What does your beach towel say about you?

We live in such a wonderful time in human history that affords us the ability to choose between a wide array of beach towels. (Yipes, I actually did type that opener myself. It sounds so weird. But it’s true.)

Beach towels are a statement of interest. For instance, I have a beach towel with a giant Chicago Cubs logo. There’s no mistaking where my allegiances lie when I’m at the beach. I lay that towel on the beach to make a statement about my allegiance to the Chicago Cubs.

For that brief moment in time that I’m on the beach, I’m declaring this specific 2.5-foot by 5-foot piece of land to be dedicated to the Chicago Cubs.

A beach towel is a temporary flag. Not a permanent flag planted on a mountain. A flag that exists for three hours between sunscreen applications.

• A Cubs towel says, “This patch of sand belongs to Cubs fandom.”
• A Disney towel says, “This kingdom extends briefly into the shoreline.”
• A plain blue towel might say, “I refuse to participate in beach-towel signaling.”

And then all these tiny territories disappear at sunset.

I’d love to map out a beach and take an aerial photo several times a day over the course of ten years. Pick one specific spot on the beach and make a list of all the types of beach towels that have laid on that specific plot of land.

When at the beach, it’s a wide expanse. No boundaries. No borders. Every day the boundaries change. And boy, let me tell you, when I go to the beach, I like the feeling of “this is my section of the beach.” Kinda weird. I’m normally not territorial like that. But I like having my space, I guess.

But that’s what I kinda like about this idea of photographing the beach, and keeping a sort of permanent grid. It creates a map that people don’t see, yet they participate in it. Yet collectively, they’re leaving behind a detailed map of what people cared about.