Paint

New Orleans existed before anyone knew it as New Orleans, before time and man claimed it. I can not avoid thinking of this city now as independent of it’s people, it is a city that does not need buildings, roads, or police. When any native speaks of it, they can not describe what makes this home, jazz may be the closest anyone has ever gotten to understanding it, and I am also lost in the middle and as of now I don't wish to understand either. Perhaps that is what makes this place so special.
I drove into Central City on my first visit by accident, and without knowing it I saw New Orleans. Between my home in the Bywater and there, we are only separated by space and paint. A fresh coat of paint on my Shotgun separates my neighborhood from theirs, but in this simple act color has pushed people further apart again as some can afford to paint and others can’t. Yet as some neighborhoods desaturate towards a monochromatic gray, their identities remain colorful on the street fronts, on porches, and in the neutral grounds. While some houses are repaired, others are being repaired, and others remain tattered, residents are not bound by the condition of repair to inform their cosmology. Instead, they seem to rely on nothing. People do not make this place because it exists without them, as homes still exists without fresh paint, as people still live without homes. I am separated by paint yet this difference is irrelevant, because repair is a natural condition and ‘place’ is a natural occurrence. Therefore to describe this place becomes useless since language is paint, it is only a condition of repair, an evolutionary event that doesn’t conclude with any finality, only questions.
The natural state of things has it so that my life is naturally separated from others who live miles away or even blocks away, therefore I can not possibly understand their position as my body can not be in two places at once. Architecture attempts to do this, it attempts at place making, but perhaps New Orleans has already solved the problem. Looking towards this city as a model for architects, the people have painted an invisible yet colorful way of living without intention or dogmatic visions. It is not an organic condition but it acts as an artifact whose meaning shifts with context and condition, it’s residue is the content because it is a city looking backwards to find meaning. In between cracks I have found more in this city than an entire childhood at home. Perhaps because I am forced to since it is a city made of cracks, alleys, and corners. Liminal space is invalid in New Orleans because it aggregates the city and the people, the ‘in-between’ is everywhere.
As a nomadic resident I only know this city as I see it now. Scaffolding is everywhere, repair is constant, and I am never sure of the distinction between what was and what is. But that doesn't really matter here as I try to move beyond what I know into what I see and experience.
What I see and feel differ, because I see run down houses yet I have romantic visions of what the house has seen. I see ornate roof details in the light and sweat from it. I feel intrigued by the history yet I am so hot that I can not imagine building it, and therefore feel disconnected from them, but I am in love with the condition. But that is the nature of place, and the nature of New Orleans.