“To see takes time.”
— Georgia O’Keeffe
I met them the way one meets old men in dreams.
Already waiting. Already knowing.
The pelicans at Fisherman’s Wharf did not arrive with spectacle. They were statues before they were birds, arranged by the sea with the gravity of philosophers. Their bodies carried the color of weathered books. Their eyes held a patience I recognized instantly. The kind that comes from having outlived many versions of yourself.
I stood close. Close enough to feel the quiet negotiation between us. They did not flinch. They did not perform. They allowed themselves to be seen, which felt like a privilege rather than an opportunity.
One faced me head-on, symmetrical and severe, a living punctuation mark. Another turned slightly, offering a profile shaped like a question. The third bowed its head, as if remembering something private. Together, they formed a conversation without words. Past, present, and whatever waits patiently ahead.
I have always been drawn to creatures who look like they’ve survived entire eras and chosen silence as their souvenir. Pelicans are not decorative. They are resolute. Their elegance comes with weight. Every feather feels earned.
As I stood there, the rhythm of their stillness began to feel familiar. Not silent, exactly. More like a piece of music that refuses to declare itself. Something looping quietly beneath the surface.
I thought of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words, that Venetian boat song that drifts without urgency, carrying emotion without explanation. The pelicans moved the same way. No grand gestures. No need for crescendo. Just a slow, deliberate rocking between presence and absence, as if time itself had decided to float for a while.
Watching them was like listening with my eyes. Each tilt of the head felt measured, each pause intentional. They reminded me that some truths don’t ask to be named. They prefer to be felt, repeated gently, until they settle somewhere deep and permanent.
As I watched them, I thought about endurance. About staying. About the strange dignity of not rushing toward the next thing. There are moments in life when motion feels overrated, when becoming still is the bravest act available.
These birds have mastered that art.
Their presence mirrored something I rarely admit out loud. That creating art is not about chasing beauty, but about recognizing it when it refuses to announce itself. About standing still long enough for meaning to approach on its own terms.
I photographed them not to capture who they were, but to ask myself who I was becoming while looking at them.
Years later, they still look back at me from the surface of the image. Unimpressed. Unmoved. Faithful to themselves.
I admire that more than I can explain.
Artist Statement
My work explores moments of quiet confrontation, when the external world reflects an internal truth. These pelican portraits are not studies of wildlife, but meditations on patience, endurance, and presence. I approach each image as a fragment of a larger emotional narrative, inviting viewers to pause, linger, and bring their own memories into the silence.