Just another fog-shrouded summer day in The Sunset.
Spring is yielding to summer here in California and there’s no surer sign of that transition in San Francisco than the ubiqutous fog bank that hangs over the Sunset District. In this neighborhood at the western edge of the city, summer days are gray and cool with tempertaures rarely breaking the mid 60’s. Boots and scarves are appropriate garb from late May through mid-September, and the smattering of brilliantly sunny days brings crowds down to Ocean Beach, a 3.5 mile strand along the lip of the chilly Pacific.
I have time units->color synaesthesia, which means I experience things like days of the week and months of the year in color. The summer months are especially pretty: lavender for June, a rich scarlet July, and olivine green for August.
These shades are not reflections of my lexeme->color synaesthesia; if this were the case, my summer months would look like this:
Along with the colors I see for the months of June, July, and August comes an overlay of hazy yellow. This sunny tint represents the concept of summer and season->color synaesthesia. It swirls around the months and stains every recollection of summers past in buttery hues. Rollerskating in dark indigo denim shorts on the last day of fourth grade, my bestie Julia at my side. Strolling the midway at the county fair with my boyfriend Mark, eating hot pink cotton candy from a paper cone. Placing white stephanotis in my sister Elizabeth’s hair at her 07-07-07 wedding. I see every nuance of color in these memories, yet each moment is also enveloped in a golden glimmer.
One of my favorite songs is Gershwin and Heyward’s “Summertime” from the opera Porgy and Bess. I love its conflation of gospel spiritual + jazz standard wrapped in the harmonic progression of a bluesy folk song. The lyrics are beautifully evocative of the slow pace of a summer’s day and the natural abundance of the warmer months.
Summertime, and the livin’ is easy
Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high
Oh, your daddy’s rich and your ma is good-lookin’
So hush little baby, Don’t you cry
One of these mornings you’re gonna rise up singing
And you’ll spread your wings and you’ll take to the sky
But ’til that morning, there ain’t nothin’ can harm you
With Daddy and Mammy standin’ by
None of these words hint at the color yellow; there are no yellow objects, no synonyms for yellow, and not even a mention of the sun. Still, “Summertime” is the yellowest song I know. I don’t think this synesthetic perception is solely about chromesthesia, the experience of sound triggering perceptions of color. Instead, it feels as if the season is so perfectly reflected by the lyrics and melody, that my brain bathes the tune in a golden light.
It’s still a few weeks to the solstice, the official start of summer. Although the days are appreciably longer in San Francisco, they’re also cold, overcast, and dove colored. I’ve got a row of parkas at the ready hanging near my front door, and seven versions of “Summertime” saved on my iPod via Spotify. When I walk down to the beach this evening, I’ll bring my earbuds, and let Ella Fitzgerald and the Gershwins give this steely day a sweet yellowy glow.
Ahhh! The yellowy glow of summer!
