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“The best love is the kind that awakens the soul; that makes us reach for more, that plants the fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds. That’s what I hope to give you forever.”
– Noah from The Notebook
I was 21, last year in school, and I would bring my camera downtown and do little walkabouts between classes (and sometimes skipped classes). This was the year I figured out that I wasn't really interested in an academic career.
I was beginning to notice the shapes of things, rather than just the things themselves. An important step. Becoming aware of visual design.
Photographed in Montreal, Quebec (Canada); scanned from the original Kodachrome slide. Don't use this image on websites, blogs, or other media without explicit permission ©1970 James R. Page - all rights reserved.
About to do the last pass on the Pam Golding Intranet IA, thought I'd share the beauty of information laid out in a visual way!
Feeling rather accomplished!
PS: Hope one day we can share the visual design for this intranet, it completely rocks in its simple beauty and is soooo nice to use!
At the base of the Transamerica Pyramid, the city briefly lowers its voice. This colonnade—often passed through without a second glance—reveals itself here as a rigorously composed piece of urban architecture, where repetition, weight, and proportion do the talking. Shot head-on, the structure becomes a sequence of compressed moments: angled concrete beams locking into place overhead, tapered columns pulling the eye forward, and a distant opening that quietly anchors the frame.
Black and white strips the scene to its essentials. The grain of the concrete reads like weathered stone, dense and tactile, while the shadows hold their shape without collapsing into darkness. Light pools gently along the ceiling planes, emphasizing the geometry without dramatics. The result feels less like a corridor and more like a nave—an accidental cathedral built for movement rather than ceremony.
This is San Francisco modernism at its most restrained. No skyline theatrics, no postcard gestures. Just structure, repetition, and the peculiar calm that settles in Redwood Park when the surrounding streets recede. The faint marks on the pavement hint at daily life continuing through the frame, but nothing interrupts the central idea: architecture as rhythm.
Images like this don’t shout. They reward patience, symmetry, and an understanding of how this city hides some of its most compelling spaces at ground level. Step inside the geometry, let the noise fall away, and the Transamerica Pyramid becomes something quieter, heavier, and unexpectedly human.