Another Mardi Gras

I survived my second Mardi Gras, now as a resident of New Orleans. Parades raged all week a block and a half from my doorstep. This time, it was a wholly different ballgame. I spent merely the afternoon of Fat Tuesday photographing–the costumes in the French Quarter are simply too good to miss:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To some extent, the resulting pictures were disappointing. The vast majority simply lack panache. I’d already done Mardi Gras before and was to some extent going through the motions. For example, the photo above conveys less than what it was meant to. In real life, that baby looked absolutely and justifiably terrified. In the photo it’s not quite as apparent.

However, I learned an invaluable lesson: photography really is a psychological mirror. I myself went through a rough patch prior to and during Mardi Gras, and spent carnival season in low spirits. The photos I sought out, and ultimately identify with the most, are of people who look sad, lonely, or lost:

I had to stand there looking straight through the lens at this guy (below) for two whole minutes before he got the nerve to finally look back at me. I have to say, it’s one of the more  confrontational images I’ve ever made. But hey, man: if you ever see this, drop me a line. I’ll send you a print.

It was a strange Fat Tuesday. The weather was ominous – tremendously windy and dark, low flying clouds passing in the sky intermittently spitting rain. The most memorable part for me, verging on morbid as it is, was riding back home from downtown, emerging onto St. Charles Avenue where all the parades had passed, and riding the wrong way up the street under that menacing sky, pedaling over thousands of fluorescent, discarded beads. Stragglers stumbled home and prisoners from Orleans Parish Prison, clad in orange jumpsuits and under close watch from policemen barking through megaphones, raked up the piles of detritus that had accumulated over the weekend. I tried to make photos that would capture how this felt, and again, slightly missed the mark. They’re not dark enough, or expansive. And before I had the chance to take more, the cops chased me off.

I thought this might convey the seeming endlessness of the trash and the arbitrariness of the stragglers who for whatever reason were still hanging around, but it doesn’t quite capture the feeling.

As a coda, this eastern-European immigrant man was surveying the damage and was obviously as awestruck as I was. I was able to catch him as he approached me for a conversation. What I didn’t mention was that we’ve talked before – I lived directly beneath him for the first two weeks I lived here while looking for a place, in the temporarily spare apartment of the groom in the engagement photos I posted yesterday.

I didn’t know of the ritual carnival cleanup practice until a few weeks ago. The chief of police and mayor come to the head of Canal Street with megaphones at midnight on Fat Tuesday and say, “Mardi Gras is over! Please go home!” Then they sweep the French Quarter. Those with the energy to party further go to Marigny, which gets swept out at 4 a.m. Meanwhile, the prisoners clean up all the trash with rakes and a huge machine rolls down the parade route sucking it all up. For a city that’s justifiably known for such “Caribbean” inefficiency, they have Mardi Gras cleanup down pact. Driving around today, it’s almost as if nothing happened. There are beads in the trees, but otherwise it’s squeaky clean, as far as New Orleans goes. Until next year.

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