Primavera and wind compasses

 One of more common ways of direction finding is the use of the wind.   For me, wind has been a primary compass, particularly when it's foggy.    It's little wonder that other cultures have used it.  Even when the wind shifts around, it can be used as a natural direction indicator.

Here in Boston, the direction of wind can be found from its character.   Wind from the north and northwest has swept over the cold arid regions of North America, it's cold and dry, often accompanied by clear blue skies.   Wind from the east and northeast has swept over the Atlantic and the Gulf of Maine, it's cold and wet, accompanied by a 'marine deck' - or fog base that hovers relatively low in the sky.   Wind from the southwest comes from the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, it's warm and moist, often accompanied by rain and clouds.

I often think of the seasons as being the result of a kind of battle among the different air masses.   In the winter, the cold continental air "wins" over the warm tropical air of the Gulf of Mexico.   In the summer the warm air from the Gulf "wins".   This seasonal shift is also accompanied by a shift in the prevailing winds.   The figure below is a "wind rose" - a way of representing the direction and speed of wind over the course of a month.   The angle is simply the azimuth or direction that the wind is coming from.   The bars represent how much over the course of the month the wind comes from that particular direction and the colors represent the wind speed.

Wind rose from Boston Logan Airport for the months of July and January

In the above figure, for Boston, you can see that the prevailing winds are coming from the southwest in July, and from the northwest in January.   But, what about the transitions?    The pattern of northwest winds is pretty steady in January, February, March, and April, but May is the big shift for Boston.  Below you can see the winds in April, May, and June.   You can see that April still has a lot of that winter bias toward the north west.   May is kind of crazy with winds coming from every direction, but then things begin to settle into the classic summer pattern in June. 

Wind roses in Boston for the months of April, May, and June.

Wind compasses are found in many cultures.   They're ubiquitous among Pacific Islanders.   Anthropologist Rick Feinberg has documented the use of wind compasses on the island of Anuta in the easter Solomons.  During the summer months, the Trade Winds blow out of the southeast.   They're notable for a kind of cloud formation called a Trade Wind cumulus (see figure below) the accompanies them.   On Anuta, the Trade Winds go by the name of "Tonga", along with the direction itself.   The name comes from the physical location of the island cluster of Tonga.   This association of Tonga with the direction southeast is found in many wind compasses throughout that region of the Pacific.   The wind compass direction Pakatiu is more associated with the stormy winter months and is to the northwest.

Anutan wind compass and Trade Wind Cumulus (inset)

Native american tribes had their own variation on wind compasses.   The Tuscarora tribe originally inhabited the eastern Carolinas and had names for the wind directions based on their characters - northwest winds are cold and dry, southwest winds are warm and wet, northeast winds are cold and wet.    

Maybe the best known wind compass comes from Ancient Greece, with a similar kind of partitioning of directions.   Boreas was the god of the north wind - his presence heralding the start of winter.   Zephyrus was the god of the west wind - warm and moist, it heralded the beginning of spring and was associated with flowers.   Notus was the south wind, hot and dry, associated with the heat of summer, when the light of the Sun and Sirius were thought to combine to create the season.

The eight-fold division of Ancient Greek wind compass.

Tower of the winds in Athens.   This details shows Boreas on the left and Skiron (NW wind) on the right.

  

The theme of winds heralding seasonal changes is presented in one of Botticelli's masterpieces, Primavera.  The story echoes a part of Ovid's poem Fasti, from Book V, May 2nd.   In it, Ovid describes the beginnings of spring and the mythology associated with it.    In Ovid's version Zephyrus becomes infatuated with the wood nymph Chloris, and first ravages her and then takes her for his bride.   The story echoes the story of Boreas raping the nymph Oreithyia.    Zephyrus, however, showers gifts upon Chloris who grows bounteous quantities of flowers, and becomes renamed as Flora.   The renaming is related to the supposed scribal error of the "chi" in Chloris being mis-copied as the "phi" in Flora, but Ovid makes it a physical transformation.   


In Primavera, shown below, you can see Zephyrus on the right, laying hands on Chloris, who has flowers spouting from her mouth.   Chloris has her hands on Flora to her left.   In the center of the bucolic scene is Venus presiding over the festivities of spring.   The scene appears in an orange grove, this significance being that oranges are the symbol of the Medici family.    
Additional navigation oddity - the model for Venus in Primavera is supposedly the Florentine noble-woman Simonetta Vespucci, who was a distant cousin to the Florentine explorer, Amerigo Vespucci, for whom America is named after.   

Primavera by Botticelli.

The part of Fasti that supposedly gave Botticelli inspiration for Primavera is worth posting here, as it is absolutely dripping with fertility and shows wonderful linkages of Ovid's mind with the natural world.  This is taken from the website PoetryinTranslation.com

Book V: May 2

When Hyperion’s daughter puts the stars to flight,

Raising her light, behind her horses of dawn,

A cold north-westerly will smooth the wheat-tips,

White sails will put out from Calabrian waters.

And when shadowy twilight leads on the night,

No part of the whole herd of Hyades is unknown.

The radiant head of Taurus glitters with seven flames,

That Greek sailors named the Hyades, from ‘rain’ (hyein):

Some think they nursed Bacchus, others believe

They’re the granddaughters of Tethys and old Ocean.

Atlas was not yet standing there, his shoulders weighed

By Olympus, when Hyas, known for his beauty, was born:

Aethra, of Ocean’s lineage, gave birth to him

And the nymphs at full term, but Hyas was born first.

When the down was new on his cheeks, he scared away

The frightened deer, in terror, and a hare was a good prize.

But when his courage had grown with his years, he dared

To close with wild boar and shaggy lionesses,

And while seeking the lair of a pregnant lioness, and her cubs,

He himself was the bloodstained victim of that Libyan beast.

His mother and his saddened sisters wept for Hyas,

And Atlas, soon doomed to bow his neck beneath the pole,

But the sisters’ love was greater than either parent’s:

It won them the heavens: Hyas gave them his name.

‘Mother of the flowers, approach, so we can honour you

With joyful games! Last month I deferred the task.

You begin in April, and pass into May’s span:

One claims you fleeing, the other as it comes on.

Since the boundaries of the months are yours,

And defer to you, either’s fitting for your praise.

This is the month of the Circus’ Games, and the victors’ palm

The audience applauds: let my song accompany the Circus’ show.

Tell me, yourself, who you are. Men’s opinions err:

You’ll be the best informant regarding your own name.’

So I spoke. So the goddess responded to my question,

(While she spoke, her lips breathed out vernal roses):

‘I, called Flora now, was Chloris: the first letter in Greek

Of my name, became corrupted in the Latin language.

I was Chloris, a nymph of those happy fields,

Where, as you’ve heard, fortunate men once lived.

It would be difficult to speak of my form, with modesty,

But it brought my mother a god as son-in-law.

It was spring, I wandered: Zephyrus saw me: I left.

He followed me: I fled: he was the stronger,

And Boreas had given his brother authority for rape

By daring to steal a prize from Erechtheus’ house.

Yet he made amends for his violence, by granting me

The name of bride, and I’ve nothing to complain of in bed.

I enjoy perpetual spring: the season’s always bright,

The trees have leaves: the ground is always green.

I’ve a fruitful garden in the fields that were my dower,

Fanned by the breeze, and watered by a flowing spring.

My husband stocked it with flowers, richly,

And said: “Goddess, be mistress of the flowers.”

I often wished to tally the colours set there,

But I couldn’t, there were too many to count.

As soon as the frosted dew is shaken from the leaves,

And the varied foliage warmed by the sun’s rays,

The Hours gather dressed in colourful clothes,

And collect my gifts in slender baskets.

The Graces, straight away, draw near, and twine

Wreaths and garlands to bind their heavenly hair.

I was first to scatter fresh seeds among countless peoples,

Till then the earth had been a single colour.

I was first to create the hyacinth, from Spartan blood,

And a lament remains written on its petals.

You too, Narcissus, were known among the gardens,

Unhappy that you were not other, and yet were other.

Why tell of Crocus, or Attis, or Adonis, son of Cinyras,

From whose wounds beauty springs, through me?

Mars too, if you’re unaware, was brought to birth

By my arts: I pray unknowing Jupiter never knows it.

Sacred Juno grieved that Jupiter didn’t need

Her help, when motherless Minerva was born.

She went to Ocean to complain of her husband’s deeds:

Tired by the effort she rested at my door.

Catching sight of her, I said: “Why are you here, Saturnia?”

She explained what place she sought, and added

The reason. I consoled her with words of friendship:

She said: “My cares can’t be lightened by words.

If Jove can be a father without needing a wife,

And contains both functions in a single person,

Why should I despair of becoming a mother with no

Husband, and, chaste, give birth though untouched by man?

I’ll try all the drugs in the whole wide world,

And search the seas, and shores of Tartarus.”

Her voice flew on: but my face showed doubt.

She said: “Nymph, it seems you have some power.”

Three times I wanted to promise help, three times my tongue

Was tied: mighty Jupiter’s anger was cause for fear.

She said: “Help me, I beg you, I’ll conceal the fact,

And I’ll call on the powers of the Stygian flood as witness.”

“A flower, sent to me from the fields of Olenus,

Will grant what you seek,” I replied, “unique, in all my garden.

He who gave it to me said: ‘Touch a barren heifer with this,

And she’ll be a mother too.’ I did, and she was, instantly.”

With that, I nipped the clinging flower with my thumb,

Touched Juno, and as I touched her breast she conceived.

Pregnant now, she travelled to Thrace and the northern shores

Of Propontis: her wish was granted, and Mars was born.

Mindful of his birth that he owed to me, he said:

“You too must have a place in Romulus’ City.”

Perhaps you think I only rule over tender garlands.

But my power also commands the farmers’ fields.

If the crops have flourished, the threshing-floor is full:

If the vines have flourished, there’ll be wine:

If the olive trees have flourished, the year will be bright,

And the fruit will prosper at the proper time.

If the flower’s damaged, the beans and vetch die,

And your imported lentils, Nile, die too.

Wine too, laboriously stored in the vast cellars,

Froths, and clouds the wine jars’ surface with mist.

Honey’s my gift: I call the winged ones who make

Honey, to the violets, clover and pale thyme.

I carry out similar functions, when spirits

Run riot, and bodies themselves flourish.’

I admired her, in silence, while she spoke. But she said:

‘You may learn the answer to any of your questions.’

‘Goddess’, I replied: ‘What’s the origin of the games?’

I’d barely ended when she answered me:

‘Rich men owned cattle or tracts of land,

Other means of wealth were then unknown,

So the words ‘rich’ (locuples) from ‘landed’ (locus plenus),

And ‘money’ (pecunia) from ‘a flock’ (pecus), but already

Some had unlawful wealth: by custom, for ages,

Public lands were grazed, without penalty.

Folk had no one to defend the common rights:

Till at last it was foolish to use private grazing.

This licence was pointed out to the Publicii,

The plebeian aediles: earlier, men lacked confidence.

The case was tried before the people: the guilty fined:

And the champions praised for their public spirit.

A large part of the fine fell to me: and the victors

Instituted new games to loud applause. Part was allocated

To make a way up the Aventine’s slope, then steep rock:

Now it’s a serviceable track, called the Publician Road.’

I believed the shows were annual. She contradicted it,

And added further words to her previous speech:

‘Honour touches me too: I delight in festivals and altars:

We’re a greedy crowd: we divine beings.

Often, through their sins, men render the gods hostile,

And, fawning, offer a sacrifice for their crimes:

Often I’ve seen Jupiter, about to hurl his lightning,

Draw back his hand, when offered a gift of incense.

But if we’re ignored, we avenge the injury

With heavy penalties, and our anger passes all bounds.

Remember Meleager, burnt up by distant flames:

The reason, because Diana’s altar lacked its fires.

Remember Agamemnon: the same goddess becalmed the fleet:

A virgin, yet still she twice avenged her neglected hearth.

Wretched Hippolytus, you wished you’d worshipped Venus,

When your terrified horses were tearing you apart.

It would take too long to tell of neglect punished by loss.

I too was once neglected by the Roman Senate.

What to do, how to show my indignation?

What punishment to exact for the harm done me?

Gloomily, I gave up my office. I ceased to protect

The countryside, cared nothing for fruitful gardens:

The lilies drooped: you could see the violets fade,

And the petals of the purple crocus languished.

Often Zephyr said: ‘Don’t destroy your dowry.’

But my dowry was worth nothing to me.

The olives were in blossom: wanton winds hurt them:

The wheat was ripening: hail blasted the crops:

The vines were promising: skies darkened from the south,

And the leaves were brought down by sudden rain.

I didn’t wish it so: I’m not cruel in my anger,

But I neglected to drive away these ills.

The Senate convened, and voted my godhead

An annual festival, if the year proved fruitful.

I accepted their vow. The consuls Laenas

And Postumius celebrated these games of mine.

I was going to ask why there’s greater

Wantonness in her games, and freer jests,

But it struck me that the goddess isn’t strict,

And the gifts she brings are agents of delight.

The drinker’s brow’s wreathed with sewn-on garlands,

And a shower of roses hides the shining table:

The drunken guest dances, hair bound with lime-tree bark,

And unaware employs the wine’s purest art:

The drunken lover sings at beauty’s harsh threshold,

And soft garlands crown his perfumed hair.

Nothing serious for those with garlanded brow,

No running water’s drunk, when crowned with flowers:

While your stream, Achelous, was free of wine,

No one as yet cared to pluck the rose.

Bacchus loves flowers: you can see he delights

In a crown, from Ariadne’s chaplet of stars.

The comic stage suits her: she’s never: believe me,

Never been counted among the tragic goddesses.

The reason the crowd of whores celebrate these games

Is not a difficult one for us to discover.

The goddess isn’t gloomy, she’s not high-flown,

She wants her rites to be open to the common man,

And warns us to use life’s beauty while it’s in bloom:

The thorn is spurned when the rose has fallen.

Why is it, when white robes are handed out for Ceres,

Flora’s neatly dressed in a host of colours?

Is it because the harvest’s ripe when the ears whiten,

But flowers are of every colour and splendour?

She nods, and flowers fall as her hair flows,

As roses fall when they’re scattered on a table.

There’s still the lights, whose reason escaped me,

Till the goddess dispelled my ignorance like this:

‘Lights are thought to be fitting for my day,

Because the fields glow with crimson flowers,

Or because flowers and flames aren’t dull in colour,

And the splendour of them both attracts the eye:

Or because the licence of night suits my delights,

And this third reason’s nearest to the truth.’

‘There’s one little thing besides, for me to ask,

If you’ll allow,’ I said: and she said: ‘It’s allowed.’

‘Why then are gentle deer and shy hares

Caught in your nets, not Libyan lionesses?’

She replied that gardens not woodlands were her care,

And fields where no wild creatures were allowed.

All was ended: and she vanished into thin air: yet

Her fragrance lingered: you’d have known it was a goddess.

Scatter your gifts, I beg you, over my breast,

So Ovid’s song may flower forever.