Climate of Contemplation.


Days of clouds, rain and chilly winds; the last few months in Los Angeles rendered this externally driven city of outward brightness and sunny exuberance into a reserved and subjective place where thought and contemplation drifted, like a cool fog, into the mountains and valleys….and mind.

We, formerly tanned, t-shirted and flip-flopped; opened up old plastic containers under our beds and in our closets and dug up thermal shirts, wool sweaters, down jackets and knit caps.

We drank dark malty beers; ate beef stew and consumed glasses of red wine.  We ran from our cars into our houses and curled up on the couch under layers of wool. We felt like we were back in Chicago, on winter break, imagining icy sidewalks and slush filled gutters under the El train.

Sundays on the beach, playing volleyball or biking, swimming or running….. Replaced now by gloved and hatted hikers, and fireside Christmas parties under rain-soaked skies.

The snow came to Stevenson Ranch and even Palm Springs shivered. There was lethargy in our limbs. We caught colds. We lay in bed under an electric blanket. And drank hot tea.

There must have been some compensation by nature or God to account for our inclement weather. Maybe that higher authority, HE who sends the rains across the planet, HE decided to wash the City of Angels in something baptismal and cleansing.

We needed to save money, on water and air-conditioning, and we now have no reason to turn on our outdoor sprinklers. We are devoted to our lawns, but by our prayers they now are damp and fertile.

But mostly we needed the clouds and rains to contemplate, so much, because we have lived in stress and excess, in violence and rhetoric, in bankruptcy and foreclosure, in a strange land of exaggeration and drama, both online and offline, personal and political, where events have spiraled out of control.

Cloudy days and rain, cool weather and bracing winds, these are some of the tranquilizers that spill out of the sky, cooling our burned nerves and returning us to some semblance of spiritual and emotional balance.

The Rains.


LA River at Fulton Av. Bridge, Studio City, CA.
Fulton Ave. Bridge at the LA River, Studio City, CA
Fulton Av. Bridge/LA River/View South
Photo by Andy Hurvitz
Front Door Rain
Photo by Andy Hurvitz

The rain.

Coming down in sheets, in cycles, ad nauseum.

Sheets of soaking wet weather slicing across the Valley.

I drove down to Studio City.

By the time I got to Whitsett and Magnolia it was dry.

I parked near Fulton and the LA River and shot some photos.

I went to Peet’s Coffee and met some friends.

I ordered a double espresso..

Then the sky darkened and the palms along Ventura blew and the rains came.

The rain abated and I ran to my car and drove home.

At my home computer, I sat and waited for the next cycle of storm to begin.

Then my mother called from the Marina and said she saw a fabulous rainbow.

Flood: Van Nuys, CA


Flood: Van Nuys, CA, originally uploaded by Here in Van Nuys.

Van Nuys Bl.
1938 Flood

1952: Storm in Sherman Oaks & Studio City


exm-n-9509-0071

exm-n-9509-0076

exm-n-9509-00712

Photos: USC DIGITAL ARCHIVES

Looking back at these March 15, 1952 photos of a rainstorm in Sherman Oaks & Studio City (Vantage/Ventura) you see the humble, commercial, helter-skelter development of commerce along Ventura Boulevard.

57 years ago, most businesses still had awnings on the windows to keep out the summer sun. Air-conditioning was not widespread.

The gas stations were not the modern covered ones we have today, but were a combination of adobe/Spanish styles from the 1920s and slicker ones from the 1930s.

People ate a lot of ice cream at soda fountains.

And what happened to all those elegant lampposts, the same ones that still grace Wilshire Boulevard?

L.A. River: After the Rain


Watching the Rain.


2579292656_c8a8bdfd85_o-2

Andy Watching the Rain., originally uploaded by Here in Van Nuys.

One of the privileges of spending time at this tree rich home in Woodcliff Lake, NJ was to sit on the front porch and watch the rain.

Since we moved here in 1979, there was always a connection to the outdoors to thrive on. Sitting amidst a lush conglomeration of woods, the house was part of the green shady forest.

The newer, uglier, grosser McMansions that were cruelly bulldozed and grafted onto this once hidden lane, are exposed to the hot sun, and require multiple air-conditioners to cool down their “great rooms” and their seven bedrooms.

But not this 1965 non-air-conditioned Dutch Colonial. Inadequate with its tiny bathrooms and crooked windows, it nonetheless charms me to this day when I unhook the front Dutch doors to let the wet, humid, woodsy air inside. An aged attic fan, noisy and disruptive, struggles to make a blowing breeze blow.

We are selling the house, (and moving the folks to the “Golden State”) and discovered that the old oil tank, disconnected, sits buried underneath the garage windows, and will have to be disinterred and removed.

The way they once built homes in America: were they trying to teach morals in the too small showers, sparse and unlit closets, and by making us go outside to get into the garage? Oil heat, gurgling steam pipes heating the bedrooms. Lest we be too comfortable…..

What builder would even bother these days to sell a house where talkers and dreamers might congregate under the eaves to watch the winds bring in another storm? Those lives we lead now, with shoulders hunched and leaning into the online, what do we know of the outdoors with its wily moods and sudden fits of wind, leaves and the onrush of meteorological madness?

I sat here again today and watched a violent front attack from the West. But it has passed and left, a great performance forgotten but to be repeated again…for eternity.