HDR Photography
That the hills of San Francisco are so steep that sidewalks become stairs is fantastic. (In literal sense of being fantastical.) Traversing the city feels less like plotting out positions on a grid than navigating a mountain labyrinth. Climbing Telegraph Hill to Coit Tower in the light of the setting sun only serves to amplify the sense of strange magic that San Francisco offers.
San Francisco at the end of Saturday: to paraphrase the Hold Steady, the lines of the city are awash in hot, soft light. I’ve rambled in the past on the gradient between nature and dense urbanization, and the special anomaly that the San Francisco Bay Area represents in its gentle juxtaposition of wood and concrete (buildings). This particular photograph from Telegraph Hill tells the story: the towering, mythical shape of the Transamerica Pyramid and a hill of grasses, with less than a half-a-mile walk separating them.
Like Manhattan, San Francisco is largely trapped by water. Like Manhattan, the city has preserved large swaths of “natural” space (e.g. Central Park, Golden Gate Park) in that hyperdense urban mass. The Mediterranean climate, youth, and topographical preposterousness of San Francisco give it a unique (pardon the neologism) architexture. Looking west from the trees of Telegraph Hill, over Russian Hill and on to the Presidio and the Golden Gate Bridge, the cross-section of environments complement each other. My mind still struggles to see the towers of Russian Hill in the same image as the inhospitable rocks of Marin.
From San Francisco’s Embarcadero, looking south a sunset, the water provides a gentle palette. (At least compared with the jagged edges of the office buildings against the smooth gradient of the almost-night sky.) My only regret is that the water could not have been a flawless, glassy mirror. Perhaps next time, I’ll settle for a longer exposure.
The eternally-damp shoreline of the San Francisco Bay is the fascinating meeting of quaint docks and maritime randomness with the aggressive mass of a full-scale city. Charming piers abut the grandiosity of the Financial District, and the result is a surreal and unique setting. Amid this hubbub, the Coit Tower and the Embarcadero stand out as red beacons.
It’s quite pretty awe-inspiring to gaze up at the top floors of sky scrapers.
At dusk San Francisco seems most like a “big city.”
The enchanting lights and old quasi-industrial look of SOMA under the Bay Bridge capture the feel of San Francisco to me: the relationship with the bay, the sense of history-but-not-quite, and the constant crush of traffic just beneath it.
It’s no Golden Gate Bridge, but the bay bridge lit up at night is a pretty spectacular sight with the water lit up beneath it.
As shot from Pier 14, Coit Tower stands atop Telegraph Hill. Its white surface, in conjunction with colored lights, make it absolutely stunning to see at night. Such surreal objects can lack a suitable sense of scale when photographed. This photograph satisfies me so in large part because the homes clustering the hill provide that scale, and a sense of the familiar to match the alien.
Orange and blue may be the most overdone color combination for movie posters, but I’m more tolerant of the hues when when they spring natively from the night sky and the sodium lamps of a city. Something about the stone textures of big buildings really appeals to me.
(And if you look carefully, you can see Brendan, my fellow photographer, in the bottom of the picture.)
There’s something really off about this rocket ship you can find on the SF waterfront. It looks like a strange cross between the 1950’s concept of a futuristic spacecraft and an abandoned nuclear weapon. The shininess and corrosion create a strange dissonance. Works well with the futuristic pier located nearby.
Anyone else reminded of the bomb in Megaton in Fallout 3?
Climbing Telegraph Hill on foot means stairs. Lots and lots of stairs.
Climbing Telegraph Hill by car means loops. Lots and lots of loops.
(Though I’m sure my memory is exaggerating.) On that winding road through the trees and stones, under the watchful eyes of the wild parrots, are occasional glimpses of the Golden Gate Bridge. With the last wisps of sunlight landing on the hill, the craggily texture of the tarmac and the rocks and trees contrast so perfectly the with the far-off Platonic idealism of that bridge.
There’s something about the lighting and the way it plays off the curved hand rail that reminds me of a dystopian future in one of Neal Stephenson’s novels or of disembarking from a futuristic space port.
This incredibly ornate entrance controls access to the Russ Building, one of San Francisco’s loveliest bits of architecture. The vibe of exclusivity and opulence really shouts, “Xanatos from Gargoyles.”
Decaseconds 