Returning to the Island after three months in Central California, I felt compelled to drive along the edges to take in the Puget Sound, snow-capped mountains, salty cool breezes and reassess where I thought I should be. As I whipped along the curves of Eagle Harbor in low tide, pug in the passenger seat- I saw this chair slumped in the sandy mud. I pulled into a deserted parking lot, left the car running in park and began to photograph the discarded item. Or was it placed and left for the tide to rise? I couldn't be sure, but it seemed to be a plausible option. Images like these are how I identify the island. Lounge, design- and a curious laissez faire mask over well defined intelligence and success. It's a place to end up. A place to grow up. A place to leave and then, eventually: return. Seattle beckons from across the Sound, an outlet of varied Pacific Rim cultures, steep hills and gray tones. The Island is a bakery from scratch that only uses butter, a sailboat in the calm: tucked deep in a palate of mountain ranges.
No comments:
Post a Comment