San Francisco bay has long been a draw for the weird, the wonderful and the downright down and out.
Attracted by boundless Pacific sunlight and a tolerance bordering on the UV intense, today the city continues to watch America’s misfits pour in from all quarters. Some are drawn to an alternative lifestyle while others are not so deliberate in where they choose to hang out. The plain fact is that San Francisco, particularly around west Market Street up to Haight Ashbury, provides a kind of sanctuary to many sorry men and women whose psychiatric troubles would be better treated in a more centralised asylum. Instead, the old lady of the bay, San Francisco, IS the asylum. Except, this asylum is growing pricier by the day while its homeless population grows more prevalent but not more equipped to meet the economic (and dare i say psychological) bare necessities of existing in one of the world’s cutting edge metropoles.
In spite of the sometimes vexatious experience of walking San Francisco’s colourful and crazy streets, there’s yet so much life in the place, so much occasion to both weep and whoop at the state of the world.
San Francisco is one of those rare entities: a refuge where both the botched and bungled and the bold and beautiful have an equal share of its pitched paving stones. A screwed-up symbiosis, sure, but a symbiosis of tech and counter culture nonetheless.
Not to speak of its architectural beauty in a blessed natural setting. That is a whole other story.
A fog-shrouded Golden Gate Bridge on entry to the Bay
Desperate times call for a passive response
bound by more than a wheelchair
San Francisco is the beach on which to wash up when all else goes wrong
When the street is as good as anywhere
Hard Times but not without a skateboard
He said he was coming back
“So anyway, I hear a great little town car.”
Who among you is playing out of tune?
A soapbox delivery minus the soapbox or the listening audience
When the BART becomes the school of dramatic arts
At Little Loch Broom, the clouds quite literally roll in to let the light fall in stripes over the iron hills, so ancient and half-asleep they don’t even notice any more.
At Gairloch, the bracken has died but not before showing its true colour of rust.
The bare rocks that protrude slate grey are the worn down teeth of primordial giants, megaliths that did battle through the Scotch mists of time.
At the Assynt, the peaks have given in to solitude. When the sun occasions to shine on them, they espy one another from afar. They talk in ancient riddles across the glen but of what we still haven’t deciphered.
The leaf that refuses to yield long after the rain has turned to snow.
Pinch me, I’m beautiful
Late lunch by the banks of a slow-moving river
Who says that there’s no glamour in selling street food?
I am going to hector you until you break, you flunky!
Zen and the art of selling nothing
Who’s a pretty boy?
Sometimes i lie here and think, and sometimes I just lie here.
Blind man’s blues.
At dusk the main street of Pai, North Thailand, comes to life in a menagerie of buskers and vendors, tourists and hawkers. Sizzling aromas share the air with the sound of laughter and banter in two dozen languages. The colours are so vivid, what else can the photographer do but shoot black&white?