As a kid growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, I was always drawn to the city’s seemingly eternal youth, its perpetual teenagedom.
But as I appreciated that, I may have taken other aspects of the city for granted — its whimsical and independent spirit, its accepting personality. Or should I say… “personalities”? The more I explore and photograph her — Pot Hill, the Mission, the Castro, the Tendernob, Cole Valley, the Richmond — the clearer her multiple personality disorder becomes.
Despite being in dire need of psychiatric help, San Francisco draws me in more each day. Each neighborhood has its own provincial identity, its own vibe. I’m consistently charmed by the details of daily life — a rainbow flag displayed proudly in a storefront on upper Market, a parked red bike with a shopping basket full of groceries in front of Bi-Rite, a dog carried inside a jacket on a foggy day on Clement with its head poking out, its tongue wagging.
Really, only by photographing the city week in and week out have I gotten to know it. And there’s so much more to know. I photograph whatever I see — great bits of light, odd leave-behinds, my cappuccinos, famous landmarks (yes I am a tourist in my own city), the wonderful people I meet.
I’m a lucky man. I get to take photos in San Francisco.