Lake Merced, near the southern boundary of San Francisco, one morning of Thanksgiving weekend. Fog in, out, in, out again. It was a certain kind of morning that urged a certain timeless treatment of the images … or at least, a treatment evoking an earlier time in photography’s history. Strangest and most wonderful to me were the tall unfamiliar rooftops rising in the melting fog. In their stairstepping vagueness they seemed like something from an ancient civilization.