LOBOSPHERES
IN 1990,
Lobospheres began out of a sense of wonder and amusement. Having tried (and failed) to photograph Pt. Lobos in a unique way, I looked down at the granite patterns at Weston Beach and made this photograph (left). I thought it was amusing, but filed it away and forgot about it.
A dozen years later, armed with my first digital camera, I returned to Weston Beach and again, looked down. It was a crisp, sparkling morning with an extremely low tide. As I scrambled over the slippery rocks, a chorus of faces and mythical creatures emerged. It was impossible to “unsee” them, so I began photographing them as “found portraits,” each unique, each etched forever in the rock that was the foundation of that storied beach. I’ve returned several times over the years and expected to see the same menagerie of figures and faces, but it was different each time.
Initially, the hard scrabble of Weston Beach was my equivalent of Minor White’s Oregon “Wall.” But more than an exercise to stretch my vision, it had become a kind of photographic synecdoche--parts standing for the whole, a microcosm standing for the wild expanse of one of the world’s most beautiful sites. Patterns like this exist in the trees and fields, in the broad palette of rocks and cliffs that define the park.
At the same time, I also realized that not only are these images ephemeral, but sadly, Pt. Lobos as we know it has an expiration date, as well. According to a 2017 article in Scientific American, Northern California‘s sea level could rise as much as seven feet by the turn of the century, all but decimating not only Weston Beach, but much of Pt. Lobos’ spectacular coastline. In the context of almost inevitable catastrophic climate change, Lobospheres has become my way to document the crazy micro-beauty of this natural treasure before it’s washed away. Ultimately, Lobospheres reminds us of what we take for granted and rarely take the time to really see or appreciate.
Lobospheres began out of a sense of wonder and amusement. Having tried (and failed) to photograph Pt. Lobos in a unique way, I looked down at the granite patterns at Weston Beach and made this photograph (left). I thought it was amusing, but filed it away and forgot about it.
A dozen years later, armed with my first digital camera, I returned to Weston Beach and again, looked down. It was a crisp, sparkling morning with an extremely low tide. As I scrambled over the slippery rocks, a chorus of faces and mythical creatures emerged. It was impossible to “unsee” them, so I began photographing them as “found portraits,” each unique, each etched forever in the rock that was the foundation of that storied beach. I’ve returned several times over the years and expected to see the same menagerie of figures and faces, but it was different each time.
Initially, the hard scrabble of Weston Beach was my equivalent of Minor White’s Oregon “Wall.” But more than an exercise to stretch my vision, it had become a kind of photographic synecdoche--parts standing for the whole, a microcosm standing for the wild expanse of one of the world’s most beautiful sites. Patterns like this exist in the trees and fields, in the broad palette of rocks and cliffs that define the park.
At the same time, I also realized that not only are these images ephemeral, but sadly, Pt. Lobos as we know it has an expiration date, as well. According to a 2017 article in Scientific American, Northern California‘s sea level could rise as much as seven feet by the turn of the century, all but decimating not only Weston Beach, but much of Pt. Lobos’ spectacular coastline. In the context of almost inevitable catastrophic climate change, Lobospheres has become my way to document the crazy micro-beauty of this natural treasure before it’s washed away. Ultimately, Lobospheres reminds us of what we take for granted and rarely take the time to really see or appreciate.
