From the foggy head of Marin.
I often reflect on how our photographic verb "exposure" is apt. A strict definition would have something to do with a shutter mechanism and an imaging sensor being exposed to photons. Yet "exposure" is so much more in photography. It is the means and the end—we gain exposure to the world, find ourselves fully exposed and expose what it is we care about.
Photography exposes me to those things I desire to see and not the other way around. Once I am in position to make a photograph, the exposure is more a formality than anything else.
So it was on the very backbone of Marin, overlooking the great San Francisco Bay strait and the twinkling city in the pre-dawn hours amidst a very cold and very wet marine layer. Somewhere through the murk, the city by the bay dreams while we drink coffee in a white world little wider than the six inches in front of our faces. Cold, briny air from the basement of the world rushes up the leeward side of the hill, tousling Marin's verdant crown. In the distance and quite without warning bellow the massive voices of cargo ships, lumbering blind through the mist and the twin pillars of the Golden Gate.