Friday, September 14, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Rituals
Dripping, soaking, and steaming I stand not knowing if my shirt is wet with rain or sweat. Independence Street emits a heat after a mid afternoon shower that makes me question everything I know about meteorology, because in New Orleans it rains when the sun shines. But for that brief moment during the rain this city cools down and the people slow down. The other residents and I seem to accept the event as ritual. Through this ritual act we are able to recognize not only the act of raining, but through experiencing flooded streets we understand that the water leads back to the river. From behind the levees we cannot experience the Mississippi, but we can those rivers of run off after the rain. Yet somehow the river emits a force beyond the walls that reaches into every crack, and its presence is enough to assert meaning into the lives of people and into my life.
Having grown up on the flood plains of the Green River I know the smell of water, fish, mud, and pollution. I love that smell and whenever I get the chance I ride my bike to the river walk so that I can breathe in a little of home. Yet in doing this, the sensation of smelling becomes my way of ritualizing the river, like some who fish along its banks, and others who write music about it. I’ve yet to exchange fishing stories so for now, I listen to those told in lyrics, and played through instruments.
Water flows out of the music here. If you want to understand the relationship between New Orleans and water then turn on the radio or walk down the street and listen through the open doors. In the late afternoon when riding down Burgundy nearly every house emits music, and on Independence our neighbors down the street play theirs for everyone, every day. Memphis is the only other place that I’ve been to with similar qualities. However, blues acts as their conduit. Strangely enough blues are played in Memphis while you can see the river, yet in New Orleans jazz is played even though you can’t. Therefore people here don’t rely on the condition of seeing in order to create something because here the water is all around, in the humidity, during the rain, and through a sweat soaked shirt. It is not to say that it is better or worse, only that each sound is a response to local conditions across seemingly similar fields.
In such thick conditions, both theoretically (i.e., water as ritual and force) and literally (i.e., humidity) layers of meaning surrounding water are uncovered through subtle reactions to its presence. The river and the rain act as both friend and enemy. I appreciate the river now because I haven’t been here when it has flooded, I appreciate the rain now because it has only rained enough to cool me off and slow me down. I’ve yet to be forced to react to it, though I recognize how others have by listening to their songs.
Having grown up on the flood plains of the Green River I know the smell of water, fish, mud, and pollution. I love that smell and whenever I get the chance I ride my bike to the river walk so that I can breathe in a little of home. Yet in doing this, the sensation of smelling becomes my way of ritualizing the river, like some who fish along its banks, and others who write music about it. I’ve yet to exchange fishing stories so for now, I listen to those told in lyrics, and played through instruments.
Water flows out of the music here. If you want to understand the relationship between New Orleans and water then turn on the radio or walk down the street and listen through the open doors. In the late afternoon when riding down Burgundy nearly every house emits music, and on Independence our neighbors down the street play theirs for everyone, every day. Memphis is the only other place that I’ve been to with similar qualities. However, blues acts as their conduit. Strangely enough blues are played in Memphis while you can see the river, yet in New Orleans jazz is played even though you can’t. Therefore people here don’t rely on the condition of seeing in order to create something because here the water is all around, in the humidity, during the rain, and through a sweat soaked shirt. It is not to say that it is better or worse, only that each sound is a response to local conditions across seemingly similar fields.
In such thick conditions, both theoretically (i.e., water as ritual and force) and literally (i.e., humidity) layers of meaning surrounding water are uncovered through subtle reactions to its presence. The river and the rain act as both friend and enemy. I appreciate the river now because I haven’t been here when it has flooded, I appreciate the rain now because it has only rained enough to cool me off and slow me down. I’ve yet to be forced to react to it, though I recognize how others have by listening to their songs.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
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