Passing Water, Under The Bridge

Seeking enlightenment at Point Cloud

Like many large cities, San Francisco is a city of lights. Today is one of those classic SF days where the world is washed in gray and damply hung out to embrace the drowsy fog. As the sun slips below the seemingly ever-present cloud layer, the blare of lights I had previously blocked out begins to seep into consciousness: the red flare of the brake lights, the transitions of red-green-yellow-red-redred traffic lights, blinking orange numbers and hands counting down the crosswalks, the glow of the various neon restaurant signage. Each of them begs you to pay attention: look here, look here, look here.

It’s easy to lose sight of the humanity of this place where the lights scream and cars cannot seem to help themselves when they see the opportunity to honk and cut traffic, which is ironic seeing as this haze of light is a direct result of humanity’s chaotic addiction to convenience.

After what feels like eons, someone spots our destination, Point Cloud. “Quick, this is all you’re getting,” Shayla jokes as our faces gravitate towards the gleam of the windows. Shrinking into my car seat and contorting my neck to catch a glimpse of the installation through the front windshield, I hold my breath, bracing. A part of me already knows that it is a very real possibility that this will be a disappointment. Eighteen years, and already the pessimist in me has taught my imagination how to stand down. A quick warm blur of a rainbow greets me, not quite standing out in this city of light. We could’ve easily passed it.

When we get out of the car, the switch feels instant. The world lights up, and strangely enough, even the clouds feel brighter. Perhaps, I think to myself, this will change everything. Because that’s what light does, even without us knowing. Everyday we mold light to our convenience as we pass through the various parts of our day. The flick of light switches, tilt of the blinds, clicking of flashlights. A warmly lit cafe for studying, a darkened bedroom for afternoon naps, an illuminated hiking path to our next adventure.

“Try to see it in a different light,” we say to the pessimists in our lives. Or perhaps the optimists say to us.

The bridge, now that my eyes can dwell on its colors, still leaves behind a flavor of disappointment. The suspended poles from the roof each hold 18 colored lights that coalesce into a subtle ombre effect, the soft sunset shades of honey, marigold, cantaloupe, fuschia, and violet muddling in contrast with the reflective teal of the Moscone Center windows behind and the cool greys of the day. It is trying so hard to be something beautiful, something of value above the few stray pedestrians and cars that wander under its gaze. Above a mostly empty street, an electronic dance music festival’s hum pulses in my shoes several blocks away to make up for the deafening silence of this exhibit. I look at my carmates, apologetic — I feel lied to, I thought this would be cooler, this is embarrassing.

Peering through the glass one last time before we leave, what arrests me is the reflection of the lights on the other side of the glass. They remind me of skyscrapers — or rather, the memory associated with driving past them at night and counting the lit windows while realizing on the other side of every single one, there are people living their own lives, completely unaware of my own. In my notes app, I type “Light, as a symbol and reminder of life.”

Point Cloud, as a part of the Illuminate SF initiative, seeks to celebrate light as a form of art and support creative innovation in the city. From a purely functional point of view, light allows us to be productive through the dark hours of the day. However, on a deeper level, the encompassing halo of luminescence that is an unmistakable hallmark of every city is directly correlated to the density of lives slowly burning into the night.

Humanity’s fascination with light is embedded in our collective consciousness. People all over the world study the extraterrestrial lights in the sky to learn more about galaxies beyond our own. Others make the trip to the Arctic and Antarctic circles to simply catch a glimpse of the beautiful, but fickle, auroras. And on top of that, even more people perch on the roofs of their cars, huddled on picnic blankets, to watch fireworks bloom in the night sky. Light is utilized to invoke a sense of wonder, especially when presented on a large scale. Similarly, light installations like Point Cloud in the Illuminate SF initiative also seek to inspire a sense of awe and self reflection.

As I turn away from the bridge and pass under it for a final time, I reach a sense of calm. Art is subjective, and I am allowed to not feel inspired by this particular piece. Whether it’s because the sky was not dark enough, or my expectations were too high, my experience was still valid, true to me. It’s not to say the structure was not beautiful or that I was not a qualified observer — once again, we simply coexist, passing one another without much incident.

In a book I recently read, the narrator ponders for a moment on Dunbar’s number, a theory that states we can only maintain a network of around 150 people at a time. In the few months since I first arrived in Berkeley, I’ve become keenly aware of how much potential each and every person I pass by has. Each classmate, each hallmate, each stranger I pass throughout my day. Every person I once saw in those skyscraper windows. And yet, I pass by so many of them, most times without a second thought. Not every relationship will ever reach its full potential, which makes every relationship that we forge, explore, and carry with us, that much more impactful.

On the car ride back to Berkeley, I watch the lights again and pick up some more to add to my metaphorical pockets. Streetlamps. Headlights. Eventually, I stop looking. I pass them by and in their own way, they pass me.

Words: Audrey Sioeng

Photos: Alisa Karesh