"We do not remember days, we remember moments." — Cesare Pavese
Harbor of Forgotten Voices, Monterey, CA, 2013
The fog had rolled in thick over Monterey Bay, swallowing the horizon, softening the edges of masts that reached skyward like prayers. The fishing boats lay moored in the distance, patient as old souls waiting for a tide that would never quite come.
At the wharf’s edge, a line of small rowboats leaned into one another like weary companions, battered, chipped, their paint flaking but their purpose intact. Each boat carried its own history: whispered arguments, stolen kisses, childhood adventures, silent grief. The sea had been both their keeper and their thief, giving and taking with the same quiet inevitability.
But one vessel stood out. Its white hull gleamed faintly in the dim light, catching the viewer’s eye as if it were daring to be seen. Surrounded by shadows, it looked almost spectral, a ghost that refused to fade, or perhaps a spirit waiting to guide someone across to the other side of memory.
The image feels like a meditation on time and transience. The vast dark water is not threatening, but it is insistent, an endless reminder of depth and unknowability. The fog obscures what lies ahead, while the anchored boats suggest lives suspended between motion and stillness. Together, they create an atmosphere of mystery, longing, and quiet resilience.
This is not a scene of absence, but of presence, of lives lived, of waiting, of stories anchored just out of reach.
Exhibition Narrative Series: “Harbor of Forgotten Voices”
The following are multiple short narratives inspired by the image, each written from a different perspective. Together, they form a fragmented yet interconnected story-world around my photograph, much like my own artistic approach of ambiguity, mysticism, and openness to interpretation.
1. The Fisherman
He stands at the edge of the wharf, hands buried in his pockets, the fog seeping into his lungs like a memory he cannot shake.
“These boats,” he whispers, “they know me better than my own children.” He remembers the nights spent chasing sardines under the moon, the salt burning his eyes. The sea gave him everything and stole more than he can name. Now, he watches the boats sleep, tethered and patient. He wonders which will be the last to carry him out, and whether he will come back.
2. The Widow
She returns every morning to the same place, her shawl damp with mist.
Her husband’s boat still sits among the fleet, though no one dares row it out. She keeps it polished, the ropes tightened, as if he might step aboard again. To her, the fog is merciful. It hides the horizon where he disappeared. She gazes out at the line of vessels resting in the dark, and in the silence she hears him calling her name.
3. The Child
A boy crouches by the rowboats, tracing his fingers over the peeling paint.
He dreams of faraway places, of islands rising from mist like dragons. To him, each boat is a door: one to treasure, another to monsters, another to lands untouched. The adults tell him boats are only for fishing, but he knows better. One day, he will untie the ropes, push away from the dock, and let the fog decide his destiny.
4. The Fog
The fog speaks softly, though no one listens.
“I am not emptiness,” it says. “I am the veil that keeps your secrets safe. Without me, the sea would reveal too much: your sorrows, your longings, the faces you’ve tried to forget. I am mercy, I am memory’s curtain. Through me, you see less, but you feel more.”
The fog drifts, covering the boats, the shore, the people. It asks only to be trusted.
5. The White Boat
The boat with the pale hull waits, luminous against the dark water.
“I am not like the others,” it insists. “I was built to carry souls, not fish. I hold no nets, no hooks, only silence.”
Some nights, when the tide is high, the boat rocks harder, straining at its ropes. If anyone were brave enough to step into it, they would not return with fish or fortune, but with a story no one would believe.
Artist Statement
This image was created at Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey, a place where the sea and fog conspire to turn the ordinary into the timeless. The boats, resting in silence, are more than vessels. They are witnesses. Their weathered forms bear the imprint of human touch, while the fog blurs the boundaries between what is present and what has passed. In this work, I seek to capture the poetry of stillness and the haunting persistence of memory. It is less about documenting a harbor and more about evoking a harbor of the mind, where stories wait, suspended, until someone chooses to remember them.
This work began as a single photograph, yet I felt it was haunted by many voices. To honor them, I expanded the image into a series of short narratives, each revealing a different perspective: fisherman, widow, child, fog, and the solitary white boat. The photograph itself is an anchor, but the stories drift like tides, carrying fragments of memory and myth. This process reflects my belief that fine art photography is not bound by documentation, but liberated by imagination. In this harbor, boats are no longer just boats. They are vessels of history, longing, and mystery.