EARLY MORNING 67’

San Francisco has not cleared the fog yet.

Good.

It is that hour when a great city, for a brief moment, does not have to perform.

Facades lose their hardness. Intersections become quiet planes. Streets that only a few hours later will be filled again with voices, horns, urgency and intention suddenly seem to belong only to light and fog.

Then a ’67 911 SWB appears.

Not large.

Not staged.

Almost incidental.

And precisely because of that, carrying a presence that requires no explanation.

It does not move through a setting waiting for its arrival. For one brief moment, it belongs to the city, to the morning, to that suspended state between night and day.

An old Porsche in a young hour.

Perhaps that is exactly what makes the image so quiet.

The 911 already carries its history. The city carries its own. For a few seconds, the two cross without either having to prove anything to the other.

EARLY MORNING 67’ is about that rare space in between.

Before the streets fill.

Before the light hardens.

Before San Francisco begins performing itself again.

For one brief moment, there is only fog.

Asphalt.

An intersection.

And a 911 moving through the grey as if memory were a place one could actually visit.