Flowers Grow in Plywood Here

I heard a song lyric once about a crack in the gutter where a flower grows and for me that encapsulates New Orleans. The beautiful and bright that springs from the hardest, downtrodden, least likely place. A driving force behind that dark blossoming is her unwavering commitment to art, whatever form it may take. During yet another time when creativity and hope as a unified force are under extreme and seemingly never-ending pressure, she doubles down on turning despair into something that makes you breathe a little easier, unclench your jaw, and maybe even let the edges of your mouth turn upward.

Even now as the oppressive heat and humidity are sucking the life out of everything, including you while you’re mask-clad, walking these streets is still a treat. Part of this city’s great charm is you’re likely to see all manner of interesting at any point in the day, and my sometimes- despondent ass feels the best covid-inspired discovery thus far, was graffiti art on boarded up stores and clubs. Taking up residence in the French Quarter and Marigny neighbourhoods, this ingenuity is a welcome but not completely surprising presence. It is a truly genuine expression of how the New Orleans forces of community and caring consistently offer up gestures of love and sharing with the simplest acts. Of course, street art is nothing new here, it’s everywhere, it’s often permanent and always excellent. There is a Banksy at the end of my street and that’s not even the best example. What elevates the plywood masterpieces for me, is artist Josh Wingerter’s intent to bring something comforting to an otherwise depressing and debilitating sight, as the city sees its vibrant culture suffocating, laying dormant and deflated. The colors are bright and a stark juxtaposition to the beige harshness of the plywood and the misery it represents. The style is distinctive and recognizable. The pop culture references are innovative and contemporary while still tipping their hat to the iconic history that is ever present in this city even if it takes a ghost like form.

This particular stroll was an eerily quiet reunion with Frenchmen Street. It was a Friday, and even with the typical late afternoon monsoon, this street would normally be frenetic with animation and beautiful noise and strange beings would be coming out of doorways. I saunter lazily down the street, never having been so compelled to touch plywood, and daring to see a time in my mind’s eye where this is all thriving again. I’m approached by three men dressed in what can only be described as Mexican wrestling meets Ziggy Stardust. They agree to pose so I can take a picture…..of course they do! The inevitable of spending a significant amount of time here is this kind of wardrobe is cathartic, a compulsion for some, and you’re likely to get to the point where nothing shocks you anymore. And that’s not the worst state to be in.

In a positive sign that commerce is crawling back, some of the businesses that had these plywood gems standing sentry are now operating regularly again, and the art has been retired. While I don’t know what has happened to Freddie and the Joker, what I do know is, for the time they were permanent fixtures they were moving reminders of how joy can come from the most basic and bland places.

Back at home sitting on my back step the sights and sounds are different but still uplifting. I witness a swarm of dragonflies start an air raid campaign. No formation or precision, just whimsical and devil may care, while never drifting far from each other. Then there’s the sweetest and most longed-for art, the sound of brass on the move. Sadly we still can’t enjoy each other in an up close and personal way, but I hope you know how inspiring every note and every step is even from a distance and how you are the brightest and boldest flower in and out of the gutter.