Stephen Lewis for The New York Times
By JEFF HIMMELMAN
Published: August 9, 2012
Most mornings, Danny Kennedy hops on a bike with orange saddlebags and rides half an hour from his home to Oakland’s Jack London Square. He makes for quite a picture cruising down Telegraph Avenue, decked out as he often is in an orange helmet, orange jacket and orange leather Adidas shoes. When he arrives at his office, he often makes his rounds on an orange indoor bike. (He’s not joking around with the orange thing.) Though Kennedy was once a young environmental activist documenting the horrors of the oil and mining industries, he’s now a 41-year-old company man. The orange that he wears daily — which extends even to the checks on his shirts, and which drives his wife crazy — is the brand color for his rapidly growing residential solar company, Sungevity, whose revenues grew by a factor of eight in 2010 and doubled again in 2011, and whose employees have grown to 260 from 3 since the company’s inception five years ago.
Beth Yarnelle Edwards for The New York Times
The Sungevity founders (from left) Alec Guettel, Danny Kennedy and Andrew Birch at a home installation.
Beth Yarnelle Edwards for The New York Times
Lyndon Rive, a founder of SolarCity, at an operations center in Foster City, Calif.
Given that growth, it’s somewhat surprising to learn that Kennedy and Sungevity aren’t taken very seriously by their larger competitors. Kennedy’s activist past and his willingness to wear his commitment to the solar industry quite literally on his sleeve are viewed by some as a liability in an industry desperate to demonstrate its seriousness. Thanks to increased Chinese production of photovoltaic panels, innovative financing techniques, investment from large institutional investors and a patchwork of semi-effective public-policy efforts, residential solar power has never been more affordable. But even with pricing that requires no initial capital outlay from consumers and guarantees lifetime savings — and even occasional opportunities to make money, by selling power back to the grid — Americans still aren’t buying into solar in significant numbers.
Two factors have hurt the industry’s growth. The first is abstract and well ingrained in the American psyche: the negative association of “green” technologies with inefficiency and idealistic, hippie-fueled impracticality. The second is concrete and recent: the sleek, vacant headquarters of Solyndra, the infamous federally subsidized solar-panel manufacturer that went bankrupt in 2011. The glassy campus sits just off the Nimitz Freeway, visible to commuters between San Francisco and Silicon Valley as they battle rush-hour traffic each morning, surreptitiously checking their phones.
Though the failure of Solyndra has dominated the political and social discourse around solar power, the reality of the industry — as evidenced by the enormous investments that companies like Google and Bank of America are making in residential solar power — is that it has rapidly become a smart, practical and profitable investment. Despite a lack of widespread acceptance, the market is growing and the competition is getting tight.
Where Kennedy will ultimately fit into all of this remains to be seen. He told me: “We don’t need missionaries anymore. We need mercenaries.” As the industry grows, big investments don’t necessarily flow toward the people with the deepest environmentalist roots. No matter how much orange Kennedy wears or how dedicated to corporate branding he appears to be, his bleeding heart still shows through. Missionary, mercenary: can he — can anyone — be both?
Of the residential solar-power companies with national aspirations, Sungevity is among the smallest in terms of market share. Sunrun, one of the market leaders, is led by Lynn Jurich and Edward Fenster, two Stanford Business School graduates who got into the business, as Jurich told me, in part because “the numbers worked.” SolarCity, another market leader, was founded by the brothers Lyndon and Peter Rive; Lyndon had previously founded Everdream, a software company that was eventually bought by Dell. The venture is also backed by Elon Musk, the Rives’ cousin and more notably a founder of PayPal; Tesla, the electric-car manufacturer; and SpaceX, a private space-exploration company. In 2004, Lyndon Rive was in a car with Musk on the way to Burning Man in Black Rock Desert, Nev., when the idea of getting into the solar business first hit him. (SolarCity also has a commercial solar-power business and is planning an initial public offering later this year, which could value the company at $1.5 billion.) Another company, SunPower, which is also a solar-panel manufacturer, does a big business in the residential market in California, through its dealer network. Kennedy and Sungevity run, roughly, fourth in California — which, because it’s the biggest market, most of these companies view as a proxy for the rest of the nation. But because of Kennedy’s background with Greenpeace, his big Australian personality (he was born in the United States but identifies as, and sounds like, an Australian) and some of his high-profile connections, he and Sungevity have received a fair amount of media attention. The actress Cate Blanchett was an early investor, and the actor Mark Ruffalo recently began leasing a system from the company, which he discussed in an appearance on “The Colbert Report” in March.
This clearly rankles Kennedy’s competitors. John Ordona, the director of communications at Sungevity, interviewed with another large solar company before taking the job at Sungevity. “They basically said that Danny was a tree-hugger and that Sungevity had no real business plan,” he told me. When I visited Sunrun, I was shown a graph indicating the size of their lead in California. When I asked about Kennedy and Sungevity directly, I was told by a marketing person, through a tight smile, “Their mind share is bigger than their market share.”
Compared with the relatively smooth and recent road that some of his competitors took to arrive at the business of residential solar-power installation, Kennedy’s path has been unusual. He has been fighting against oil and coal for most of his adult life. He got his start as an environmental activist at age 12, when he fought, as part of a landmark victory for conservationists in Australia, against the construction of a dam in Tasmania. After attending college, he worked for Greenpeace in Papua New Guinea, where he observed the efforts of villages to resist exploitation by international oil companies. There, in 1993, he nearly died after contracting malaria while trying to document the environmental damage Chevron was causing in the region. He was saved only after villagers rowed him, delirious with fever, upriver in a dugout canoe to the secluded home of a young Japanese anthropologist who happened to have a rescue agreement with Chevron. She lighted a signal fire, releasing a plume of colored smoke, and within hours a small helicopter airlifted Kennedy to Chevron’s base camp, where an American doctor administered the drugs that saved his life. Once he was on the mend, Kennedy left Chevron’s base camp and went right back to his efforts to expose the actions of the company that had just rescued him. “I stayed out in the field and continued to work,” he says. “Went back to the village and told them, ‘Everything’s cool, thank you very much for getting me out of there.’ ”
Kennedy left Greenpeace in 1995 and the next year founded Project Underground, which could be more flexible than Greenpeace and was more narrowly focused on issues of social justice and human rights. A year later, he was detained for three days by Indonesian intelligence. He suspected that a courier reported him for trying to ship water samples abroad — water samples that would demonstrate the environmental abuses at the enormous Grasberg gold mine in Irian Jaya. These were the days of Suharto’s repressive regime, and Kennedy says intelligence officials deprived him of sleep and forced him to dictate his version of events over and over again. At one point, he said, they threw him into a jeep and drove him to an old prison complex, where they told him to get out and walk around, despite a tropical thunderstorm. As he got out of the car and felt the men’s eyes on his back, he assessed his chances of running for the forest line and escaping somehow. He thought they might try to shoot him. Instead, they loaded him back into the car, took him back to the cell and asked for his statement again. “Messing with my head,” Kennedy says.
In 1999, as part of his work with Project Underground, Kennedy helped coordinate the visit of a young activist named Terry Freitas to Colombia, in an effort to prevent an Occidental Petroleum development there. On his way to the airport for his flight home, Freitas was kidnapped by FARC, the leftist guerrillas active in Colombia’s hinterlands. “We thought it was going to be a hostage deal,” Kennedy says, so he spent a week trying to raise a ransom. But FARC wasn’t after money; Freitas was shot in the back and killed, along with two other Americans. Kennedy said he suspected but had no proof that the oil business was somehow behind the murders, and he worried about continuing to risk his own life. His first daughter, Aiko, was conceived that very week. “Her middle name is his middle name,” he says of Freitas. “He was a really amazing kid.” Kennedy began the slow turn away from front-line activism that would eventually lead him to residential solar power. He had been aware of the potential of solar energy since the early ’90s, when he noticed that one village in Papua New Guinea had a health clinic that was able to provide immunizations because it had a few solar panels up, enough to power a refrigerator to keep the vaccines cold. He returned to work for Greenpeace in 2000 and the next year led its effort to support a ballot initiative in San Francisco that empowered the city to issue $100 million in revenue bonds to finance renewable-energy projects.
Five years later, on his way from Australia to Amsterdam, Kennedy stopped to deliver a report on behalf of Greenpeace at the Solar Power International conference in San Jose, Calif. He was struck by a speech given by Arnold Schwarzenegger, who was then the governor, about his ambitions for solar power in the state. “There are people pumping their fists and standing on chairs,” Kennedy told me. “By this point in my life, I’ve been to dozens of solar conferences in various countries. And here you have the can-do American entrepreneurial heartland — this is the San Jose conference center, Silicon Valley, ingenuity and know-how and risk capital all combined — going crazy. And it was just kind of like, ‘This is awesome.’ ” Soon after that, he spent a night with a friend, Alec Guettel, whom he met years earlier, in 1990, at meetings in London to address the issue of ozone depletion. (Guettel was a protester outside the event, dressed as a soon-to-be-extinct penguin; Kennedy, attending as a youth delegate from Australia, wandered outside and ended up getting a beer with the penguin.) Kennedy had been searching for a way to convert his activist beliefs into a business that could make money and benefit the planet. A year after Schwarzenegger’s speech, he, Guettel and Andrew Birch, a former banker and executive at BP Solar, started Sungevity.
When I visited Sungevity’s offices in January, Kennedy kept asking if I had been across the street yet. “Have you taken him?” he asked a colleague. “When are we taking him?”
Eventually, Kennedy took me himself. We walked out of Sungevity’s main offices and across the cobbled street to an abandoned Barnes & Noble. When he opened the doors, I understood why he wanted me to see it: there before me, in one great room under a vaulted ceiling, were row after row of headset-wearing Sungevity employees tapping away at banks of high-resolution computer screens. Sungevity’s massive installation, interconnection and service teams — what Kennedy calls “project management,” meaning everything that has to be done once the solar system has been ordered — worked here. Though they have since moved into a different office space, as of January there were about a hundred people working in that abandoned bookstore, nearly as many as there were in all of Sungevity’s vast headquarters across the street.
The operation demands this many people because the permits required to put a solar array on your roof vary from city to city, even within California. “Some agencies want an AutoCAD drawing of the proposed installation as a digital file,” Kennedy said, pointing at the various people at work at their monitors. “Others want a single line electrical drawing as a piece of paper in a folder somewhere. And somebody’s got to do all that.”
When I asked Lyndon Rive if SolarCity had a similar operation, he said: “There’s a lot of complexity with permitting and everything else. We’re trying to hide the customer from that pain.” Lynn Jurich at Sunrun told me that the work it takes to arrange permits for an installation adds $2,500 to the cost of each system. Looking out at the Sungevity work force in that former bookstore, it wasn’t hard to believe. It was a living, moving picture of the inefficiencies created by fragmented policy — but it was also a lot of jobs. I kept trying to move farther and farther back, just to get some sense of the scale. As we walked out, Kennedy said: “This business is a baby growing up so fast, forget childhood. It’s straight into adolescence and beyond.”
The innovation that has pushed Sungevity and the rest of the residential solar industry straight into adolescence over the past five years was financial, not technological. Solar technology, though it retains a kind of Jetsonian aura, is hardly new. In 1954, Bell Labs discovered that purified silicon, doped with arsenic and sliced into thin wafers by a high-powered diamond saw, was capable of converting sunlight into electricity. The Bell Solar Battery was conceived as a way to power telephones with a cheap renewable resource, but the people at Bell sensed that they were on to something bigger. “The dream of ages has been brought closer,” a print ad read at the time. “If this energy could be put to use — there would be enough to turn every wheel and light every lamp that mankind would ever need.”
They weren’t exaggerating. Enough sunlight falls on the earth’s surface every hour to meet the entire world’s energy needs for one year. A plot of roughly 100 miles by 100 miles in the American Southwest, if covered with today’s industry-standard 15-to-20-percent-efficient solar panels, could generate enough power for the entire United States. This is not the whole story, of course; the sun shines only during the day, and as yet we have no efficient way to distribute and store the power that such a plot would generate (so that the energy could be used at night, for example). But the potential of the sun as a power source is nearly unlimited.
When we burn coal, gas or oil, we are simply harnessing an archived version of that same energy from the sun, stored in plant and animal life, compacted and preserved under the earth’s crust. As Kennedy puts it in his passionate but rational way: “Think about it this way. We’re killing people in foreign lands in order to extract 200-million-year-old sunlight. Then we burn it . . . in order to boil water to create steam to drive a turbine to generate electricity. We frack our own backyards and pollute our rivers, or we blow up our mountaintops just miles from our nation’s capital for an hour of electricity, when we could just take what’s falling free from the sky.”
That’s a hard argument to refute. Since the 1950s, solar cells based on Bell’s battery technology have powered craft as big as space stations, but they have yet to define our lives in the way that Bell Labs envisioned. Solar technology in particular has carried unfortunate political baggage for the last three decades. During the comparatively oil-rich 1980s, Ronald Reagan removed the solar water-heating system that Jimmy Carter had installed on the roof of the White House, a symbolic swipe at liberals. In 2011, Solyndra’s disastrous bankruptcy played right into the hands of politicians and pundits, who have gleefully pegged it to an anti-solar and anti-renewable narrative: solar isn’t reliable, we’re not good at it, the Chinese are better at it anyway, and so drilling and fracking are the pragmatic, job-creating ways forward.
The reason that the residential solar industry has begun to buck this general trend is because, instead of appealing to our heartstrings, it has begun to appeal to our checkbooks. The innovation that made this possible — selling solar services instead of solar panels — was pioneered in the commercial market by Jigar Shah. Though Shah was trained as a mechanical engineer, his most important bit of engineering was financial: in 2003, he started a company called SunEdison, which offered something called a solar-power purchase agreement (P.P.A.) to commercial customers.
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/12/magazine/the-secret-to-solar-power.html?smid=pl-share
Most mornings, Danny Kennedy hops on a bike with orange saddlebags and rides half an hour from his home to Oakland’s Jack London Square. He makes for quite a picture cruising down Telegraph Avenue, decked out as he often is in an orange helmet, orange jacket and orange leather Adidas shoes. When he arrives at his office, he often makes his rounds on an orange indoor bike. (He’s not joking around with the orange thing.) Though Kennedy was once a young environmental activist documenting the horrors of the oil and mining industries, he’s now a 41-year-old company man. The orange that he wears daily — which extends even to the checks on his shirts, and which drives his wife crazy — is the brand color for his rapidly growing residential solar company, Sungevity, whose revenues grew by a factor of eight in 2010 and doubled again in 2011, and whose employees have grown to 260 from 3 since the company’s inception five years ago.
Beth Yarnelle Edwards for The New York Times
The Sungevity founders (from left) Alec Guettel, Danny Kennedy and Andrew Birch at a home installation.
Beth Yarnelle Edwards for The New York Times
Lyndon Rive, a founder of SolarCity, at an operations center in Foster City, Calif.
Given that growth, it’s somewhat surprising to learn that Kennedy and Sungevity aren’t taken very seriously by their larger competitors. Kennedy’s activist past and his willingness to wear his commitment to the solar industry quite literally on his sleeve are viewed by some as a liability in an industry desperate to demonstrate its seriousness. Thanks to increased Chinese production of photovoltaic panels, innovative financing techniques, investment from large institutional investors and a patchwork of semi-effective public-policy efforts, residential solar power has never been more affordable. But even with pricing that requires no initial capital outlay from consumers and guarantees lifetime savings — and even occasional opportunities to make money, by selling power back to the grid — Americans still aren’t buying into solar in significant numbers.
Two factors have hurt the industry’s growth. The first is abstract and well ingrained in the American psyche: the negative association of “green” technologies with inefficiency and idealistic, hippie-fueled impracticality. The second is concrete and recent: the sleek, vacant headquarters of Solyndra, the infamous federally subsidized solar-panel manufacturer that went bankrupt in 2011. The glassy campus sits just off the Nimitz Freeway, visible to commuters between San Francisco and Silicon Valley as they battle rush-hour traffic each morning, surreptitiously checking their phones.
Though the failure of Solyndra has dominated the political and social discourse around solar power, the reality of the industry — as evidenced by the enormous investments that companies like Google and Bank of America are making in residential solar power — is that it has rapidly become a smart, practical and profitable investment. Despite a lack of widespread acceptance, the market is growing and the competition is getting tight.
Where Kennedy will ultimately fit into all of this remains to be seen. He told me: “We don’t need missionaries anymore. We need mercenaries.” As the industry grows, big investments don’t necessarily flow toward the people with the deepest environmentalist roots. No matter how much orange Kennedy wears or how dedicated to corporate branding he appears to be, his bleeding heart still shows through. Missionary, mercenary: can he — can anyone — be both?
Of the residential solar-power companies with national aspirations, Sungevity is among the smallest in terms of market share. Sunrun, one of the market leaders, is led by Lynn Jurich and Edward Fenster, two Stanford Business School graduates who got into the business, as Jurich told me, in part because “the numbers worked.” SolarCity, another market leader, was founded by the brothers Lyndon and Peter Rive; Lyndon had previously founded Everdream, a software company that was eventually bought by Dell. The venture is also backed by Elon Musk, the Rives’ cousin and more notably a founder of PayPal; Tesla, the electric-car manufacturer; and SpaceX, a private space-exploration company. In 2004, Lyndon Rive was in a car with Musk on the way to Burning Man in Black Rock Desert, Nev., when the idea of getting into the solar business first hit him. (SolarCity also has a commercial solar-power business and is planning an initial public offering later this year, which could value the company at $1.5 billion.) Another company, SunPower, which is also a solar-panel manufacturer, does a big business in the residential market in California, through its dealer network. Kennedy and Sungevity run, roughly, fourth in California — which, because it’s the biggest market, most of these companies view as a proxy for the rest of the nation. But because of Kennedy’s background with Greenpeace, his big Australian personality (he was born in the United States but identifies as, and sounds like, an Australian) and some of his high-profile connections, he and Sungevity have received a fair amount of media attention. The actress Cate Blanchett was an early investor, and the actor Mark Ruffalo recently began leasing a system from the company, which he discussed in an appearance on “The Colbert Report” in March.
This clearly rankles Kennedy’s competitors. John Ordona, the director of communications at Sungevity, interviewed with another large solar company before taking the job at Sungevity. “They basically said that Danny was a tree-hugger and that Sungevity had no real business plan,” he told me. When I visited Sunrun, I was shown a graph indicating the size of their lead in California. When I asked about Kennedy and Sungevity directly, I was told by a marketing person, through a tight smile, “Their mind share is bigger than their market share.”
Compared with the relatively smooth and recent road that some of his competitors took to arrive at the business of residential solar-power installation, Kennedy’s path has been unusual. He has been fighting against oil and coal for most of his adult life. He got his start as an environmental activist at age 12, when he fought, as part of a landmark victory for conservationists in Australia, against the construction of a dam in Tasmania. After attending college, he worked for Greenpeace in Papua New Guinea, where he observed the efforts of villages to resist exploitation by international oil companies. There, in 1993, he nearly died after contracting malaria while trying to document the environmental damage Chevron was causing in the region. He was saved only after villagers rowed him, delirious with fever, upriver in a dugout canoe to the secluded home of a young Japanese anthropologist who happened to have a rescue agreement with Chevron. She lighted a signal fire, releasing a plume of colored smoke, and within hours a small helicopter airlifted Kennedy to Chevron’s base camp, where an American doctor administered the drugs that saved his life. Once he was on the mend, Kennedy left Chevron’s base camp and went right back to his efforts to expose the actions of the company that had just rescued him. “I stayed out in the field and continued to work,” he says. “Went back to the village and told them, ‘Everything’s cool, thank you very much for getting me out of there.’ ”
Kennedy left Greenpeace in 1995 and the next year founded Project Underground, which could be more flexible than Greenpeace and was more narrowly focused on issues of social justice and human rights. A year later, he was detained for three days by Indonesian intelligence. He suspected that a courier reported him for trying to ship water samples abroad — water samples that would demonstrate the environmental abuses at the enormous Grasberg gold mine in Irian Jaya. These were the days of Suharto’s repressive regime, and Kennedy says intelligence officials deprived him of sleep and forced him to dictate his version of events over and over again. At one point, he said, they threw him into a jeep and drove him to an old prison complex, where they told him to get out and walk around, despite a tropical thunderstorm. As he got out of the car and felt the men’s eyes on his back, he assessed his chances of running for the forest line and escaping somehow. He thought they might try to shoot him. Instead, they loaded him back into the car, took him back to the cell and asked for his statement again. “Messing with my head,” Kennedy says.
In 1999, as part of his work with Project Underground, Kennedy helped coordinate the visit of a young activist named Terry Freitas to Colombia, in an effort to prevent an Occidental Petroleum development there. On his way to the airport for his flight home, Freitas was kidnapped by FARC, the leftist guerrillas active in Colombia’s hinterlands. “We thought it was going to be a hostage deal,” Kennedy says, so he spent a week trying to raise a ransom. But FARC wasn’t after money; Freitas was shot in the back and killed, along with two other Americans. Kennedy said he suspected but had no proof that the oil business was somehow behind the murders, and he worried about continuing to risk his own life. His first daughter, Aiko, was conceived that very week. “Her middle name is his middle name,” he says of Freitas. “He was a really amazing kid.” Kennedy began the slow turn away from front-line activism that would eventually lead him to residential solar power. He had been aware of the potential of solar energy since the early ’90s, when he noticed that one village in Papua New Guinea had a health clinic that was able to provide immunizations because it had a few solar panels up, enough to power a refrigerator to keep the vaccines cold. He returned to work for Greenpeace in 2000 and the next year led its effort to support a ballot initiative in San Francisco that empowered the city to issue $100 million in revenue bonds to finance renewable-energy projects.
Five years later, on his way from Australia to Amsterdam, Kennedy stopped to deliver a report on behalf of Greenpeace at the Solar Power International conference in San Jose, Calif. He was struck by a speech given by Arnold Schwarzenegger, who was then the governor, about his ambitions for solar power in the state. “There are people pumping their fists and standing on chairs,” Kennedy told me. “By this point in my life, I’ve been to dozens of solar conferences in various countries. And here you have the can-do American entrepreneurial heartland — this is the San Jose conference center, Silicon Valley, ingenuity and know-how and risk capital all combined — going crazy. And it was just kind of like, ‘This is awesome.’ ” Soon after that, he spent a night with a friend, Alec Guettel, whom he met years earlier, in 1990, at meetings in London to address the issue of ozone depletion. (Guettel was a protester outside the event, dressed as a soon-to-be-extinct penguin; Kennedy, attending as a youth delegate from Australia, wandered outside and ended up getting a beer with the penguin.) Kennedy had been searching for a way to convert his activist beliefs into a business that could make money and benefit the planet. A year after Schwarzenegger’s speech, he, Guettel and Andrew Birch, a former banker and executive at BP Solar, started Sungevity.
When I visited Sungevity’s offices in January, Kennedy kept asking if I had been across the street yet. “Have you taken him?” he asked a colleague. “When are we taking him?”
Eventually, Kennedy took me himself. We walked out of Sungevity’s main offices and across the cobbled street to an abandoned Barnes & Noble. When he opened the doors, I understood why he wanted me to see it: there before me, in one great room under a vaulted ceiling, were row after row of headset-wearing Sungevity employees tapping away at banks of high-resolution computer screens. Sungevity’s massive installation, interconnection and service teams — what Kennedy calls “project management,” meaning everything that has to be done once the solar system has been ordered — worked here. Though they have since moved into a different office space, as of January there were about a hundred people working in that abandoned bookstore, nearly as many as there were in all of Sungevity’s vast headquarters across the street.
The operation demands this many people because the permits required to put a solar array on your roof vary from city to city, even within California. “Some agencies want an AutoCAD drawing of the proposed installation as a digital file,” Kennedy said, pointing at the various people at work at their monitors. “Others want a single line electrical drawing as a piece of paper in a folder somewhere. And somebody’s got to do all that.”
When I asked Lyndon Rive if SolarCity had a similar operation, he said: “There’s a lot of complexity with permitting and everything else. We’re trying to hide the customer from that pain.” Lynn Jurich at Sunrun told me that the work it takes to arrange permits for an installation adds $2,500 to the cost of each system. Looking out at the Sungevity work force in that former bookstore, it wasn’t hard to believe. It was a living, moving picture of the inefficiencies created by fragmented policy — but it was also a lot of jobs. I kept trying to move farther and farther back, just to get some sense of the scale. As we walked out, Kennedy said: “This business is a baby growing up so fast, forget childhood. It’s straight into adolescence and beyond.”
The innovation that has pushed Sungevity and the rest of the residential solar industry straight into adolescence over the past five years was financial, not technological. Solar technology, though it retains a kind of Jetsonian aura, is hardly new. In 1954, Bell Labs discovered that purified silicon, doped with arsenic and sliced into thin wafers by a high-powered diamond saw, was capable of converting sunlight into electricity. The Bell Solar Battery was conceived as a way to power telephones with a cheap renewable resource, but the people at Bell sensed that they were on to something bigger. “The dream of ages has been brought closer,” a print ad read at the time. “If this energy could be put to use — there would be enough to turn every wheel and light every lamp that mankind would ever need.”
They weren’t exaggerating. Enough sunlight falls on the earth’s surface every hour to meet the entire world’s energy needs for one year. A plot of roughly 100 miles by 100 miles in the American Southwest, if covered with today’s industry-standard 15-to-20-percent-efficient solar panels, could generate enough power for the entire United States. This is not the whole story, of course; the sun shines only during the day, and as yet we have no efficient way to distribute and store the power that such a plot would generate (so that the energy could be used at night, for example). But the potential of the sun as a power source is nearly unlimited.
When we burn coal, gas or oil, we are simply harnessing an archived version of that same energy from the sun, stored in plant and animal life, compacted and preserved under the earth’s crust. As Kennedy puts it in his passionate but rational way: “Think about it this way. We’re killing people in foreign lands in order to extract 200-million-year-old sunlight. Then we burn it . . . in order to boil water to create steam to drive a turbine to generate electricity. We frack our own backyards and pollute our rivers, or we blow up our mountaintops just miles from our nation’s capital for an hour of electricity, when we could just take what’s falling free from the sky.”
That’s a hard argument to refute. Since the 1950s, solar cells based on Bell’s battery technology have powered craft as big as space stations, but they have yet to define our lives in the way that Bell Labs envisioned. Solar technology in particular has carried unfortunate political baggage for the last three decades. During the comparatively oil-rich 1980s, Ronald Reagan removed the solar water-heating system that Jimmy Carter had installed on the roof of the White House, a symbolic swipe at liberals. In 2011, Solyndra’s disastrous bankruptcy played right into the hands of politicians and pundits, who have gleefully pegged it to an anti-solar and anti-renewable narrative: solar isn’t reliable, we’re not good at it, the Chinese are better at it anyway, and so drilling and fracking are the pragmatic, job-creating ways forward.
The reason that the residential solar industry has begun to buck this general trend is because, instead of appealing to our heartstrings, it has begun to appeal to our checkbooks. The innovation that made this possible — selling solar services instead of solar panels — was pioneered in the commercial market by Jigar Shah. Though Shah was trained as a mechanical engineer, his most important bit of engineering was financial: in 2003, he started a company called SunEdison, which offered something called a solar-power purchase agreement (P.P.A.) to commercial customers.
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/12/magazine/the-secret-to-solar-power.html?smid=pl-share
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