At first, it doesn’t seem weird. It takes a few minutes to figure it out. People dot the streets, though their numbers seem more sparse. There is traffic, though fewer cars. It’s just a matter of degree, you tell yourself. Life seems to go on. It is strangely reassuring.
But then you feel it, viscerally. Stroll the city streets for 20 minutes or so, and suddenly you are Alice, down the rabbit hole. It feels off. There is a desolate hush to it all, an eerily muted quality. Stillness pervades and envelops you, down to the very air you are breathing. As you move through the spaces you have come to know so well, you are suddenly traversing an alien landscape. As photographers, we have trained ourselves to see first, to frame our artistic voice in the realm of the the visual. And so instinctively we look, and we measure the differences visually. And make no mistake; things do look different. Streets are nearly empty. Stores are closed, and many are boarded up. But this new state of being is realized as a multi-sensory experience. And that is where it hits you like a gut punch.
The sound of it struck me first. The usual pervading cacophony is gone. It is replaced by a stillness punctuated with the occasional return of a familiar noise, like a passing bus. You find yourself an unwilling anthropologist as the top layers of urban noise are peeled back to reveal what is underneath. Conversations are heard more clearly. The thump of a foot on a soccer ball resonates from a distance. You hear much less, but you hear more. It creates a subtle but powerful sense of dislocation.
And the smell. Or more aptly stated, the absence of smell. It is auto exhaust mainly, I suppose, that is missing. But the air seems fresher. The sky is clearer. And while enjoyable, it is also paradoxically creepy. It reminds you that nature is waiting there, like a grim reaper, to move back into the void should humanity make this new reality permanent. One can debate the merits therein, but it’s not comforting to imagine it in such precipitous terms.
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I live across the bay in Oakland, so I hadn’t set foot in San Francisco since the shelter-in-place order was dropped over us like a blanket. It has felt safe to stay under it. But my desire to peek out has been building. For the last 3 years or so, I have walked the streets of San Francisco on a weekly basis, and I have captured/shared my photographic point of view on it through my work. Over time, what at first seemed like a cool hobby has become a body of work that expresses a particular sense of what it’s like to be in San Francisco. I knew that if I didn’t weigh in during this very important time, I would regret it . That is not to say my photography is of any great importance; I just knew I had to do it. So for those of you who may criticize the decision to go out and shoot (I am not an essential worker, and this is not an “essential” activity), just know that it seemed essential to me as an artist. And I expect to look back when we emerge from this crisis, and feel satisfied that I have contributed in some small way to memorializing it. In my fondest wishes, these images would serve as a siren call to future generations, that we may never repeat it.
So I went out, with some trepidation at first. I walked the streets with my widest angle lens on, which is unusual for me. I tend to prefer telephoto for street photography. But I figured the wide shots would convey the sense of isolation that I am feeling. As always, I wrap my compositions around human figures. I am weirdly grateful that there are people to photograph. The people that are out provide context to convey that most of us are not. As a photographer, I am validated in my decision to venture out. There is a rich tableau of emotionally charged, important images to capture. I look back now, and realize I should have gone out sooner.
The images you see here will be supplemented over time, as I plan to go out on a somewhat regular basis during this shelter-in-place order. Stay safe and healthy, everyone.
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