Vallejo and Sansome
When I was a teenager, the city was a mysterious network of photo labs, rental houses, nightclubs, and freeway onramps. In the passenger seat I often felt that I would arrive mysteriously at each destination -- familiar blocks would materialize out of vagueness at the end of the ride like innocuous recurring dreams. The summer my driver's license was fresh in hand I was working at the studio. The Lloyd assigned me with a simple enough errand: deliver an envelope to Naganuma Design & Direction at the edge of North Beach. ...Simple enough, except the part about getting there. Accustomed only to the vast grid of South of Market, I was an absolute disaster in the dead ends and sometimes-streets that hem Telegraph Hill. It took me over an hour to negotiate just under three miles between the two doors. Embarrassed and frustrated, I called the sensation "getting lost," even as I circled and zigzagged the vicinity knowing that the address could only be minutes away.
To be oriented is one of the best feelings I know. I love maps, diagrams, calendars, journals, documentation, lists. Knowing where you are and how you got there is an incredible sense of agency.
These days when I look back on a time period I see markers - what was said, how time was spent - and often kick myself for not paying better attention and understanding the gravity or the traction of the moment, but looking out the window instead.
To be oriented is one of the best feelings I know. I love maps, diagrams, calendars, journals, documentation, lists. Knowing where you are and how you got there is an incredible sense of agency.
These days when I look back on a time period I see markers - what was said, how time was spent - and often kick myself for not paying better attention and understanding the gravity or the traction of the moment, but looking out the window instead.