Folding up upon herself, Griffith Park is an earthen queen curled up into a roughly semicircular arc as her deep jade dress pools in the hollow created like spilt water. She has been passed through many hands, from Native American tribal headsmen to a gold mine speculator who’s heart was as precious as the stuff he bartered and finally the citizens of Los Angeles themselves. Thin seams of sand that can be traced ran across her robes, a fuzzy patchwork of rare coastal sage scrub and interwoven fingers of oak and walnut wood. Toyon and sumac laden with fruit resemble rubies inset onto the green satin and the creeks forming laced embroidery is bordered by the deeper green of riparian vegetation, roots sunk deep into the silvery adornment.

At her head sits the white crown of Griffith Observatory from which one could gaze endlessly at the navy blue ceiling of the sky and drill into the pinpricks of light. The iconic white lettering of Hollywood is a nametag across her chest, a form of identification and reference she has been inextricably tied to. At points, her skin has cracked into deep fissures revealing the layers of her skin. The deepening gradient of ochre and compacted dust over the years can be called out individually and her favorite was the Bronson Canyons, its caves the breathing pores on her skin. Tucked in a separate fold of her robes is the Los Angeles Zoo with its trumpeting elephants, fearsome gorillas and white crested cotton-top tamarins which see a steady stream of a million and a half human faces that pass by each year. She pockets these creatures with an almost caressing hold, bodily shielding them from the vagaries of the world. Thin wisps of smoke still rise off her figure at spots where grills burn charcoal over which food is cooked and shared. Exploring Griffith Park is the exploration of a royal beauty, each crack and bump a contributing feature to her appeal.