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By Matthew Garcia Monges
The air carries the scent of salt and a trace of cigarettes. Above, white cotton-ball clouds drift lazily across the crisp blue sky. At the corner of Newport and Abbott in Ocean Beach, the scene is alive with movement and character.
A man dances atop the concrete wall facing the sea, stretching into a full split before fluidly waving his arms, as if conducting an orchestra only he can hear. There is no audible music, only the crashing of waves. Intrigued, I ask him what draws him to this place.
"Well, I’m a siren, darling," he tells me theatrically, without skipping a beat on his movements. "A siren lures people in with its song. There’s an artistic beauty, but a chaos underneath. That’s me. And this place, it’s the people, the energy, the wacky art on the walls. It’s liberating." With that, he returns to his rhythms, as I return to my role as a spectator.
Clik here to view.
By Matthew Garcia Monges
The air carries the scent of salt and a trace of cigarettes. Above, white cotton-ball clouds drift lazily across the crisp blue sky. At the corner of Newport and Abbott in Ocean Beach, the scene is alive with movement and character.
A man dances atop the concrete wall facing the sea, stretching into a full split before fluidly waving his arms, as if conducting an orchestra only he can hear. There is no audible music, only the crashing of waves. Intrigued, I ask him what draws him to this place.
"Well, I’m a siren, darling," he tells me theatrically, without skipping a beat on his movements. "A siren lures people in with its song. There’s an artistic beauty, but a chaos underneath. That’s me. And this place, it’s the people, the energy, the wacky art on the walls. It’s liberating." With that, he returns to his rhythms, as I return to my role as a spectator.
