The deep tidal coves of the Oregon coast were part of that world of printer's inks and glossy paper, they became flesh and rock and shell, and now they've turned into the digital pixels of the modern memory machine. It's a metamorphosis of sorts, a transmigration between the realms of thought and memory.
Let's start with the starfish.
The cold waters of the north Pacific are fertile places, full of algae and plankton. The waves crash on rocks, rocks that are covered with sea anemones, barnacles, mussels and limpets. Their predators cling to the rocks too, bright starfish, holding on with the suction of a myriad tiny tubes. As the waves wash in and out you see them: red, brown, orange and purple. These aren't the stereotypically arrayed dried corpses of the souvenir shops - they're twisted and contorted as they hold fast to the rocks.
They stand alone, or knotted in groups.
You watch the waves roll over them, expecting them to be dashed away.
Others hide in the cracks, their purple flesh patterned by white bony dots.