Tag: seascape

La Jolla, No. 1.

This is the first of what I think will be a long series of photos, all of which were taken at Cuvier Beach in La Jolla, California. My aim was to catch something of the interplay of moving water and light using long exposures and deliberate camera movement. I think these abstracted views can sometimes reveal unexpected forms and colors that would otherwise go unnoticed. 

The location for these photos is a place I first encountered reading Cannery Row by John Steinbeck. In the book the marine biologist, Doc, travels to the La Jolla tide pools to collect specimens, and makes a gruesome discovery. To take these photos I stood on the same bouldery flat that Steinbeck described. This was my first visit to La Jolla, in body at least. I’m very glad to have seen it at last. 

La Jolla, No. 1.

This is the first of what I think will be a long series of photos, all of which were taken at Cuvier Beach in La Jolla, California. My aim was to catch something of the interplay of moving water and light using long exposures and deliberate camera movement. I think these abstracted views can sometimes reveal unexpected forms and colors that would otherwise go unnoticed. 

The location for these photos is a place I first encountered reading Cannery Row by John Steinbeck. In the book the marine biologist, Doc, travels to the La Jolla tide pools to collect specimens, and makes a gruesome discovery. To take these photos I stood on the same bouldery flat that Steinbeck described. This was my first visit to La Jolla, in body at least. I’m very glad to have seen it at last. 

Sunset, La Jolla

A crowd assembles on the
clifftop each evening to
watch the daily show: the sun’s
light extinguished by the sea.

The horizon is a sharp
line here, unless choppy waves
break up the distant edge, or
foul weathers fill the sky with
clouds or fogs creeping to shore.

The watchers marvel at the
fattening sun, bloated by
atmosphere, an illusion
of bigness as it nears the
boundary at the end of
the earth, where old dragons lived.

The red light is proof. The sky
is on fire, the west in flames.

Then it is done. The sun drops,
taking its light and warmth with
it, leaving the watchers in
twilight, chilled in their camp chairs,
huddled in pairs on blankets,
lonely souls gazing out at
today’s sun’s final fading rays.

And as it goes they signal
appreciation. Like any
good audience they clap, they
rise, they murmur contentment.
“What a beautiful show,” they
say, as if it was put on
just for them. Then they hurry
in the small glow that remains
for the un-applauded lights
of cars, of street lamps, of home.

Thomas Michael Williams, July 2016