Every era has a vibe, an ambiance, a way of knowing and experiencing that permeates our existence.

It is the stamp of what it feels like to be alive, the pulse of the zeitgeist. It’s an intangible thing, hard to pin down when you’re in it. But its gravitational pull is so strong that it bends history.

Modernism laid down the rules — “form follows function” — that programmed a whole century. It built planned cities, tone-deaf buildings, urban social housing that proved so soul-crushing it finally had to be leveled. Monster homes plopped on the seashore, boxes upon boxes, right to the property line, the curve of the shore against the diminished straight-line imagination of developers.

Pomo arrived as a correction — but it went too far, and the ground turned to liquid under our feet. Everything meant anything so it meant nothing.