How It Happened

I bought a ticket and visited the island. The minute I stepped off the boat, I realized this was the view I’d looked for. Now I would have to paint it, and I knew painting it would be difficult. The parks service controls all access to the island, so I'd be at their mercy to get there and back. I'd be forced to buy tickets without knowing what the weather would do; fog covers the Bay many days each year. That day I made a long ink wash drawing.

My next step was to wait six months. Facing north, this stretch of shoreline stays in shadow most of the year, until the sun's arc swings far enough north to reach it, near the summer solstice. I knew the best time for maximum illumination would be around sunset. I returned then, and began serious work on the composition. 

I built four canvases, each 1.5 x 7 feet (.46 x 2.13 meters). Connected, the surface was 28 feet (8.5 meters) long. The composition took in almost 180 degrees, from Emeryville to the Marin Headlands. Our eyes don't operate in that range, so I'd need to look straight at a piece, then move to the next, leaving a breadcrumb trail from left to right. At the start, I attempted to negotiate the progression in my head. This did not work. The drawing looked wrong. After six months I realized the best thing I could do was to remove the canvases from their frames, stretch new canvas and start over. 

I worked on the picture for many years thereafter, returning to the island each summer. Walking around the crowds waiting to enter the prison, I climbed the steep hill with my equipment, my knees protesting every step. When I staggered to the top, panting away, there was the city, stretched out on the opposite shore. I said, "Hi, Honey. Did you have a good year? Just let me look at you. I do believe you're more beautiful tonight than the day we met." 

The picture reached completion in the spring of 2026.