New Orleans's post-Katrina artistic revival is in full swing
| New Orleans
When you arrive at the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport and hear Satchmo鈥檚 trumpet pour out soaring notes of 鈥淲ay Down Yonder in New Orleans,鈥� your pulse revs up with a bubble of joy. Then you can鈥檛 help bouncing when Hank Williams鈥檚 twangy lyrics promise: 鈥淪on of a gun, we鈥檒l have big fun on the bayou.鈥� Music encapsulates the poles of the city鈥檚 culture: incandescent art and raucous celebration.
When the levees burst after hurricane Katrina in 2005, flooding 80 percent of the city and killing more than 1,700 residents, for a while there was neither art nor reason to celebrate. Now, however, a grass-roots artistic renaissance is marching in to lift spirits. It鈥檚 found in collective art galleries sprouting in a scruffy section of town and young, indie filmmakers telling big stories with small budgets.
Artistic revival? 鈥淚t鈥檚 visible in the air, it鈥檚 on the ground, you see it in galleries opening, in people showing up for film screenings 鈥� it鈥檚 palpable,鈥� says Glen Pitre, the dean of the New Orleans independent film scene. 鈥淔olks feel like they鈥檙e part of rebuilding the city, but it鈥檚 not just selfless. It鈥檚 also a desire to hop on a fun, fast-moving train going somewhere exciting.鈥�
鈥淲hat鈥檚 happened is an astonishing burgeoning of galleries every place on St. Claude Avenue,鈥� says longtime New Orleans gallerist Andy Antippas, who鈥檚 organizing another collective. The movement started with a handful in 2008, and now there are arguably more galleries run by broke artists on this one-mile strip, per capita, than in any city of comparable size in the United States. Compared with the tepid art market and lack of institutional support for contemporary visual art here, 鈥渋t鈥檚 totally out of whack,鈥� says Jessica Bizer, a member of Good Children Gallery.
In contrast to fancy, blue-chip galleries in upscale areas, the upstarts are bare-bones endeavors, founded by emerging artists in their mid-20s to mid-40s, just as the independent movies are being created by 20-something self-starters. Joseph Meissner, who made an award-winning, low-budget feature film, "Flood Streets," with his wife, sold their house to finance production. 鈥淐ollectives are the way to go,鈥� he now says. 鈥淭he old indie credo was do-it-yourself (DIY), but this new idea has emerged of DIWO 鈥� do it with others.鈥�
The let鈥檚-get-together-and-put-on-a-show, group-hug vibe is attracting idealistic, artsy young people to the city in droves. Like Seattle in the 1990s, New Orleans is now the hot city. The new energy, stoked by outsiders and mixed with Katrina survivors鈥� resilience, is rejuvenating the arts scene, jump-starting it into a different rhythm. Kyle Bravo, a founding member of The Front collective, explains: 鈥淚t was partly the energy of rebuilding post-Katrina and to re-create the city in some way鈥� that inspired him to start a co-op gallery after rehabbing his house and studio.
When asked how art can contribute to a city鈥檚 recovery, Mr. Bravo admitted, 鈥淚 tend to be skeptical about art鈥檚 ability to effect much social change.鈥� He also distrusts reliance on government, saying, 鈥淭hat whole Katrina experience solidified my belief you can鈥檛 depend on institutions or authorities at all. If you see a need, it鈥檚 us filling it, doing what needs to get done.鈥� Bravo's wife, Jenny LeBlanc, he says, called transforming a flooded-out building into a venue to display art "the largest sculpture I ever made."
The collectives鈥� members consider the communities they鈥檝e formed as vital to urban well-being as the art shown in their galleries. Like artist Joseph Beuys鈥檚 concept of social sculpture, the collectives not only reclaim abandoned buildings, injecting new life into a physical setting, but disperse a dynamic, can-do ethos into a pretty laid-back place.
Comparing the collective galleries to public art, Susan Gisleson, member of Antenna Gallery, says, 鈥淚t engenders a generous spirit. It鈥檚 literally art for the sake of art. It鈥檚 all about the process, not the product.鈥�
The answer to the ubiquitous 鈥淲ho dat?鈥� posed by Saints football fans is trumpeted on a neighborhood sign proclaiming 鈥淲e dat.鈥�
The Front Gallery鈥檚 structure is based on volunteerism, artist Lee Deigaard explains: 鈥渁 commitment to bring in the best art we can. You do everything. You clean the toilet, show your own work, curate others鈥� work, hang the show, repair the walls.鈥�
One after another, these artists describe their efforts as egoless, altruistic. 鈥淲e鈥檙e about the artist, not the sales,鈥� says Tony Campbell. That keeps it "very pure," his fellow member of Good Children Stephen Collier says.
Sales of the cutting-edge work are minimal, and most of the artists work day jobs to support their art production. The experience of losing everything after the hurricane influenced this nonmaterialistic streak. Most of the pre-Katrina residents had extensive damage to their homes and studios 鈥� losing their tools and prior artwork 鈥� which oriented them differently after the storm. 鈥淭rauma bracketed the place for years,鈥� Ms. Deigaard recalls. 鈥淚f you still had belongings, you鈥檇 look at them and wonder, what鈥檚 the point?鈥�
The life lesson Mr. Meissner learned was 鈥測ou can lose everything in an instant,鈥� and 鈥渢he myth of progress in this country, the idea that things always get better, we always get richer, and if you play by the rules your turn will come, is just not true.鈥� It was a wake-up call for him and his screenwriter wife, Helen Krieger. They emerged from an introspective period during evacuation vowing not to waste valuable time slaving at a job without personal meaning.
Newcomers, too, who came to gut houses as volunteers and stayed to rebuild or work for non-profits like Teach for America, share the communitarian ideals. Members of the filmmaking collective Court 13 (whose first feature film, 鈥淏easts of the Southern Wild鈥� won the Grand Jury Prize at this year鈥檚 Sundance Film Festival) are 鈥渁ll friends on this adventure together making the movie,鈥� according to coproducer Josh Penn. He describes the collective as 鈥渧ery much like a living organism 鈥� it sort of expands and contracts.鈥�
As part of its mission to grow the grass-roots, indie film scene, Court 13 offered after-school classes to local children ages 7 to 11, Mr. Penn says, 鈥渉elping them to find a story, develop it, and act in it so they could be the creative force.鈥� The collective's hope, Penn adds, is 鈥渢o foster a different kind of filmmaking community than in Los Angeles, with a DIY, adventurous spirit where anything is possible and you鈥檙e not limited by your small budget.鈥�
All those who鈥檝e been through the storm and those who came to rebuild afterward are shaped by the experience. 鈥淚t鈥檚 impossible to say our work鈥檚 not influenced by Katrina,鈥� says Ms. Gisleson. The art, the very existence of the St. Claude art district in the funky Bywater neighborhood where most artists live 鈥� this holistic emphasis 鈥渋s never about us,鈥� she maintains. 鈥淚t鈥檚 about what we have and what could have been lost.鈥�
The spotlight on the city after the storm highlighted its distinctive identity as a m茅lange of indigenous and imported cultures, music, cuisine, and festivities. For a few years after Katrina, artists of every stripe had to exorcise ghosts of tragedy in their work, but eyes have turned to the future. 鈥淜atrina still hangs over everything,鈥� according to 鈥淏easts of the Southern Wild鈥� director Benh Zeitlin. 鈥淏ut it鈥檚 more a force that drives people forward now, as opposed to something that holds you back.鈥�
Meissner, a teacher of martial arts by day and actor/director at his core, talks about rebuilding his life along with the city. 鈥淓specially if you were here before the storm, you see that cultural [progression] of change and growth. It鈥檚 been a transformational process, which makes our work so much deeper, while the interaction between old and new makes it more interesting.鈥�
Now that mourning for what was lost has subsided, New Orleanians are back to what they do best: throwing their creative energies into celebrating. Mr. Zeitlin pooh-poohed the idea that the constant panoply of parades and parties might distract from producing art. 鈥淥ur films are about that. We thrive on that. That鈥檚 why I fell in love with the place.鈥� The city鈥檚 charms, he says, balance his 鈥渃ut-throat work ethic.鈥�
Zeitlin praises the freedom and tolerance of eccentricity in his adopted city, saying, 鈥淧eople just accept who you are and appreciate it.鈥� He hopes to attract more kindred spirits and to inspire youth, making the city a creative mecca: 鈥淚f the kids here were picking up video cameras the way they pick up horns,鈥� he says, 鈥渢hat could be a real way for the city to express itself.鈥�
As young artists converge, drawn by the inexpensive cost of living,聽joie de vivre, and a chance to do something significant, New Orleans is the Tabasco-tinged flavor of the moment. Besides a commitment to communal endeavor and artistic expression, no philosophy binds the alt-art flock. It may not last when groups 鈥� as often happens 鈥� splinter. Perhaps circumstance will slow the director鈥檚 call to 鈥渁ction!鈥� followed by 鈥渃ut鈥� and fade to black.
Yet even if the current, hip arts scene proves ephemeral, the stately magnolias will still lift their velvety, cupped petals to the sky; tinkling notes from a piano will still drift down Frenchmen Street; and lacy, wrought-iron balconies will harbor costumed crowds straining to catch beads from a Mardi Gras float. New Orleans 鈥� that fragile, precious place 鈥� like the Dude in "The Big Lebowski," abides.
