Afterward, I wash my hands for 20 seconds, put on my helmet, hang a bandanna around my neck as a makeshift mask, and pack my bag with hand sanitizer and wipes.
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Portraits From New Orleans: A Close-Knit City Keeping a Safe Distance
NEW ORLEANS — Since the city started sending text messages urging people to stay at home, I have been waking up around 6:00 each day as my neighbor Owen feeds his chickens. We sit at opposite ends of our shared backyard and drink coffee.
Portraits From New Orleans: A Close-Knit City Keeping a Safe Distance
It has been 23 days since we were first told to practice social distancing, the now-familiar act of staying 6 feet away from each other to prevent the spread of the coronavirus. In a city known for parades and saying hello to your neighbors, the change is stark. On Day 4, I decided to make portraits of the city from this now-significant distance.
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With my camera over my shoulder, I bike down Canal Street to the French Quarter, passing the Joy Theater. The lettering on the marquee carries a message: “We Love you NOLA, Stay Safe & Wash Your Hands, Be Back Soon.”
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“Nobody’s ready for this,” Capt. Kenyon Hughes told me while he was working overtime at the fire station on the edge of the Quarter. On Thursday, the number of known coronavirus cases in Louisiana soared past 9,000.
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Individual sounds once muffled by the hum of the city now echo through deserted streets. I follow the echoes to their source. I hear Barry Botson’s broom sweeping up Basin Street outside the Saenger Theater. Sean Julian closing the door of his FedEx van. The clicking heels of three Tulane students as they walk down a boarded-up Bourbon Street to make graduation portraits. Then, camera in hand and standing 6 feet away, I introduce myself and ask to photograph those I encounter.
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Though we are beginning to understand how this disease spreads and what we can do to help prevent it, the isolation and uncertainty make a hard trade. Our daily routines have come to a standstill. Lives feel momentarily frozen. Once crowded, early evening streets now carry the air of dawn.
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In this new landscape, making portraits also feels changed. No one’s eyes are darting back-and-forth, conscious of being seen. No drunken revelers stumbling into frame, apologizing, then backing out. No urgency of scheduling (we all have time). There’s an ease to our interaction. This disruption clears the space to connect.
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After a few mornings in the Quarter, I head out in search of the absence. Where are the musicians? Bartenders? The people who make up this city? When income, along with agency and power, is taken away, what are we left with? Who do we lean on when physical touch is a luxury?
About 5 p.m., Jasmine Araujo rides in the bed of a 1998 Chevy truck as it crisscrosses the Quarter. Beside her are 75 bagged meals and bottles of water that she has prepared for people living on the streets outside — a mutual-aid project like many surfacing across the country.
“You need food?” she asks a man walking by.
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“Yes, please,” he says.
“I’ll bring it to you,” she answers. With gloved hands, she places the meal on the ground and steps back. “We want to keep you safe,” she says. He picks it up.
Fifteen minutes later, the meals are gone.
Biking home down the center of Canal Street, I see a vacant streetcar glowing at dusk. I pass nurses leaving the hospital after a 12-hour shift, where each act of care carries risk. I look at them, wave as I go by. I remind myself that while this new distance prohibits touch, it still allows for eye contact.
This article originally appeared in The New York Times .
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