The weather in Santa Monica is unpredictable enough that when I pick the sisters up at their house it’s sunny and blue, and when we get to the beach the wind has picked up and our hair blows around our heads and pretty soon we’re freezing, my fingers so numb I can barely hit the camera’s shutter button.
It feels lately like everything is on the brink, like there is some cliff to fall off, some airplane to dive from. Not in a bad way. The beach, too, feels changing. Winter recedes and spring pushes her way toward the coast. I lug a brand new tripod over a few hundred feet of sand and check behind me every once in a while to make sure I’m being followed.
A sensation of waiting. A long period of stagnancy followed by something huge.
But what’s going to be so huge? What’s the turning point?
It’s not this beach, but even this beach plays a part. It’s not this job—temporary and trying, long and unsatisfying—but yes, maybe even this job plays a part. It’s not these people but they have their roles, squatting down on the beach and blowing sand off a crust of pizza so they can finish the whole box.
I’ll let you know when I fall. It’s hard to predict these things but it feels like it’s getting more inevitable.
photographs taken in Santa Monica.