Magic Island is actually an artificial peninsula in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It’s a strip of sand and rocks surrounded on different sides by high rise buildings, gridlocked traffic and endless water. This is where disparate paths converge: Lying in the shade of a baobab tree, a homeless woman gazes up at shiny glass condos owned by billionaire investors. A Samoan family gathers for a smoky barbeque on the sand, and on the grass a solitary man balances on one leg and waves his arms like a Hindu god, offering his seed-filled palms to swooping pigeons. At the water’s edge, a newlywed couple from Japan, in meringue white, pose for a photographer, and in the distance, a surfer paddles over the shadow of an octopus as the afternoon sun dazzles her eyes. Each person on the island floats inside of their own soap bubble; tiny worlds swirl and intermingle for an extended moment, and then softly burst.
