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I have been, in the past, a reluctant blogger. I am not at all, by nature, a shy or confidential person. That's probably obvious in my designs. I am also not an egomaniac so I guess I've doubted how much interest anyone would have beyond the designs and patterns that we create. Since we launched the knit pattern site last year, I have had some very entertaining emails from people professing to know things about me that even I was not aware of. One woman frequently addresses me in her emails as the "transexual lesbian knitting whore" - I am a 37 year old knitter who lives with her mother and can't get a date; born a girl - still a girl. She's got one out of four; for guessing I guess that's not that bad. Clearly, as a designer of the Sexy Turkey Hat
http://www.catirinabonetdesigns.com/index_files/page0077.htmI do have a sense of humor. Seriously though, I think I was inspired to start this blog because we're at a pivotal place and for the past seven years we have lived in a place that has been a rare privelege.
The name Catirina Bonet comes from my middle name Catirina and my mother's name, Bonnie. We live together. We work together. And for the whole of my entire life it has been us against the world, together.
Seven years ago, on the 4th of July, we moved to Los Angeles, California, Bonnie's home state. She was born just South of here and lived here until she was almost 3.
It's funny how we are innately drawn to the places of our birth as if the wind carries us there, or the spirits call us there, or God guides us there, or.................I don't know. But we are at times drawn.
We lived the first year in a tiny apartment on the trendy west side of the city, just blocks from the beach. An artist friend told me about a 100 year old building in the heart of downtown with huge (by LA standards) lofts with wood floors and brick walls. I had been reading of the downtown development plans and was intrigued. I knew the city well by then and knew the area was undesirable but something compelled us to come look.
We took the Rapid (the city's red bus) across town to Mac Arthur Park.
Wearing our prettiest, summer, "meet the prospective new landlord" dresses and sandal heels,
we decended the bus on Alvardo Street which may as well have been a third world, South American country. We were immediately overwhelmed with sounds and smells that were both intoxicating and repulsive. Women in colorful aprons and skirts simultaneously slicing and singing "m-aa-n-g-oo..........m-aa-n-g-oo........m-aa-n-g-oo............".
The aroma sweet and suculent and the sounds of their voices lilting on like the music of a flute. Dark skinned, young men selling vine ripened, strawberries the size of tennis balls on the street corners - $1/pint or $10/case. Women cooking juicy sausages and peppers under the awnings of corner stores. People spilling off of the generous sidewalks into the intersections lining up for a hot cooked lunch. Throngs of people so thick it might have been a festival but here it was just any ordinary Saturday.
We had four blocks to walk from the Rapid stop to what would become our new address. Across the street from where we were walking is Mac Arthur Park - it runs the length of three city blocks of our four block journey. I admit, I took a deep gasping breath as I looked up Alvarado. The throngs did not diminish anywhere in my length of vision. Vendors lined the sidewalks all the way - selling everything from bundles of socks "seis por cinco" (6 / $5.00), jewelry, bootlegged CD's and DVD's, cigaretts. "Cigarro.......Cigarro.......Cigarro......" sung like an Italian Opera.
Up the street a dingy, thin man with filthy hair opened his Army surplus coat to two passers by who purchased two clear plastic baggies of I can only assume what. The streets were littered with trash that was sprinkled with needles, used condoms, and the occaional pacifier or lost baby bootie. The smell of fresh flower vendors and ripe, fresh cut fruit was permeated by the odor of foul smelling feces rotting in the 100-degree sun, putrid sweat of a few thousand people, and perhaps a hint of vomit hovering in the thickness of the air. Occasionally a whiff of cheap alcolhol would waft only a split second and hint that it might cut through the wretchedness of it all.
Across the streeet, the park was populated with one of Los Angeles' largest homeless populations and sprinkled with families pushing babies in buggies and men and boys playing soccer in colorful uniforms. I would come soon to realize what an extremely family oriented community this neighborhood is. The sounds of children laughing, families cheering.
I am not certain how long it took us to walk that four blocks in our summer sundresses and high heeled sandals. It has been 6 years now and in my mind I am still walking it. We reached the last block which had begun to thin and looked across the street to our destination address. We saw a 100 year old brick building in a city notorious for it's earthquakes standing restlessly behind a small parade of what I would describe as two-dollar hookers. Dilapidated would be an understatement. I would generally consider myself to be a fearless person but I did actually look at Bonnie and ask the question any right thinking, sane, 100 pound blonde female, not packing a weapon would ask when faced with such an option, "Do you think we ought to go back and catch the Rapid home?" It had always been my dream to live in the heart of an urban area. I had not dreamed of certain foul odors and even certain characters in those dreams. My mother had never dreamed of an urban life at all. Much to my surprise her answer, "we came this far. I wouldn't want to miss what's inside." She wasn't being cynical in the "I'm gonna get to say 'I told you so'" kind of way. She doesn't have a cynical gene - that's me. She genuinely wanted to see what was inside.
We buzzed the manager at the gate. Technically, this is a "gated community". A voice on the intercom said, "yup. come up." and we heard a sharp buzz that allowed us entry. We climbed the two flights of crooked, concrete steps leading to the front entrance of the four story building. Crooked as they were, they were perhaps the most in tact feature of the building. We were overwhelmed by the foul odor of raw sewage. Good for the plants no doubt. Fresh roses had been recently planted among ancient palm trees on the grounds. We opened the door and stepped into the lobby. No one was there to greet us. The building interior was covered with a layer of dust one would only imagine in the home of Ms. Nora Dinsmoor in Great Expectations. The metal mailboxes that hung in rows along the walls of the lobby were hanging unsecured from the wall; doors ajar, locks obviously broken. We waited..........and waited.............no one came.
Eventually we decided to climb the stairs to the fourth floor managers apartment. The stairs looked questionable but the elevator looked torturous. Just as we reached the third floor and began the fourth flight a scruffy, hairy, skinny man in plaid boxer shorts and bare feet bounced down to meet. He carried with him an invisible fog of alcolhol, cigarettes, and dirty laundry - the manager. He spoke with the same economy with which he dressed. Not a stickler for formalities he speeled off the numbers of various vacant units and informed us we didn't need a key and wouldn't get a tour. He chased off after a young woman running from him with a small child attached to her hand. She slammed an apartment door closed behind her down the hall just as he almost caught up with her. He indicated to let him know if we wanted to sign a contract as he waved us on from down the hall while simultaneously pounding at her door and shouting obscenities about non-payment of rent. Other than them, the place looked vacant and we were now intrigued.
We were sold from the moment we opened the first door. Totally filthy - yes. But my friend was right - wood floors, brick walls, high ceilings, black and white checked tile floors. Funny, looking back on it now. We had always lived in the suburbs of American cities - new houses, planned communities with pools, parks, amenities. For a time we lived in a small town in a cute little antique house. This was so far from any of that so maybe it was just the energy of the place that felt so welcoming. Whatever it was - it would become home, at least for a time.
After inquiring of the raw sewage smell and being assured "it only happened today" and asking, "Are you sure this place isn't a crack houe?", we paid the deposit and came back to sign a formal lease later in the week. We had been assured that the Nora Dinsmoor layer of dust everywhere was from all of the sanding and refinishing being done and it was. Truly, a work in progress.
We arrived in the evening and just as we reached the fourth floor managers unit after touring the maze of a basement that doubles as the laundry room, we had pen in hand to the contract when the neighborhood and the building went totally black - the city had a black out. Somehow, it all seemed just right. And it was.
My neighbor across the hall was an elderly, black gentleman that was a chef at one of the trendier downtown restaurants, Theo. I absolutely adored him. He had a ferocious, barking German Shepherd named "Bitch" that stayed behind the baby gate he stretched across the entrance hall of his aparment just feet from the front door. That poor dog. I never could call her by her name.
Michael, a tall, dark, handsome, young man with dread locks lived upstairs. I had a nightmare the first week after we moved in and found myself screaming so loud that I had woken neighbors on the fourth floor. It was Michael, Theo, and Bitch that came to our rescue before I realized I was awake. Beating on the door and screaming to my mother to let them in for whatever rescue might be in store. I did not know that I had felt unsafe but I never doubted my safety here again.
The whole of the building was a rag tag family of aspiring artists and entertainers who had day and night jobs as substitute teachers, bartenders, cabaret singers. Some worked technical jobs for the film industry - lighting, sound, construction; while pursuing acting, writing, or music on the side. Eclectic, talented, entertaining - all of them. We made it our home.
We did not speak a word of Spanish between us. If we thought hard about it we might be able to count to ten but beyond that we were helpless. Our neighborhood did not speak English. To intergrate ourselves we spent every afternoon shopping the sidewalk vendors - Bonnie would choose fruits (many of them things we had never seen much less tasted before) and I would fan out a handful of small bills for the vendors to take whatever we owed for our pruchases. They never seemed to take enough. At first they were cautious and even somewhat fearful of us. Occassionally the would slice a fruit they were selling, when it was obvious we didn't know what it was, and pop it in our mouths before we even knew it was coming. "Good, jes?" Inevitably they had a sale.
After a couple of months one man bravely asked a very rehearsed and serious question in English: "are you wid duh guberment?" "No", we answered. A sigh of relief came from him like air being expelled from a blimp. Apparently it made the neighborhood because in days the former trepidation turned to obvious curiosity.
One man approached us on the sidewalk, "No maan in ju haus?". "No", we answered. He looked dumbstruck and then he responded, "are ju SURE?". We giggled, "yes, we're sure." It was comical. As if we had perhaps left one under the mattress and just forgot. Over the next few weeks we would have this same identical exchange with a few of the fatherly gentlemen in the neighborhood.
Owning a car in downtown LA is a ridiculous undertaking. We soon learned that parking was a premium and unreliable even then. Insurance was unthinkable. And the busses run every 3 minutes and 24 hours a day.
We also had access to the subway just three blocks away. So we quickly donated our vehicles when moving to this area. I soon realized that these casual inquiries on the street were part of a larger network of the community. It became very apparent that any time I was on a bus alone a motherly or grandmotherly figure from the neighborhood would take the seat next to me and on the aisle. If no women were available one of the fatherly or grandfatherly men would. The women would smile and were friendly to the extent that one can be without a shared language. The men would sit firm with their arms crossed over their chest and glare at any male lurking or leering in my direction. I knit on the busses and subways. The women would watch intently (they crochet but most don't knit so I would try my best to show them). The men would never even look my way but when either they or I exited they would pat me on the head and say, "you a good girl. you good to yu mama."
I was 30+ years old but I may as well have been 5. If ever it was after dark, and whether we were alone or together, some man (any available neighborhood man) would exit the rear of the bus at our stop and follow us down the block to our building but on the other side of the street. Trying never to be obvious, we got used to the routine they had and would wave them on when we reached the front door. We learned, over time, that often they rode out of their way to see us home and then took a return bus to their normal stops. Most likely they extended this courtesy after working double shifts at underpaid jobs hours away by their daily commute. Anxious for a hot meal and precious time with family and children who had been without them too long. It is a unique and family oriented culture that populates this rare and unlikely place.
The bus drivers even got in on the routine. Initially they thought we were tourists and would all but refuse to let us off the bus on this street. Eventually, if I were alone and Bonnie wasn't waiting on the corner as was her routine at certain times they would scold, "girl, I ain't lettin' you off this bus if yo mama ain't here. I don't know what I'm gonna do with you but you ain't gettin' off here alone. Yo mama come afta me." I would plead, "I'm 30-something years old. I have I.D. I live here." Even they would hold the bus to see that I got in the gate at times.
In those early days, the homeless population in the park was incomprehensible. An estimated 254,000 homeless people in Los Angeles county.
We realized right away that at around sundown each day all of the front stoops would have meals bagged up and neatly placed out for anyone in need. Bonnie contributed as well. My cooking might have been taken as an assault. We also ingratiated ourselves to their routines and bagged up recycleables for their daily collection visits. An ecosystem unto itself, everyone works together here.
Perhaps that is the rare beauty of this particular community. We have experienced a genuine spirit of giving and gratitude here unlike any place else I have ever known. Surprising because economically and statistically one wouldn't expect there to be much to give or to share or to be grateful for; but indeed there is so much. And perhaps because of this, something in my perspective changed by living here. I do not ever walk outside my front door, in spite of the day I might think I am actually having, without instantly being grateful for the roof over my head, my family, my community, and God. There is a world of difference between the interior of our lives and the world outside our building. We own successful businesses, have worked for some of the City's premiere, live entertainment venues, have lived the world over and have friends the world over. The homeless people are not wretched untouchables, they are our neighbors with whom we share "hello"'s and "thank you"'s as well as plastic jugs and occasional meals. The street vendors are our friends who worry if we have not been seen out shopping in a couple of days. All of the store merchants and bank tellers know us better than I think we somedays know ourselves. "When you gonna have a baby Angelica?", "Your mama, she is tired, Angela?"
On occasional weekends and South American holidays a carnival shows up in the park or in the parking lot of the grocery store down the street. All the rides are a quarter. Every child gets to go. In the afternoons, men pushing freezers on wheels full of colorful popsicles and vendors peddling colorful baloons and cotton candy on a stick meet the hot buttered, corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick vendors in front of the schools. Elderly ladies hold court at the bus stops in their colorful aprons with baskets full of fresh sweet pastries. In the evenings they tour the laundry mats to sell out the rest of their days goods. In the summer, kids and moms load up their picnic baskets and surfboards to spend a day at the beach and escape the downtown heat.
...........................I am rambling. I do ramble. In regard to the knitting. We are artists first. I made my living as a sculptor just out of high school for several years and eventually gravitated to painting. My foray into needlework is not remarkable and not unlike that of anyone else. My mother taught me.
I idolize her. She is my only sibling and she had a 28 year head start so she has always been my greatest rival and competitor in all things creative. I rarely know what I'm going to knit when I start. I approach it like I approach painting. I buy tons of yarn in every color and fiber and then knit. Sometimes I start something and think it's going to be a baby dress and then it turns into a sweater, and perhaps then a dress before it's finished. Some things have a beginning and a destination but most of them are like this blog; they ramble and then they just become....
Thanks for visiting! Come again! To see our crazy knitting patterns we invite you to visit:
www.CatirinaBonetDesigns.com
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