Perhaps one of the greatest joys in life is when you discover that a friend is as a voracious lover of books as you are. I was delighted when, early in our friendship, I discovered that Erin and I had many of the same books on our respective bedside tables. While our discussions of our most recent reads has taken a backseat in the past few months, our reading choices still occasionally influence the choices we make for Pavo, whether it be color choice, design ideas or when we decide to release a specific wrap or color way. And so it was with Gotham Brick today.
We are headed into a week of unseasonably hot weather at Pavo West and along with the heat comes the brutal and powerful Santa Ana winds. Our house is at the base of the mountains and we are relatively sheltered from the winds, so when a wind advisory popped up on my notifications, I dismissed it. As i was perusing the stack of books on my bedside table before bed, I decided to dig through the bookshelves for Joan Didion. My copies of her works are dusty, old, and dingy with coffee rings on the covers and notes scribbled in the back. They are old friends and I was glad to curl up with them. As I read, I was once again enchanted with how Didion crafts language and imagery. Her short essay on the Santa Ana winds, an apropos read given the high wind warnings in effect, captures the restlessness and beauty that defines the Southern California landscape:
"The Santa Ana"
Excerpt from Slouching towards Bethlehem
There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension. What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sand storms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to flash point. For a few days now we will see smoke back in the canyons, and hear sirens in the night. I have neither heard nor read that a Santa Ana is due, but I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too. We know it because we feel it. The baby frets. The maid sulks. I rekindle a waning argument with the telephone company, then cut my losses and lie down, given over to whatever it is in the air. To live with the Santa Ana is to accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behavior.
I recall being told, when I first moved to Los Angeles and was living on an isolated beach, that the Indians would throw themselves into the sea when the bad wind blew. I could see why. The Pacific turned ominously glossy during a Santa Ana period, and one woke in the night troubled not only by the peacocks screaming in the olive trees but by the eerie absence of surf. The heat was surreal. The sky had a yellow cast, the kind of light sometimes called “earthquake weather.” My only neighbor would not come out of her house for days, and there were no lights at night, and her husband roamed the place with a machete. One day he would tell me that he had heard a trespasser, the next a rattlesnake.
"On nights like that," Raymond Chandler once wrote about the Santa Ana, "every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen." That was the kind of wind it was. I did not know then that there was any basis for the effect it had on all of us, but it turns out to be another of those cases in which science bears out folk wisdom. The Santa Ana, which is named for one of the canyons it rushers through, is foehn wind, like the foehn of Austria and Switzerland and the hamsin of Israel. There are a number of persistent malevolent winds, perhaps the best know of which are the mistral of France and the Mediterranean sirocco, but a foehn wind has distinct characteristics: it occurs on the leeward slope of a mountain range and, although the air begins as a cold mass, it is warmed as it comes down the mountain and appears finally as a hot dry wind. Whenever and wherever foehn blows, doctors hear about headaches and nausea and allergies, about "nervousness," about "depression." In Los Angeles some teachers do not attempt to conduct formal classes during a Santa Ana, because the children become unmanageable. In Switzerland the suicide rate goes up during the foehn, and in the courts of some Swiss cantons the wind is considered a mitigating circumstance for crime. Surgeons are said to watch the wind, because blood does not clot normally during a foehn. A few years ago an Israeli physicist discovered that not only during such winds, but for the ten or twelve hours which precede them, the air carries an unusually high ratio of positive to negative ions. No one seems to know exactly why that should be; some talk about friction and others suggest solar disturbances. In any case the positive ions are there, and what an excess of positive ions does, in the simplest terms, is make people unhappy. One cannot get much more mechanistic than that.
Easterners commonly complain that there is no “weather” at all in Southern California, that the days and the seasons slip by relentlessly, numbingly bland. That is quite misleading. In fact the climate is characterized by infrequent but violent extremes: two periods of torrential subtropical rains which continue for weeks and wash out the hills and send subdivisions sliding toward the sea; about twenty scattered days a year of the Santa Ana, which, with its incendiary dryness, invariably means fire. At the first prediction of a Santa Ana, the Forest Service flies men and equipment from northern California into the southern forests, and the Los Angeles Fire Department cancels its ordinary non-firefighting routines. The Santa Ana caused Malibu to burn as it did in 1956, and Bel Air in 1961, and Santa Barbara in 1964. In the winter of 1966-67 eleven men were killed fighting a Santa Ana fire that spread through the San Gabriel Mountains.
Just to watch the front-page news out of Los Angeles during a Santa Ana is to get very close to what it is about the place. The longest single Santa Ana period in recent years was in 1957, and it lasted not the usual three or four days but fourteen days, from November 21 until December 4. On the first day 25,000 acres of the San Gabriel Mountains were burning, with gusts reaching 100 miles an hour. In town, the wind reached Force 12, or hurricane force, on the Beaufort Scale; oil derricks were toppled and people ordered off the downtown streets to avoid injury from flying objects. On November 22 the fire in the San Gabriels was out of control. On November 24 six people were killed in automobile accidents, and by the end of the week the Los Angeles Times was keeping a box score of traffic deaths. On November 26 a prominent Pasadena attorney, depressed about money, shot and killed his wife, their two sons and himself. On November 27 a South Gate divorcée, twenty-two, was murdered and thrown from a moving car. On November 30 the San Gabriel fire was still out of control, and the wind in town was blowing eighty miles an hour. On the first day of December four people died violently, and on the third the wind began to break.
It is hard for people who have not lived in Los Angeles to realize how radically the Santa Ana figures in the local imagination. The city burning is Los Angeles’s deepest image of itself. Nathaniel West perceived that, in The Day of the Locust, and at the time of the 1965 Watts riots what struck the imagination most indelibly were the fires. For days one could drive the Harbor Freeway and see the city on fire, just as we had always known it would be in the end. Los Angeles weather is the weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse, and, just as the reliably long and bitter winters of New England determine the way life is lived there, so the violence and the unpredictability of the Santa Ana affect the entire quality of life in Los Angeles, accentuate its impermanence, its unreliability. The winds shows us how close to the edge we are.
I fell asleep with those images dancing in my head. Imagine my surprise when I was woken up at 3 am with trees frantically beating against our windows, desperate to be let inside and protected from the wind mercilessly tossing them around in violent fits and rages. Our two outdoor cats were yowling at our door uneasy and frightened, our wind chimes had given up hope and clashed hideously against each other and the electric line that runs across the backyard bobbed around as if controlled by some cruel puppet master. I sat up in bed and peeked out the window. The Easter pinwheels the boys and I had so carefully crafted were spinning wildly, like miniature dayglo whirling dervishes worshipping across the dais that is our raised garden beds. The winds had arrived, much to my surprise. And with their arrival came that old feeling of restlessness. The boys felt it too. Instead of hunkering down in the covers like they normally they do, they raced outside to try and capture the wind as it howled through our backyard. They chattered excitedly in the back seat on the way to school, awed by the sheer force and unpredictably of Nature.
And so I find myself in the offices of Pavo West with the trees battering the sides of the house with a regular tattoo and bone dry leaves skittering down the hills. I feel restless, excited, and in awe all at once. My playground is now a desk surrounded by wraps and paperwork. What better way to work out the restlessness than to do a release? And so, despite Erin's carefully crafted release schedule, we decided to release Gotham Brick. The dark, broody red threads succinctly capture the edginess the Santa Anas bring to Southern California.
It is calm now, as it always in the afternoon, but when the sun starts to sink below the horizon, the winds will pick up. We will be here, packaging wraps as the the orange and persimmon trees sway and bend caught up in a never-ending dance with a cruel master. We will create our own little sanctuary of order and peace despite the wildness and restlessness outside.