Wharves are tailor-made for photographers. They have everything you could want in a picture: gorgeous vivid rust, cheeky wharf rats and the sea.
The general decrepitude of wharves is one of their main draws. Everything is coarser and more tactile here: the flaking paint on a boat’s prow, the jagged oxidized red metal of poles that look ready to snap in two. Even the ocean is more textured, cut into furrows by the wakes of passing ferries and tugs.
Wharves are far from the boring smoothness, the glossy plastic facade of wealth. Mansions are flat and lifeless – I certainly learned that from living in Malibu. But wharves have a character of movement and change: a dynamism riding on the salty sea air.