Earl Newman Goes From Venice to the Smithsonian

By Greta Cobar

“I want to thank Venice for being open to free-spirited people,” Earl Newman says 53 years after he came here from the East Coast with a wife and two kids in a ’55 Chevy station wagon “in quest of a future.”

And that he found. After being homeless for a few weeks, Earl and his family moved into the boarded-up store-front that now is the Small World Bookstore on Ocean Front Walk, next door to the Sidewalk Cafe. And there, according to Earl, “opportunity came.”

Someone had left, at the back of the Gas House, all the equipment he needed to silk-screen posters. “And I knew how to use it. I started using it to pay rent and didn’t think that it would lead anywhere or that I’d do it years later,” Earl recently told the Beachhead.

Well, it lead to him being a successful self-employed artist since. This year he is celebrating his 50th year designing posters for the Monterey Jazz Festival, which takes place September 21 to 23. He finds 50 to be a “good, round number” to change direction and “maybe stop designing posters for the festival, maybe go fishing or traveling in a ‘Winnebago’.”

Among his large following is the Smithsonian Museum in Washington DC, which purchased the complete collection of Earl’s signed and numbered Monterey Jazz Festival posters for their permanent collection.

“I found something I really enjoy doing,” he says of creating and silk-screening his artwork. The first poster he printed in Venice was of the Gas House, a coffee shop just steps south of Small World Bookstore, where Vivianne Robinson’s Name on Rice shop is now located.

“My parents came to visit shortly after we moved into the place, and when my mom walked in, she started crying and said: ‘Earl, we didn’t bring you up to live like this.’ ” According to Earl, it was raining and there were pots and pans on the floor to catch the drips from the ceiling. The floor was covered in sand that he had hauled from the beach to cover up the broken tile.

Earl and his family lived a very primitive lifestyle and had little money. At times Earl didn’t think that they would make it, and might have to return to New England with his wife Jean and two daughters Andrea and April and return to being a school teacher. Looking back, Earl is thankful to Jean, who was also an art teacher, for inspiring him to come out West and for being supportive of their common endeavors. With perseverance Earl and Jean fixed the place up, painted it, made an art gallery in the front and set up residence in the back. “My son Dale was born in the back of the gallery. I delivered him,” Earl told the Beachhead.

Meanwhile, in the front, there was a new art show every month, which allowed Earl to “barely make it.” When he got a night job for the Yellow Pages in West LA, Earl thought to himself: “I’m not gonna do this,” and really got into poster making.

The commemorative 50th Monterey Jazz Festival poster depicts and is a tribute to Shelly Manne, whom Earl wishes to thank for “helping me get to this point.” It was back in 1962, in Escondido, that Earl was selling posters for the first time at a fair, and he met Shelly. “He saw my posters, bought a bunch, and invited me to his jazz club, Shelly’s Manhole, in Hollywood.” Earl went on to design two posters for Shelly, and while hanging out at the club he met a woman who was doing human relations for the Monterey Jazz Festival. She asked him to design a poster for the festival, Earl drew Joe Gordon, a trumpeter, and the rest is history.

“My first time attending the 3-day event, in 1963, I made $1000. I knew right then and there what the formula is: fine art, not commercial, at a good festival.”

Back in Venice, a few years later, Earl set up studio a few houses south of Venice and Abbot Kinney Blvd. He bought a parcel of land with two lots on it, built a 2-story building for himself on one of the parcels, and offered the house residing on the other one rent-free to Rick Davidson, Ana and John Haag, all three of whom founded the Free Venice Beachhead and the Peace and Freedom Party in that very residence. Both the Beachhead and the Peace and Freedom Party operated in that location for quite a few years. According to Earl, “nobody remembers how many.”

By the time the ‘70s came around, business in Venice was slowing down for Earl, and big galleries were coming into town. “I didn’t fit into that package,” he said. So in ’72 he moved up north with his wife and three children to experience farm life in Summit, Oregon. “It’s one of the best things that happened to me – outside of Venice,” Earl said.

He still lives on that farm today with two cats, about twenty chickens, a garden with strawberries, peas, lettuce, rhubarb, carrots and much more. The farm is so big that most of it is a forest with a river running through it. And yes, there are bridges under big trees, with chairs and tables, ideal spots to sit and sip some wine.

Fresh off the boat in Oregon in 1974, Earl visited the Oregon Country Fair for the first time. There he found Peace and Freedom Party members selling bumper stickers and anti-war stuff. He thought to himself: “My posters might fit right in with this.” Within minutes Earl was selling posters side-by-side with the Peace and Freedom folks. After a  few years of co-existence, the Peace and Freedom Party members took off on another adventure, and Earl continues to sell his posters there to this day, without missing a single year.

“I could get bored any time now, but for some reason I don’t,” Earl said about designing and printing posters at 82. “That’s the name of the game: find a passion,” he says. He definitely found his passion. “Art is and has been a great companion for me,” Earl told the Beachhead.

The Lit Show is a Hit – With Suzy Williams

By CJ Gronner

Oh, Suzy Williams. How are you so so cool? Well, for starters. she and her husband, Gerry Fialka, put on The Lit Show every year at Beyond Baroque, where you hear the words of famous authors put to jazzy compositions by Suzy and Brad Kay. Where you wind up being not only thoroughly entertained, but smarter.

In the 7th or 8th Annual (no one was really sure which) Lit Show, Suzy and Brad were joined by Oliver Steinberg on stand up bass, Carol Chaikin on everything (well, flute, clarinet and two different saxes), Barry Zweig on guitar, and Don Allen on drums. And the entire crowd of loyal Venice fans on laughter, clapping and the opening chorus of “The Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit Show!!!!” Everyone was down from the opening notes, that Suzy delivered in full Marilyn Monroe (who was also featured on the evening’s program cover, reading Ulysses) regalia, right down to the beauty mark. That’s the thing about Suzy, she really DELIVERS every single word, making her especially great at adapting such glorious words from authors that you may not have even known ever wrote song lyrics.

Like Kurt Vonnegut, Rudyard Kipling, and Ben Hecht (very upbeat number from the dude who wrote Scarface, etal!). Even Ray Bradbury, who lived exactly right across the street here in Venice for a spell, and whose song, “Bedtime Exercise” found Suzy portraying a sexy robot. A “Venusian Venetian.”  To introduce Nabokov’s ditty from Lolita, Suzy said, “Let’s blow it all to Hell!” Which happened, particularly due to Carol Chaikin’s sax blowing that was so feeling it that it reminded me of Lisa Simpson going off.

“The Great Secret”, inspired by words from Hafiz, Suzy’s “Spiritual Master”, turned out to be that There really is no such thing as sin … so we’re off the hook, boys and girls! Suzy is the best. She reminds me a little of Bette Midler in her delivery, and her not giving a damn what anyone thinks, straight up doing her own thing, and in the vaudeville style way she interacts with the crowd. Suzy is a true mold breaker, though, and fully deserving of her title, The Songbird of Venice.

After a brief intermission, Suzy returned to the stage as a sultry brunette, salting the set with funny little asides like, “Edna liked to be called ‘Vincent’” about Edna St. Vincent Millay. For Vonnegut, Suzy donned a turban and hoop earrings and shook a maraca for the summery delight of “Bokomon’s Calypso” from Cat’s Cradle. All the Venice faces were smiling along, deeply in love with the divine Ms. W.  Nice, Nice, Very Nice!

The “G Rated Bessie Smith of Venice”, introduced Brad Kay of Suzy when she sang “Little Shirley Beans”. This one was inspired by Salinger’s Catcher In The Rye – which she suggested everyone re-read when they’re older. I’m going to.

The very bohemianly awesome evening ended with the crowd singing along “LOOOOOOOOOVE!” with Suzy to “A Song of Love” by Lewis Carroll (from Sylvie and Bruno). I loved every bit of it, and urge anyone who’s never seen Suzy to get there and get charmed by our dear local treasure songbird. Especially because she shouts great things like, “Don’t forget! Marilyn Monroe is always on the merry go round reading Ulysses!” to end her show.

The Liiiiiiiiiiiiit Show was about the most sweet/street, smart/tart time I’ve had in a while, and truly so original. Just like Suzy.

Venice – Where Art Meets Sublime

By CJ Gronner

The Hammer Museum came down to put on the “Venice Beach Biennial” (which the materials all keep calling a “tongue in cheek” play on the Venice Biennale in Italy – Thanks, we get it.), where a bunch of “Museum” artists joined the Venice artists that are down on the Boardwalk every day, to showcase both styles of art. But art is ALL art, no?

There was a real old style Carnival in Windward Circle put on, interestingly, I thought, by the LAPD. Interesting, considering there are always talks about budget cuts and not enough officers to get the jobs done, but they can throw up a bunch of rides and man-power to watch all the additional people said carny rides bring out? Is it perhaps a little bit to help the image, or what? Interesting, that’s all I’m saying.

I’m not that into rides that are thrown up in a few days, so that whole deal was pretty much a bike through all weekend, but I’m glad the little kids had fun.  The great thing for me was seeing the focus on ART again at the beach. On the beach artists, to be specific, as though the Hammer project brought their artists down, they were not nearly as visible as the people crafting and selling their work every day of the week down there. Aside from the big show pieces nearest Windward Circle, it was nearly impossible to differentiate who came from where … it was just ALL art. And beautiful. If you couldn’t get down there, let me take you on a little stroll of the day with me. Imagine the sun warming your back as you walked, the sea salt breeze making it all perfectly comfortable, music everywhere, and the childhood smells of a day at the beach … except with the sage, incense, and weed smoke moments of now.

The day was so gorgeous out, it was a piece of art unto itself. One thing about the Hammer works was that they weren’t labeled or identified in any way other than a dot on a map they gave out, so people weren’t really sure what they were looking at. So I guess it was just look and enjoy.

Big Easter Island Moai sculptures by Alex Israel had everyone taking attention away from the skaters in the Skatepark for a minute. So cool.

Big pink balloons marked booths where artists were being featured by the VB Biennial, but most of them appeared to be the people that can usually be found down there, like colorful pieces by SKY (Stacey Kai Young).

I spoke to Arthure “Art” Moore who was the featured artist on the materials for the VB Biennial, with his Funky Pussy painting as the logo for the whole deal. He was stoked on it all, and said that the Boardwalk artists were selling more than ever, and really being recognized for their work. VENICE was being recognized as a destination for art again, and that was important to everyone involved. I saw plenty of people holding their own version of Funky Pussy, so Moore, with his homemade eye patch, was taking full advantage of his new celebrity.

In fact, we couldn’t chat too long as we were constantly interrupted by people who wanted their photo with him. Moore was happy to oblige and offered up his signature middle finger (with a smile) to all passersby and tourist photographers. Very Venice, very awesome.

Thank goodness Rara Superstar was back from showing his art all over Ibiza in time to partake in the Biennial, as his colorful pieces are a crucial part of the Boardwalk landscape. He too was kept busy all day taking photos with people and selling them a new memory for their home collections, while reminding them that “Love always wins”.

The day could not have been more pristine, so it was a complete pleasure to amble along and spend more time than you normally would really looking at everything. The bright sunny mood was infectious, and people were open and friendly and into it. One of those days like what could be bad.

All the art looked great against such a beautiful beachy background, that it made you want to get a piece from everyone you passed by. I made a lot of notes on who to return to when I need a perfectly Venice gift for someone. I think a lot of that was going on, really. What better souvenir to bring someone back than a piece of art from someone most likely painting it right there off the sand?

There were street performers and Hammer performers (none of whom did I see all day), and I was stoked to get my own little rap from Dr. Geek … Hey, Blondie, I like the way you wear your laundry … Rad.

Ibrahim was performing in full voice and drums down by the Venice Bistro, and it gave the day a wonderfully authentic soundtrack of badassness.

Art showed up in all mediums, from paintings to jewelry to crazy little heads of figures from Bob Marley to Wilma Flintstone, if that was your thing.

Humor was everywhere – also very Venice – as even the Funky Pussy official materials were pretty funny. Some guys were hawking “Official Bum signs – For just 1 dollar you can own your own bum sign!” yelled some very official looking gentlemen who had made funny cardboard signs for your purchasing pleasure. They wouldn’t let me take a photo. Of course.

I was just beaming all day at how fun and cool life can be, especially here in Venice. I think the best thing I overheard all day was from a middle aged couple – clearly tourists -  walking down the Boardwalk. The man said, “I think we’re going the wrong way.” The woman smiled and said, “I think we’re in the right place to be going the wrong way.

Exactly. She got it. I get it. In that moment, we got each other. And that’s what days like these are all about.

William Attaway Featured Artist

By CJ Gronner

The Other Venice Film Festival is honoring William Attaway as its Featured Artist during all the screenings at Beyond Baroque (October 13-16th) so I thought it was about time I and We got to know a little bit more about the man behind a lot of the art that we see in Venice every day.

Known around town as simply “Attaway”, he is probably best known in these parts for his beautiful mosaic column looking out over The Breakwater (by the beach park for kids next to the Police Station), creating a circle of calm amid the Boardwalk madness.

Born in New York to artist parents (and Grandparents – his Grandfather designed the interiors of Radio City Music Hall), Attaway took after them, and was always an artist himself. They were a black and white family and in the early 60′s with all the assassinations, it could be a scary time for bi-racial families, so Attaway’s family moved to Barbados, where they lived “the simple life” until he was 13. Attaway always loved to draw, and spent many of his days watching men make pottery in kilns built right into the side of Barbados’ Chalky Mountain. This was mainly to escape the wrath of a hard core Grandma, but his love of clay was discovered during those long afternoons of observation.

The family re-located to L.A. for his Dad’s work, and soon young Attaway was working as a 16 year-old assistant to Brian Scheller at a ceramic studio called The Pot Farm (now called the Clayhouse) in Santa Monica. After blowing up the kiln on his first day – literally – Attaway worked extra hard to learn all he could about ceramics. His pots grew bigger and bigger, as “there is no limit to clay”.

Attaway came down to Venice a lot to skateboard, and soon decided to drop out of high school (in 10th grade) to go in on an art studio with his friend. His Dad said he could if he really meant it and created a body of work. “So I did.” He sold out every community art show he entered, and walked around with a bunch of cash in his pocket as an 18 year old artist. A good time in 80′s Venice.

The art continued to expand as Attaway began to think of his sculptures more architectually, influenced by Gaudi, and he felt the urge to create something that hadn’t been done before. When plans for a Venice Arts Mecca school at the beach (where he was going to teach ceramics) fell through, Attaway applied to be the artist to create a work at the site of the former Venice Pavilion. The architect for the area had been looking at Attaway’s columns done for the Pomona Metro Station when the news came in that Gratefuk Dead guitaristJerry Garcia had died. The guy had been close to Garcia and was very upset, and took it as a sign that he should give his blessing to Attaway doing the art. Over 500 applicants, down to 8 finalists, and Attaway walked in to give his presentation right after Robert Graham had given his. But Attaway didn’t even have to finish his whole spiel, as they agreed with him right off that, “I knew what should happen here. I grew up here.”

From 1995-2000, with an entire year on physical labor alone, the 25 foot beach column was brought to life. Through the hard work of two people – Attaway and his best friend, Kenny Roberts – 5 tons of clay, 25,000 gallons of cement, and lots of short ribs between them and the Filipino security guard, the column was finished and “It’s a dream come true.” To have a signature piece of Venice art of his own making in his own backyard, in what his kids now call “Papa’s Park” truly is the kind of gratification any artist would aspire to. He does say it was not a pleasure to work with the City, and that things really came together in a great example of community over bureaucracy to get the project completed.

That community is the same thing that has kept Attaway in Venice all these years. “There is a love of family here, and a love of art that has kept Abbot Kinney’s vision intact. Venice still resonates with that intention.” Of course, Attaway has seen the changes we all have, but as he sees it, “Venice was a scary place, you had to watch how you walked, there were major shoot-outs you would not believe right in front of here, crack trucks, gang murders, people were literally giving away their mortgages,” so the fact that I didn’t even think about all that when I came to see him is actually a really big improvement.

“It’s not gentrification that splits us apart, it’s War-ification. How our money is spent, what programs get funded … war over art, greed and instant gratification … not looking at the big picture … The more fighting that goes on outside, the more goes on inside.” In order to combat that, Attaway feels that people need to stand up and revolt. How can everyday people do that? “People don’t know how to wait for their food to grow anymore. You can grow your own food. You can drink lots of water. You can ride bikes and not use cars.”

To that end, Attaway’s new series of paintings is called “Gardens”, and his favorite place to have coffee in Venice is in his own garden. He thinks there should be signs when you enter Venice that say, “When you enter Venice, Bikes have right of way”. There should be vacuums in the alleys so you can suck up the glass and stuff so everyone doesn’t puncture their tires. There should be naked Police. Naked Police will stop violence, people would just take one look at them and stop.” We talked about Cityhood for Venice, which he’s all for and said, “Venice IS the original Hood City, so, yeah. Everyone who goes to Disneyland comes to Venice the next day for free to chill, so we should be getting more than the 1 percentfrom the City Of L.A.”

Attaway thinks that Venice is a place “where a lot of people have made their lifestyle dreams come true.” From skating back in the day with Tony Alva, having the dream of a skatepark on the beach come true, they MADE that happen. From a mailman who does his route and then goes fishing every night on the pier, he MADE that happen. “Look at the drum circle – I call it the Chaos Circle – The Boardwalk is the end of the Earth. I love it.”

You can see Attaway cruising around on his bike: Getting food at the La Isla Bonita taco truck by Gold’s Gym that he did mosaics for. Eating at Axe. or Danny’s Deli for matzo ball soup, or James Beach for chocolate souffle. Or late-night octopus and martinis at Hal’s (”I want my art hung in Hal’s when I grow up”). Drinking at Venice Ale House or Oscar’s (”the #1 new hot spot”).

You can see Attaway’s art all over town (The Column. Mosaics on beach bathrooms. Mosaic at Tabor Courts VCHC. Etc…Etc..), see art documentaries on him by his friend, Venice local Christopher Gallo, or just go by 334 Sunset on Saturday or Sunday and see if a Flying Man statue is outside. That means you can go in and see his art works in progress. There might be musician friends playing, there might be a chef friend cooking up a feast, and “What happens, happens.”

As true a Venice statement as any I’ve heard.

Sher-ruff of Venice

By Calvin

New Self Arrest Ordinance

An amendment of the private persons arrest law 68.007.1069: any known human being within the city limits of L.A. County, State of California can act to arrest oneself for violation of the U.S. Constitution, California Constitution, all the treaties ratified by Congress and all other laws that protect the well-being of the person.

While prowling the streets of Venice Beach one rain-soaked winter’s night. Officers Boozefling and Spinner decide to shakedown a man sleeping on the sidewalk at 8:59:57 PM. – three seconds before the Jones Settlement takes effect at 9 pm every night.The person they decide to pounce upon is the well known Peace and Justice personality David FuzzyHead. Officer Boozefling yells out, “we’re going to arrest you for sleeping on the sidewalk.” Spinner screams, “stand up and spread”um hands against the wall.”

Fuzzyhead and a man on the sidewalk start singing, (Just like the old IWW.) the underground hit arrest yourself.

Sung to the R&B classic

arrest yourself   na na na
arrest yourselves   na na na
If you can’t arrest yourself
Then no one else will give a hoooot
So arrest yourself   na na na

Boozefling orders the two to stop singing that subversive song or she is going to send them down to the 77th division and lock them up. Fuzzyhead knowing the law of the land ,sites the brand new self arrest ordinance.at 9:03 PM Officer Spinner says to Officer Boozefling your violating ordinace 68.007.1969. Boozefling takes her handcuffs out and hands them to officer Spinner.Put these on Officer Spinner and not to tight I am placing myself under arrest for violating Mr. Fuzzyheads human rights.Officer Spinner says she is an accomplice to the crime and places herself under arrest.The two Officers ask Mr. Fuzzyhead if he has a current drivers license. Could he please drive them both down to the 77th police division so they could be booked in and charged with the violation.

arrest yourself na na na
arrest yourselves na na na

 

Profile: Venice Singer Simone White

By Erica Snowlake

Introducing Simone White, she who wanders whither and hither around the world, charming audiences with her (encore!) prodigious gifts of singing, songwriting, and fine guitar playing. Our lithe lovely mingles the tradition of the bard (wandering) and the chanteuse (crooning) with a voice evoking the honey-dripping bird tribes of Hawaii while boldly upholding the enlightened craftfulness of a female Dylan. It’s in her genes, with a folk-singing Mother, light-sculpture artist Dad, and grandma a burlesque queen in her day.

Her inherent whimsey charmed us upon first sight, we’ve been friends ever since. Let’s catch up! I say upon arriving at the Zen home in Venice she shares with filmmaker boyfriend Bob, stepping gingerly across a little wooden bridge over a pond of sparkling white and golden koi. Sipping hojicha, Simone’s happy to be home once again. She’s been touring steadily the past three years, recently returning from a month-long engagement with singer/songwriter Victoria Williams in Spain, playing in chapels and community halls to upwards of 500 people, rapt in pin-dropping silence as she delivers songs from her new CD “Yakiimo” (delicious mountain sweet potato in Japanese). Raving of the pleasures of playing in Europe (Portugal, Basque Country, France, Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, Denmark, Womad and Green Man festivals in the UK, Scotland, Ireland) and overseas in Japan, she expresses gratefulness for the respectful way in which touring artists and musicians are cherished, celebrated and honored. Many of her performances were free, subsidized by local government grants. We bemoan the financial cuts of art and music programs in public schools across America, sadly acknowledging the reason behind this country’s current and ongoing downfall : addiction to War.

Simone’s first CD I Am the Man, recorded in Nashville, features a peace brigade of anti-war tunes, including “The American War” “Great Imperialistic State” and “We Used to Stand So Tall”, reflecting her intense disillusion with the Bush administration (I recall flowing tears while listening to the latter). She is especially touched by the appreciation German audiences demonstrate for her political songs, encouraging her to continue playing them, even as Obama has since (supposedly) replaced “the greater evil”. “Why am I still haranguing America?” she ponders, while in the next moment quietly affirming “the wars are continuing….”

She shares an emotional moment she experienced in Japan, breaking down while facing the giant Kuan Yin (the Goddess of Compassion) statue marking the memorial of the Temple of the Fallen Soldiers of WWII (or the Pacific War, as they term it). It is here in Japan she first hears the haunting, atonal prayer of the Yakiimo man, praising his wares of roasted yams warming in a hand-held cart he wheels thru alleys and narrow streets. Though the cart has been mostly replaced by trucks and the nostalgic cry with recordings, the heart of the old-fashioned original inspired the title track of her CD, a beautiful rendition of the call her Japanese fans say evokes childhood memories of reverently holding the mouth-watering offering. We joke about our past lives, as Simone reckons “the parallel times happening all at once” and how matter-of-factly such beliefs are held by the people she’s met in India and Japan.

Our thoughts turn to Venice, fragrant with Spring jasmines and magnolias blossoming in every garden. Simone enjoys riding her bicycle along the ocean, finding spaces with “nothing to buy” healing for the soul. She supports the Venice Farmer’s Market every Friday, across the public library on Venice Blvd. and Rawesome Foods, an organic membership club at 665 Rose. She’s disappointed with people trashing Venice, especially when “everyone knows better littering here eventually winds up polluting the ocean.” She takes responsibility in caring for our home seriously, citing the fact the 100 million ton garbage patch, ninety percent plastic, floating in the North Pacific Gyre, is made up of individual purchases. Her gentle admonishments takes a whimsical approach as she suggests people wanting to throw something down upon the earth might find a creative release in composting, an art Simone and Bob maintain wherever they live (it’s easy to do!) She likens co-creating the new black dirt rich with worms pure alchemy, the sensation of being part of the cycle of life to turning lead into gold.

Before we part, we feed Bootchii, the mama squirrel who lives in the giant palm tree, walnuts, while listening to Simone’s joyful cover of Victoria Williams “You Are Loved”. She mentions seeing “Love is the Change” graffiti on Rose Avenue. I think she sees love everywhere.

To hear “Yakiimo” and a listing of Simone’s upcoming shows: www.simonewhite.com

Profile: Venice Activist Ivonne Guzman

By Krista Schwimmer

With even more homeless people living on the streets, it is inspiring to meet and talk with Ivonne Guzman, CEO of “Reach for the Top,” a federally tax-exempt, non-profit organization. Located in Venice since 2005, this organization is dedicated to housing the homeless, as well as distributing food to the community itself.

To accomplish their main mission of housing the homeless, they have purchased two properties: a triplex and a single family home, allowing them to have 4 different households. Two of these households hold all men; one, a mix of men and women; and the fourth houses families. Due to the high cost of real estate in Venice, both households are outside of Venice itself. The people they serve, however, are from the Venice community.

Ivonne is a passionate and enthusiastic member of the Venice Community. She came to Venice with her parents when she was five and has lived on the same block since, her parents having purchased several properties together. Although she did not plan on becoming involved in “Reach for the Top”, she believes in” divine intervention, divine path”. This is the path she has been put on.

What is amazing about this program is that not only does it provide shelter for anyone needing it – people ranging from the very educated to those coming out of prison – but it helps them gather the tools to then move on to permanent housing. Some of this is accomplished with the help of the Department of Social Services that started a private housing program 2 years ago. This allows for some basic funds for each individual. The rest is accomplished through the contributions of the household folks themselves. Everyone contributes in someway. There is no such thing as a free ride.

Although they do not keep statistics, Ivonne says the program is very successful. The average stay is between 9 and 12 months. They can stay up to 24 months. “The truth is, “ Ivonne declares,  “I don’t kick anyone out unless they are bad, meaning they are causing problems for everyone else. Then, they have to go.” She says they are particularly good at keeping clients from returning to crime; and recently, she helped a single father with amazing computer skills obtain a job at NASA. Now, he is looking for a home here in Venice.

Currently, what keeps Ivonne motivated and excited is the new facility in the works that would add 27 new beds for moms and children only. “It’s really sad,” Ivonne bemoans “when you see young kids out there with babies.”  There are some funds already allocated for this facility. They are working on developing a site for it in the West Adams District.

Ivonne has a lot of dreams. She dreams of developing affordable housing here in Venice; of greening throughout the City itself; and of employment development. All of this takes will, money and most of all time – “time and a good team”, she exclaims.

Towards the end of our interview, Ivonne announces that she has decided to run for office in the Neighborhood Council. “I’m scared to death; but by the same token, I just feel that it is time to – when I was younger we would have parades for things like Cinqo de Mayo.  The people were more united. We need to go back to that more, to people holding hands and saying we’re not going to take this anymore. We don’t want to be known as the persecutors of the people, just because you don’t have a place to live.”

It is people like Ivonne – with her compassion, commitment, and sense of community – that give Venice soul. If Venice is to truly be, as Ivonne herself believes, “the heartbeat of Los Angeles,” then we must support her and others like her even more than ever.

On the Boardwalk – Treasure Maps

By Ian Lovett

We start the walk back up 20th Pl. “I’m looking for a dresser, for my van,” Roger says.  “Hopefully closer to Rose.” We don’t touch anything on this street. Most of the dumpster lids here hang open, raided of anything of potential value. Some of the worst crack addicts hang out on this block, he says. But he still walks by, just to check.

We wind up Pacific, down 19th, up Speedway. He doesn’t even touch anything til we get to 18th Pl—presumably out of the crack addicts’ territory.  He opens the blue recycling containers looking for reading material.  Usually, a glance is enough—he lifts the blue plastic lid with one hand, leans forward, and gently lowers the lid again.  Occasionally, he reaches in, rearranging the cardboard or plastic bottles on top to see if there’s a magazine below, or removing a few glossy pages only to find a catalogue, not a New Yorker.

He leaves the trash containers beside the recycling untouched, but does lift the big metal dumpsters’ plastic lids—raising them with one hand, just as he does with the blue containers, peering in, very, very occasionally reaching his other hand inside to inspect something.  “I don’t like to dig around in there too much,” he says.

I lift lids, too.  I grab the handle between my thumb and forefinger, raising it up, peering in.  If it looks like there’s something of interest, I’ll reach inside, unlearning a gamut of childhood lessons to reach my hands into strangers’ trash.  I don’t want him to feel squeamish because I’m here—this is his livelihood, after all.  Yesterday, he took a trip up to Santa Monica to collect palm tree bark, to make treasure maps for tourists.  Early this morning, he collected shells on the beach—to make jewelry, or maybe to bury as treasure. And now, the recycling.

We keep winding our way back towards the lot at Rose. East on the even blocks, north on Pacific, west on the odd blocks, north on Speedway.  Roger says he usually makes $15 or so off what he find here, but as we exit the numbered blocks, turning up Windward Ct, he still hasn’t deemed anything worth keeping. On Zephyr, we find a pile of Sports Illustrateds, months of issues some girlfriend or mother got sick of seeing piled on the floor. Roger collects them together at the top of the bin, but decides to leave them there. He’s not a sports fan.

Our first keeper comes in a dumpster on Horizon. “Hmm,” Roger says, smiling.  He climbs up the dumpster to extract the prize, resting his waist on the edge while his torso dangles down inside.  Once retrieved, he examines it—a wind chime, with metal tubes suspended from a wooden blue bird.  He places it in the plastic bag with the shells he collected this morning and we keep walking. East, north, west, north.

At the corner of Breeze and Speedway, we see a kid—maybe 17 years old and sporting a small ‘fro—edging a dumpster away from the wall.  He leans behind it and extracts four skateboards—all without wheels—then pushes the dumpster back flush with the wall.  Roger says hello as we walk by—a polite, cursory greeting: hey, how are you, great, good to see you.  He doesn’t know the kid’s name, but, like most people who live down here, he’s seen him around. The kid helps Vegan Man get his cart down to the boardwalk and set up in the mornings—Vegan Man has a bad back.  I ask Roger where the kid stays. Roger doesn’t know, but the answer to the question is clear from what we’ve just seen.  During the day, sometimes, Roger lets people without their own places leave stuff on top of his van.  Or sometimes he let’s them just come sit in his van.

We keep walking, winding towards the lot.  And we find everything. I actually find a dresser. But it’s wrecked—one of the legs shattered, two drawers missing. We find a woman’s suit jacket. And shoes. And a duffle full of clothes. A couple weeks ago Roger found the vest Scotty was wearing at the lottery this morning.

We find books, a few of which Roger keeps. We find a beautiful, hand-carved wooden door leaning up against the dumpster’s side. A computer keyboard. The box for a drill. Roger digs around in that container more than usual.  “New drill means there’s an old drill somewhere,” he says.  He might make sure to come back and check this same one next week. But for now, we keep walking.

“Cats,” says Roger, as we start up Park.  Eight or ten empty tins sit at the bottom of the container—I don’t think I’d have noticed, or known what they were, but Roger identifies them right away.  “At first you don’t notice the smell,” he says.  “But once you see it, you start to pick up the smell too.”  And he’s right—now I smell the cat food.

As we round the next corner, we find all the bins empty, lids hanging open—the garbage truck has beaten us to the punch.  We catch up to it a few blocks later. The garbage men wear surgical masks and gloves. They pick up the bins by the handles and throw them into the compactor without so much as a glance at what’s inside, insulating themselves as much as possible from what’s around them, even the knowledge of what exactly it is.

What we’re doing, by contrast—actually looking through people’s trash—is incredibly intimate.  When I say this to Roger, he agrees. “Yeah, I get to see how they’re doing. If it’s been a good month, I can tell. Or maybe the next month I see it’s getting a little tighter with money.”  But it’s more than that—people’s whole lives are in here. What they eat, what they wear, what they bought this week, if they’re getting laid, when it’s that time of the month, and, perhaps most personal of all, what they do and do not value—it’s all right here in the blue and black plastic bins they set out once a week.

It’s no wonder Roger skips the cans if a tenet’s outside getting the paper or leaving for work.  Even though he’s not doing anything wrong—he’s putting things to use that would otherwise go to a landfill—there’s still an invasion of privacy involved.

By the time we squeeze around the side of the hulking, beeping truck, we’re almost back to Rose, and Roger’s enthusiasm has waned.  He peers inside, still, but stops digging around much.  One dumpster at the corner of Speedway he skips altogether. “That’s usually a nasty one.” He laughs.  “I don’t know, maybe it’s because it’s near the beach and people like to walk their dogs down here, but it’s always full of dog shit.”

We don’t find anything else, entering the lot with the bag of shells, the wind chime, and four books. In the shade between Roger’s van and Scotty’s, parked, as always, side-by-side at the south end of the lot, a few guys sit around, passing a joint.  Roger hands out the books, in case anyone’s interested. Vince flips through the one about John Lennon, setting the others on the ground. Scotty and Guy begin drumming. Next door, outside his van, Prospector plays chess against a guy with no shoes, carrying a loaf of bread in a plastic bag. Someone must have delivered bread this morning—bagels are scattered all over the nearby grass, where the seagulls pick at them.

Roger steps inside his van and shuts the door. Privacy, here, is hard to come by. This van is the only place that’s his—it’s where he sleeps and eats and shits and stores his stuff and watches TV. Even there, people are constantly knocking on the side, asking if he wants to smoke a joint, or if they can store something, or have a sit, or follow him in the alleys looking through garbage. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t pretend to be asleep or refuse to answer the sliding door.

He emerges again a few minutes later, dressed just as he was before, in a Lakers shirt and the same jeans and zip-up sweatshirt he always wears.  He has no gloves, no mask. The goatee and slightly graying hair and those soft blue eyes are all in plain view.

Suzy Williams, Venice Songbird

By Jim Smith

Perhaps you’ve seen Suzy Williams peddling down your street on a flower-festooned bicycle named Gladus. Just another Venetian with pink hair going about her business in our community.

But if you’ve seen Suzy at night when she comes alive in a cabaret, bar or at a party, you know you’re seeing the Venice Queen of of jazz, blues and performance right before your eyes.

Suzy’s repertoire is so large that you’ll never see the same show twice. Her heroes and musical influences include Bessie Smith, Sophie Tucker, Billie Holiday and Anita O’Day. She also has 60 songs that she’s written in the past two years alone. In any given performance, about half the songs she sings will be her originals.

Then there’s her Venice collection of songs and poems set to music, including “Moon Over Venice,” the signature song of the late Sylvia Kohan; “Under the Shade of a Black Palm Tree,” by Peter Damien, and many more.

Suzy’s been singing since she was 18, including the last ten years in Venice. Before that, Suzy made the circuit of nightclubs in New York and New England, learning her trade and building a fan base. She makes an annual tour of her old haunts to the delight of her still loyal fans.

In Venice and L.A., she sometimes sings with an eight piece band, the Solid Senders, and sometimes with just a piano player. Once in a while, she will perform The Sophie Tucker Show, where Suzy becomes Sophie for a night – songs, jokes and persona. For the past several years, she’s been putting the great works of literature to song in an annual event at Beyond Baroque. This year’s show, on June 16, will include lyrics by James Joyce, Lewis Carroll, Dorothy Parker, and others.

Suzy often works with a long-time collaborator, Venetian Brad Kay, who is a pianist, cornetist, composer, musicologist, and sometimes singer.

The best place to catch Suzy, every second Thursday of the month, is at Danny’s Venice Deli in the St. Charles Hotel, 23 Windward Avenue. The back room is intimate, hardly allowing room for Suzy, a piano player and perhaps a sax player, amid the tables and booths. Unlike many performers, Suzy interacts – perhaps melds is a better word, with her audience. Under the Rip Cronk caricatures of famous Venetians, Suzy belts out three sets per evening. By the end of the night, she’s on a first-name basis with most of the house.

In addition to Suzy’s stunning performances, it’s worth it to go to Danny’s to admire what owners James Evans and Daniel Samakow have done to the place. They sank a lot of money into remodeling the restaurant after the Venice Cantina called it quits. The interior is a display of good taste and a tribute to the culture and history of Venice. Unfortunately, the follow through has left something to be desired. The place has waffled between being a deli with tasty sandwiches and being a watering hole for the hoards that descend on Venice in the summer. Even Suzy, who draws the largest crowd of the month, has to compete with a blaring TV in the room with the bar. The feeling expressed by some locals is that Danny’s feels like the stepchild compared to Evans and Samakow’s other local restaurants, James Beach and the Canal Club.

Quite frankly, it’s been a struggle for any restaurant to survive and prosper at the St. Charles, in what was once Venice’s thriving downtown district. The Cantina had a constant running battle over noise and parking with the wealthy artist who lived in a fortress a few doors down the street. The Townhouse Bar across the street also had to endure harassment of its patrons who were videotaped from the artist’s compound. This writer also was confronted by a security guard at the fortress when he was pointing out their surveillance cameras.

Danny’s is the latest in a succession of nightspots in the building that began life as the annex to the beautiful St. Mark’s hotel across Speedway, which was destroyed by the city of Los Angeles in the early 1960s. For 60 years St. Mark’s and the St. Charles were linked by a second story “bridge of sighs,” imitating the original in Venice, Italy.

By the mid-1970s, the first bar had opened in the bottom floor of the St. Charles Hotel. It was named the “St. Charles’s Cabaret.” Later, St. Mark’s bar took over the space and adjoining liquor store. Unfortunately, the bar’s name gave rise to the mistaken impression that the building was the St. Mark’s hotel, when in fact, it was only the annex. Initially it opened to large crowds before falling on hard times. There seems to be a pattern here of initial success followed by failure.

The Venice Songbird, Suzy Williams, may be the key to breaking this cycle. If her appearances at Danny’s received the kind of promotion they deserve, a growing fan base for both Suzy and Danny’s could develop. If the Windward merchants and other Venetians got together to insist the city close the street from Pacific to Speedway, tables could be set out. A farmers’ market could set up once a week. Festivals of all kinds would have a home. Meanwhile, more restaurants would gravitate to the street. If a restoration project rebuilt the street the way it appeared when Abbot Kinney strolled down it, Venice would once again have a center. Eventually, Windward could be closed all the way to the Circle, creating a park-like area like the one that existed there a hundred years ago.

Who would support such a project? Certainly not the downtown snarkdom of L.A. officials and bureaucrats. Such a revitalization of our Venice might have to wait until we finally restore cityhood (hang in there, Suzy, it might be a while).

But even if they can prevent us from having a geographical center to our fair community, they can’t take away our Suzy. Venice is honored to have one of the truly unique and original singers, songwriters and performers in the person of Suzy Williams. Drop into Danny’s and see for yourself.

Meanwhile, there are videos of Suzy on YouTube, and rumors of a new CD coming soon. Check the Beachhead Calendar for other Suzy sightings.

By Jim Smith

Perhaps you’ve seen Suzy Williams peddling down your street on a flower-festooned bicycle named Gladus. Just another Venetian with pink hair going about her business in our community.

But if you’ve seen Suzy at night when she comes alive in a cabaret, bar or at a party, you know you’re seeing the Venice Queen of of jazz, blues and performance right before your eyes.

Suzy’s repertoire is so large that you’ll never see the same show twice. Her heroes and musical influences include Bessie Smith, Sophie Tucker, Billie Holiday and Anita O’Day. She also has 60 songs that she’s written in the past two years alone. In any given performance, about half the songs she sings will be her originals.

Then there’s her Venice collection of songs and poems set to music, including “Moon Over Venice,” the signature song of the late Sylvia Kohan; “Under the Shade of a Black Palm Tree,” by Peter Damien, and many more.

Suzy’s been singing since she was 18, including the last ten years in Venice. Before that, Suzy made the circuit of nightclubs in New York and New England, learning her trade and building a fan base. She makes an annual tour of her old haunts to the delight of her still loyal fans.

In Venice and L.A., she sometimes sings with an eight piece band, the Solid Senders, and sometimes with just a piano player. Once in a while, she will perform The Sophie Tucker Show, where Suzy becomes Sophie for a night – songs, jokes and persona. For the past several years, she’s been putting the great works of literature to song in an annual event at Beyond Baroque. This year’s show, on June 16, will include lyrics by James Joyce, Lewis Carroll, Dorothy Parker, and others.

Suzy often works with a long-time collaborator, Venetian Brad Kay, who is a pianist, cornetist, composer, musicologist, and sometimes singer.

The best place to catch Suzy, every second Thursday of the month, is at Danny’s Venice Deli in the St. Charles Hotel, 23 Windward Avenue. The back room is intimate, hardly allowing room for Suzy, a piano player and perhaps a sax player, amid the tables and booths. Unlike many performers, Suzy interacts – perhaps melds is a better word, with her audience. Under the Rip Cronk caricatures of famous Venetians, Suzy belts out three sets per evening. By the end of the night, she’s on a first-name basis with most of the house.

In addition to Suzy’s stunning performances, it’s worth it to go to Danny’s to admire what owners James Evans and Daniel Samakow have done to the place. They sank a lot of money into remodeling the restaurant after the Venice Cantina called it quits. The interior is a display of good taste and a tribute to the culture and history of Venice. Unfortunately, the follow through has left something to be desired. The place has waffled between being a deli with tasty sandwiches and being a watering hole for the hoards that descend on Venice in the summer. Even Suzy, who draws the largest crowd of the month, has to compete with a blaring TV in the room with the bar. The feeling expressed by some locals is that Danny’s feels like the stepchild compared to Evans and Samakow’s other local restaurants, James Beach and the Canal Club.

Quite frankly, it’s been a struggle for any restaurant to survive and prosper at the St. Charles, in what was once Venice’s thriving downtown district. The Cantina had a constant running battle over noise and parking with the wealthy artist who lived in a fortress a few doors down the street. The Townhouse Bar across the street also had to endure harassment of its patrons who were videotaped from the artist’s compound. This writer also was confronted by a security guard at the fortress when he was pointing out their surveillance cameras.

Danny’s is the latest in a succession of nightspots in the building that began life as the annex to the beautiful St. Mark’s hotel across Speedway, which was destroyed by the city of Los Angeles in the early 1960s. For 60 years St. Mark’s and the St. Charles were linked by a second story “bridge of sighs,” imitating the original in Venice, Italy.

By the mid-1970s, the first bar had opened in the bottom floor of the St. Charles Hotel. It was named the “St. Charles’s Cabaret.” Later, St. Mark’s bar took over the space and adjoining liquor store. Unfortunately, the bar’s name gave rise to the mistaken impression that the building was the St. Mark’s hotel, when in fact, it was only the annex. Initially it opened to large crowds before falling on hard times. There seems to be a pattern here of initial success followed by failure.

The Venice Songbird, Suzy Williams, may be the key to breaking this cycle. If her appearances at Danny’s received the kind of promotion they deserve, a growing fan base for both Suzy and Danny’s could develop. If the Windward merchants and other Venetians got together to insist the city close the street from Pacific to Speedway, tables could be set out. A farmers’ market could set up once a week. Festivals of all kinds would have a home. Meanwhile, more restaurants would gravitate to the street. If a restoration project rebuilt the street the way it appeared when Abbot Kinney strolled down it, Venice would once again have a center. Eventually, Windward could be closed all the way to the Circle, creating a park-like area like the one that existed there a hundred years ago.

Who would support such a project? Certainly not the downtown snarkdom of L.A. officials and bureaucrats. Such a revitalization of our Venice might have to wait until we finally restore cityhood (hang in there, Suzy, it might be a while).

But even if they can prevent us from having a geographical center to our fair community, they can’t take away our Suzy. Venice is honored to have one of the truly unique and original singers, songwriters and performers in the person of Suzy Williams. Drop into Danny’s and see for yourself.

Meanwhile, there are videos of Suzy on YouTube, and rumors of a new CD coming soon. Check the Beachhead Calendar for other Suzy sightings.

Venice in the 1960s: A Series of Circles

By Lisa Marguerite Mora

Maria was a large woman, a round body, a series of circles. She scared me. But not because she was fat. It was because when she looked at you, it was like she could see not only who you were trying to be, but who you really were. Her eyes were blue fringed in black lashes, and her hair was pulled back from her face, a tight black silk on her head. Though I didn’t think it then, she was kind of beautiful. She looked out at you from those eyes and that face with a sturdy weariness, and you realized that she would tolerate you to a point. And you never wanted to get to that point.

She was my friend, Tammy’s mother. We were seven and Tammy lived around the corner from me. We often played together after school. She wore dresses that flared at the waist and fell at mid-calf. She wore saddle shoes and bobby socks. My mother thought little girls should show their knees. She thought it was charming, so my dresses were actually in fashion for 1967. The next year would be white go-go boots that zipped at the side and knee socks. I didn’t trust my mother’s opinions about most things, but she was right about mini skirts.

Tammy lived across the alley on Paloma in a huge brick apartment building with I don’t know how many floors. There was an elevator with an extra metal door that pulled across, I guess to keep us from falling out. It was a little scary, though sometimes we’d take excursions up to the various levels. Tammy, Maria, and Susan the older sister lived on the very bottom in a two-room basement apartment, which I found sort of depressing but interesting. Depressing, because there wasn’t much light and interesting because the windows were level with the alley floor. People walked by and you’d see only their feet and hear the sounds of their feet in their shoes—a strange intimacy we were privy to which the passerby was never aware of.

In their apartment you had to walk through the front room and through the second room which was covered in linoleum and partitioned off by a sliding door at night and a multicolored bead curtain in the day, to get to the teeny tiny kitchenette that was carved out in the back corner.

This is where Maria cooked. Always smells of cooking came from that steamy corner closet of a kitchen. Once, Tammy gave me an oatmeal cookie in a napkin. Maria had just made a batch. It tasted thick and fatty and not sweet at all. I wrinkled my nose. Tammy watched me then skipped through the second room to tell her mother, “Lisa doesn’t like the cookie.” In the same tolerant to a point manner, Maria replied, “She doesn’t have to like my cookies.” I walked back with it in the napkin to the kitchen where the garbage was. Maria was doing dishes. Unsmiling, she held out her hand and I gave back to her the disappointing treat. She dumped it in the trash under the sink.

People tended to hang out at Maria’s. She seemed to have a lot of friends. Like Peggy and Andrew, who were a couple. They both wore jeans and Levi jackets and smoked cigarettes. They were there a lot and sometimes spent the night. And then there was Jesse who always had a drink in his hand. He had black hair and thick lips. He may have been Maria’s special friend. There was Bill who was kind of beaten down, his face weathered and creased, gray stubble on his cheeks.

I guess there’s always been a fair amount of homeless in Venice California. I didn’t recognize this at the time. I figured everyone had a home. But there were a lot of people down on Ocean Front Walk just hanging out, day and night it seemed. There was a festive, party like atmosphere, drums in the background, patchouli in the air. I thought it was kind of weird. I was a conservative child.

One day Maria had a huge black pot on the stove—cooking smells again. She was cutting up carrots, celery, potatoes. All of it went into the pot. At sunset, she and the Levi couple, Peggy and Andrew and whoever else was around would take the heavy pot down to the boardwalk. Maria would set up at the benches and stand there with her ladle, and spoon out soup for anyone who had a bowl and their own utensils. And people would line up. As word got around, the line grew. The food was there for people who were hungry, but on one occasion I saw our apartment manager in his sunglasses and white Panama hat standing in line with his bowl. He grinned at me. He knew I knew he was taking advantage of the situation.

I do not know where Maria got the ingredients to make a huge soup meal every day. Maybe she asked for donations. I don’t know. This was her work, but she didn’t get paid for it. Though it was serious business.

Eventually Maria and company moved down to the local park and recreation center. I tagged along with Tammy and Susan. One day KTLA news came out to interview Maria. I saw her on our black and white television. She was sitting with Andrew at one of the picnic tables on the beach. The reporter asked her why she was doing it. Why was she feeding these people? Maria could be imposing without much effort, but right then she didn’t look at the reporter or at the camera. She was kind of focused past them, maybe looking at the ocean that rolled and swayed in the distance. I remember noticing her feet, which were so surprisingly small and neat, pulled under the bench and crossed at the ankles. She said, “People are hungry. We’re just trying to help.” And that’s when I knew that Maria was something more than I had thought. Because up to that point I hadn’t really thought about what she was doing as being especially good or noble. It just seemed like she was doing her work. That’s probably how Maria saw it too, because she could tolerate things to a point, but then she had to step forward and put things right.

It was some days after the TV interview. Tammy and I had been playing at the beach when we walked back to her place at twilight. We stopped short just inside the complex entryway. Maria was standing at the top of her concrete steps in front of their apartment. The ladies that lived in the other basement apartments were standing on their steps too. Mrs. Berg was in her housedress, her hair wrapped up in a scarf, her arms crossed low at her waist. They were all quiet. But Maria was speaking in firm even tones. “I know you talk about me,” she said. “You say I have different men sleeping over.”

Tammy and I stood next to each other and we did not move. I wonder how it came to be that all the ladies were outside in front of their doors. Had they been gossiping when Maria stepped quietly outside? Now she stood with all her roundness and her firmness, her hair tied back in a green ribbon, her blue eyes steady. “It’s none of your business what goes on in my house.” Though her voice wasn’t loud it projected across the walkway and rose up between the buildings so that who ever was home on the other floors may have heard her. “I am a good woman,” she said. Silence. None of the ladies budged, but I could feel the shuffle of a foot, the creep of flesh on the back of the neck. Maria continued, “If anyone wants to say anything to me, you can please say it to my face.” I saw a movement from one of the ladies; she was wiping her nose with a Kleenex. The tension bounced around like a blue jay protecting its nest. Maria stood there a moment more then she turned and walked back inside and quietly closed the door.

“I’m gonna go home now,” I said to Tammy who mumbled something and headed toward her basement apartment steps. I walked the short trip to my building, through the alley, we lived on Speedway, my feet following each other down the uneven blackened pavement. One pale blue star stood in the sky and I felt the wind pick up and push hard against my face. Then I heard the ocean moving in and pulling away, a roar and a hiss, pulling away a million granules of sand. It was slowly eroding the shoreline, changing the landscape. It could take years. It could take a lifetime. It could take a moment.