I have long been enamored of textures and gradations in nature, and been especially drawn to the dry, grey grasses on the hillsides of LA. They fade from green to brown to silver through the seasons, and when the rains come (fingers crossed), the green slowly creeps back in.
This weekend I set out with my camera to try to capture the mass of texture made especially evident by our current drought. I was traipsing through the rough grasses, off the official trail, and kept finding paths made my non-humans. These little tunnels were well worn and barely big enough to fit the width of my foot.
So often we think about how we humans use space, but rarely do we consider the animal experience of the spaces we create. They adapt, and make it their own, but I find their subtle choices interesting. It is mostly in the overgrown areas that their paths are evident -- where the landscape is soft enough to absorb their impression.
This is the start of a project -- I will continue to observe and take pictures of the evidence of non-human patterns. The pictures so far are from my favorite hiking spot Debs Park. It's a small pocket of wild in the middle of the city. I've seen lots of rabbits here, heard coyotes yapping, and now there is evidence of a bobcat in the hood.
So much of modern landscape architecture is about creating sexy, sleek environments and I sometimes feel like I am in the wrong program because I have very little interest in them. This weekend reinvigorated my sense of what I can do, though. It's my intention to be more aware of how our space is indeed shared, and we humans are not the sole caretakers, and to design with that in mind.
In case anyone is curious, my camera of choice here is my Rollieflex twin lens.