to the red bridge. It might slip into your bag of Mexican groceries or come in the form of blood orange sorbet. It might be in the menu at the Nicaraguan restaurant or left abandoned on a corner of your seat at the streetcar. It might taste like apricot preserve or smell like sand and water or a cala lily. It can come to you in many different costumes.
I know it sounds like the fog sirens that whisper to the city all day.
In San Francisco, you want to outline the houses you walk by using just your fingers. You want to climb the palm trees in Dolores Park. Every inch of the city is alive in its asphalt, people and forms. After all, it's a place where its voices, tragedy, hope, and pride are weaved together into a beautiful, intricate map.
I wanted the glass in my lens to spill ink and produce words as fine as the imagery around me. But I ended up with images I later tinted with a dollop of golden hour.
