The wild west, Hollywood dreams and movie sets, salt flats, deserts and Death Valley, earthquakes, the Redwood forests and the sand dunes of Edward Weston.
This was the California I knew, or thought I knew when I moved to Southern California from Brooklyn last fall. As I became more immersed in the pleasure of the warm days and breezy nights, fish tacos and orages off the tree, I became increasingly aware of the four-year drought in southern California and began receiving sad communiqués from the family and friends I left behind in the coldest, nastiest winter in decades. It was if all the snow that did not arrive in Colorado, water destined for California’s thirsty cities, was dumped on the Northeast. And coming from living in New York where we are all immigrants, the existence of a border was not previously part of my idealized version of Southern California.
These pictures are a reflection on guilty pleasure, distance, drought, borders and life in the realites and clichés of California.