I don’t like snow.
Some of my friends are sure it’s because I grew up in Hawai‘i; others are certain there’s some traumatic experience in my past that’s to blame. But there are plenty of people from Hawai‘i who spend all winter skiing, and so far as I know there’s no deep hidden trauma keeping me from enjoying the delights inherent in frozen water falling from the sky and covering the land with a death-blanket of icy horror. Perhaps I’m just being unfair.
Regardless, living in Seattle, I don’t often have to deal with snow beyond a few hours of annoyance, which suits me well. Usually snow in the morning turns to rain by the afternoon and the whole thing washes away in a few hours. This made it all the more shocking when Seattle spent two weeks in December of 2008 largely immobilized by an embarrassingly small amount of snow. At the same time, I was on vacation for a few weeks after a difficult few months at my day job, and had been planning to spend part of that time roaming around the city relaxing and making photos.
It’s a cliché to describe one’s art as therapy, but in this case it’s completely true. Getting the frustration I felt out of my head and into my camera was the healthiest thing I could have done under the circumstances.