My entrancement with Southern California is born not from having grown up there but rather from the enigmatic tendencies of its irrepressibly living and breathing landscape. 

Its cities are indecipherable; even in the heart of Los Angeles serious cityscapes are interrupted by puddles of suburbia, and urban streets suddenly ascend into winding mountain roads lined with mansions. Meanwhile, the metropolis melts at its edges into hills or sand or horizon. 

Conceptualizing the space as I inhabit it is nearly impossible – orientation becomes irrelevant and imperceptible as hills and turns rescind visibility shortly after offering it. 

When I seek information in elevation, I am confronted instead with the smog, haze, and sun that permeate the entire region and veil its topography. Climb even higher, leave the ground entirely, and I am rewarded not with maps but with paintings. 

I pursue these high vantage points as a means of exploration, not succeeding in comprehending my own geographic existence within the space, and in fact not wanting to. I want California to prove its mysteriousness, to justify my fascination with it, and, despite my relentless ascension, it always does.