“Call me an idiot, but art, books, music…these things matter “
There is an area of New Orleans generally pronounced to be ‘nice’, except to the movement of local purists who deem it ‘overrun with tourism’.
Oddly, this city does not take well to clichés. Each person defies one general stereotype in an impressive individualist fashion. Unlike the decided individuals, who may have well as called themselves divine with the importance they place upon their own uniqueness, these people seem not to care about perception or their place in the world. Perhaps they are unaware.
This is particularly true for the bookkeeper or store owner of Faubourg Marigny. I hesitate to call him store owner as he seemed not so much to be selling books as to be, well, keeping them.
There is an impressive collection of gay fiction, literature, and erotica that might be startling to those rather conservatively raised.
And we all need to be startled a bit.
Books are stacked like twisting spiral staircases reaching the height of the other shelves as if the room was built of them, not selling them. A small corner contains well-bound gold-lettered collectors items, and after accidentally knocking over a video of male nudes labelled ‘Cousins’ I tried to sift through the spines. I became frustrated and my mind was short of breath. I could not see the titles, could not look through the books, would never know what was beneath those pretty covers. I consoled myself that this was not, in fact, a book store but the residence of a bookkeeper that I had the fortune to look in upon.
As I am not a photographer, my pictures are worth far less than a thousand words so allow me to add a few more. I like this picture because of the chimney and the brick. It reminds me of home, not my home but the idealized home. It is a wave to romantic ambiance as the remnants of the French sail away from that dark port.
In the early morning though, the dark is gone and a pleasant dew settles on the lush vegetation that threatens to take the city. Looking over that rail to that particular patio, you might think you saw Hem in his blue shirt and white linen pants. And a cap of course. There’s a coffee and a paper and his legs are crossed. He squints his eyes in a wink as he raises his cup to you. You think you’re in Havana, and you remember that this is a fishing port after all.
Wistfully,
Yours
wistfully,yours 