When I first moved to the Outer Richmond from North Beach at the age of 11, Spreckles Lake wasn’t my favorite place. It’s a large man made lake in Golden Gate Park, and not made to look natural like some of the other smaller lakes in the park. Made of and surrounded by concrete, it is often full of trash and algae, loud model speedboats, hoards of cawing seagulls that gather on the small peninsula, and people running and walking around the perimeter. I found myself always searching for the wilder, quieter spots in the park, where I could feel like maybe I was somewhere else, not in the middle of a city. It wasn’t until I discovered the carp in 2016, gliding along the edges of the lake in the sparkling, green water, that I began to recognize the absolute wonder and beauty of a place that continues to be wild and thriving despite its urban pollution. To me, these fish were like nothing I’d encountered before; surviving despite all odds, taking on the form of dragons and creatures of the deep as they swam up sideways just under the surface of the water, their eyes turning to look at me, the sun sparkling against their slick, scaled exteriors. Every glimpse was a gift; a peek at a mysterious creature in a mysterious world.

In 2017 I began a dedicated routine of photographing the fish. Every day was different, and I was yielded different pictures, despite imaging the same subjects, in the same place, around the same times of day. At the time, I was working at a now defunct health food store on Geary, and having a project to put artistic effort into gave me a sense of purpose and connection to my immediate surroundings. It still does. I’ve collected these images for nine years now, and each time is special. These fish have become my friends, and to me they are symbols of beauty, perseverance, wonder, and magic, reminding us that other worlds exist right at our feet, if only we look. I often stand at the edge, sunlight lapping at the sparkly surface; my shadow lets them know I’m there.