Late afternoons when I’m feeling at loose ends, I often drive down to Venice to take pictures at the local skate park. It’s beautiful in the waning light, with the sun setting over the ocean, casting long shadows across the smooth concrete surfaces of the park. On a good day, it’s filled with skaters of all levels, all ages, genders, races… Saying “all levels” is probably misleading. I’m not a skater myself and in order to drop into even one of the mellowest bowls at Venice skate park, I’d imagine that one has to be a pretty good skater. There are some real superstars at the park, skaters who can do the most amazing acrobatics. I’d say they’re world class. But, at least to this outsider, there doesn’t seem to be a hierarchy within the park. Everyone gets a turn. The older skaters, support the younger ones. There’s a camaraderie that transcends skill level. Women are seen as fellow skaters, not sex objects. I’m sure I’m projecting, but the Venice skaters seem to be building a kind of utopian society on their little patch of the beach, one which a love of skating, bringing a level of seriousness to it all, is the only thing that really counts. Me, I’ll always be on the outside with the tourists, wondering what it would be like to be part of their squad.