Skip to content

This City Holds Us - Twenty Years After Hurricane Katrina

White Linen Night Group Show

"First Saturdays" Opening Receptions - White Linen Night 2 August 5-9 PM + 6 September 5-8 PM

July 23 – September 13, 2025

TONY DAGRADI, Kaleidoscopic Dream, 2024

TONY DAGRADI

Kaleidoscopic Dream, 2024

hardcover books, acrylic varnish, wood; The New Wonder Book Cyclopedia Of World Knowledge, Volumes 1-12, ©1953

32.50h x 25.50w x 1.50d in
82.55h x 64.77w x 3.81d cm

 

New Orleanians understand that when a storm approaches our city it is important to pay attention.  We have gotten used to stocking up on supplies to stay, or packing up to leave… or just making sure we have enough goodies for our upcoming hurricane party.  Many of us have evacuated enough times to be bored with the process, and in a bad mood facing the likelihood of deadlocked traffic crawling out of town.

 

Watching our favorite meteorologists expound on the imminent possibilities, we have all become experts in atmospheric pressure, outer rainbands, pumping station capacities, floodwalls, levees, and steering currents.

 

As Katrina entered the Gulf, those steering currents become important early indicators to anyone who was paying attention.  Many experts kept predicting that the monster storm was headed to Florida, but the wind direction pointed undeniably back towards New Orleans!  So, with little official warning and horrific luck with our poorly maintained levee system, we ended up with the debacle of a flooded city and totally incompetent official response.

 

Heavy Weather was created from Volume 1 of The Encyclopedia of Climate and Weather.  The wonderful graphs and images illustrate many types of weather patterns and statistics and lend a cohesiveness to the composition.  The collective effect of the graphics combined with the instances of “found poetry” readily encapsulates the chaos of the known and unknown elements we all witnessed and suffered through during our traumatic Katrina apocalypse.  At the same time, the clarity of illustrations and the analytical tone of the publication itself, provide an element of lightheartedness and hope.   

 

For the past thirty-plus years I have lived in the charming New Orleans’ neighborhood known as Lake Vista.  Neatly located between City Park and Lake Pontchartrain, the spacious parks and sheltered lanes arranged in an unusual star configuration, provide a singular pastoral experience.  Another unique feature of this area - each street is named after a bird; Anis, Bluebird, Crane, Dove, Egret… all the way to Wren.  The bird streets!

 

Not only are the streets named for birds.  Because of the amount of green space and deep canopy provided by hundreds of oak trees, flocks of numerous species habitually make Lake Vista a stop on their migration routes.  It is not unusual to see long legged egrets casually strolling through a yard or hear flocks of noisy black crows. In summer months, the gentle, rhythmic sound of mourning doves announces the rising sun.

 

When Katrina hit much of Lake Vista was spared flooding, but more than a few roofs were damaged, and tree and house debris covered everything.  FEMA crews were busy for months clearing the rubble.  And ultimately, the migration patterns of birds and many other creatures were disrupted.

 

All of the images for the Sanctuary trilogy were taken from a single copy of Birds of the World by Oliver Austin and Arthur Singer.  For each of the three vertical columns, I fused five volumes of a vintage encyclopedia set, essentially creating a blank canvas to work into.

 

This was a healing experience in that I could imagine many of these same species coming “home” to Lake Vista and repopulating what I consider my own private sanctuary.

 

As with all of my work, each piece is developed from front to back.  To this end, images of individual birds were collected from their initial source and gradually added into each panel moving steadily deeper and deeper as the composition developed.  One of the organizing factors used in making certain choices was the concept that the birds towards the bottom were more often than not walking or sitting on solid surfaces, while those in the middle were perched in trees.  The upper third of the composition features birds in flight.  My goal was to create a complex texture while showcasing the serene beauty of our feathered friends.

Inquire
TONY DAGRADI, An Apple A Day, 2023

TONY DAGRADI

An Apple A Day, 2023

hardcover books, acrylic varnish; Ciba Collection Vol. 1-6 (1980)

12.50h x 9.50w x 6d in
31.75h x 24.13w x 15.24d cm

 

New Orleanians understand that when a storm approaches our city it is important to pay attention.  We have gotten used to stocking up on supplies to stay, or packing up to leave… or just making sure we have enough goodies for our upcoming hurricane party.  Many of us have evacuated enough times to be bored with the process, and in a bad mood facing the likelihood of deadlocked traffic crawling out of town.

 

Watching our favorite meteorologists expound on the imminent possibilities, we have all become experts in atmospheric pressure, outer rainbands, pumping station capacities, floodwalls, levees, and steering currents.

 

As Katrina entered the Gulf, those steering currents become important early indicators to anyone who was paying attention.  Many experts kept predicting that the monster storm was headed to Florida, but the wind direction pointed undeniably back towards New Orleans!  So, with little official warning and horrific luck with our poorly maintained levee system, we ended up with the debacle of a flooded city and totally incompetent official response.

 

Heavy Weather was created from Volume 1 of The Encyclopedia of Climate and Weather.  The wonderful graphs and images illustrate many types of weather patterns and statistics and lend a cohesiveness to the composition.  The collective effect of the graphics combined with the instances of “found poetry” readily encapsulates the chaos of the known and unknown elements we all witnessed and suffered through during our traumatic Katrina apocalypse.  At the same time, the clarity of illustrations and the analytical tone of the publication itself, provide an element of lightheartedness and hope.   

 

For the past thirty-plus years I have lived in the charming New Orleans’ neighborhood known as Lake Vista.  Neatly located between City Park and Lake Pontchartrain, the spacious parks and sheltered lanes arranged in an unusual star configuration, provide a singular pastoral experience.  Another unique feature of this area - each street is named after a bird; Anis, Bluebird, Crane, Dove, Egret… all the way to Wren.  The bird streets!

 

Not only are the streets named for birds.  Because of the amount of green space and deep canopy provided by hundreds of oak trees, flocks of numerous species habitually make Lake Vista a stop on their migration routes.  It is not unusual to see long legged egrets casually strolling through a yard or hear flocks of noisy black crows. In summer months, the gentle, rhythmic sound of mourning doves announces the rising sun.

 

When Katrina hit much of Lake Vista was spared flooding, but more than a few roofs were damaged, and tree and house debris covered everything.  FEMA crews were busy for months clearing the rubble.  And ultimately, the migration patterns of birds and many other creatures were disrupted.

 

All of the images for the Sanctuary trilogy were taken from a single copy of Birds of the World by Oliver Austin and Arthur Singer.  For each of the three vertical columns, I fused five volumes of a vintage encyclopedia set, essentially creating a blank canvas to work into.

 

This was a healing experience in that I could imagine many of these same species coming “home” to Lake Vista and repopulating what I consider my own private sanctuary.

 

As with all of my work, each piece is developed from front to back.  To this end, images of individual birds were collected from their initial source and gradually added into each panel moving steadily deeper and deeper as the composition developed.  One of the organizing factors used in making certain choices was the concept that the birds towards the bottom were more often than not walking or sitting on solid surfaces, while those in the middle were perched in trees.  The upper third of the composition features birds in flight.  My goal was to create a complex texture while showcasing the serene beauty of our feathered friends.

Inquire
TONY DAGRADI, Sanctuary #1, 2021

TONY DAGRADI

Sanctuary #1, 2021

Wood, cutouts from books

35.75h x 11w x 2.25d in
90.81h x 27.94w x 5.72d cm

TDa113

 

New Orleanians understand that when a storm approaches our city it is important to pay attention.  We have gotten used to stocking up on supplies to stay, or packing up to leave… or just making sure we have enough goodies for our upcoming hurricane party.  Many of us have evacuated enough times to be bored with the process, and in a bad mood facing the likelihood of deadlocked traffic crawling out of town.

 

Watching our favorite meteorologists expound on the imminent possibilities, we have all become experts in atmospheric pressure, outer rainbands, pumping station capacities, floodwalls, levees, and steering currents.

 

As Katrina entered the Gulf, those steering currents become important early indicators to anyone who was paying attention.  Many experts kept predicting that the monster storm was headed to Florida, but the wind direction pointed undeniably back towards New Orleans!  So, with little official warning and horrific luck with our poorly maintained levee system, we ended up with the debacle of a flooded city and totally incompetent official response.

 

Heavy Weather was created from Volume 1 of The Encyclopedia of Climate and Weather.  The wonderful graphs and images illustrate many types of weather patterns and statistics and lend a cohesiveness to the composition.  The collective effect of the graphics combined with the instances of “found poetry” readily encapsulates the chaos of the known and unknown elements we all witnessed and suffered through during our traumatic Katrina apocalypse.  At the same time, the clarity of illustrations and the analytical tone of the publication itself, provide an element of lightheartedness and hope.   

 

For the past thirty-plus years I have lived in the charming New Orleans’ neighborhood known as Lake Vista.  Neatly located between City Park and Lake Pontchartrain, the spacious parks and sheltered lanes arranged in an unusual star configuration, provide a singular pastoral experience.  Another unique feature of this area - each street is named after a bird; Anis, Bluebird, Crane, Dove, Egret… all the way to Wren.  The bird streets!

 

Not only are the streets named for birds.  Because of the amount of green space and deep canopy provided by hundreds of oak trees, flocks of numerous species habitually make Lake Vista a stop on their migration routes.  It is not unusual to see long legged egrets casually strolling through a yard or hear flocks of noisy black crows. In summer months, the gentle, rhythmic sound of mourning doves announces the rising sun.

 

When Katrina hit much of Lake Vista was spared flooding, but more than a few roofs were damaged, and tree and house debris covered everything.  FEMA crews were busy for months clearing the rubble.  And ultimately, the migration patterns of birds and many other creatures were disrupted.

 

All of the images for the Sanctuary trilogy were taken from a single copy of Birds of the World by Oliver Austin and Arthur Singer.  For each of the three vertical columns, I fused five volumes of a vintage encyclopedia set, essentially creating a blank canvas to work into.

 

This was a healing experience in that I could imagine many of these same species coming “home” to Lake Vista and repopulating what I consider my own private sanctuary.

 

As with all of my work, each piece is developed from front to back.  To this end, images of individual birds were collected from their initial source and gradually added into each panel moving steadily deeper and deeper as the composition developed.  One of the organizing factors used in making certain choices was the concept that the birds towards the bottom were more often than not walking or sitting on solid surfaces, while those in the middle were perched in trees.  The upper third of the composition features birds in flight.  My goal was to create a complex texture while showcasing the serene beauty of our feathered friends.

Inquire
TONY DAGRADI, Sanctuary #3, 2021

TONY DAGRADI

Sanctuary #3, 2021

Wood, cutouts from books

35.75h x 11w x 2.25d in
90.81h x 27.94w x 5.72d cm

TDa115

 

New Orleanians understand that when a storm approaches our city it is important to pay attention.  We have gotten used to stocking up on supplies to stay, or packing up to leave… or just making sure we have enough goodies for our upcoming hurricane party.  Many of us have evacuated enough times to be bored with the process, and in a bad mood facing the likelihood of deadlocked traffic crawling out of town.

 

Watching our favorite meteorologists expound on the imminent possibilities, we have all become experts in atmospheric pressure, outer rainbands, pumping station capacities, floodwalls, levees, and steering currents.

 

As Katrina entered the Gulf, those steering currents become important early indicators to anyone who was paying attention.  Many experts kept predicting that the monster storm was headed to Florida, but the wind direction pointed undeniably back towards New Orleans!  So, with little official warning and horrific luck with our poorly maintained levee system, we ended up with the debacle of a flooded city and totally incompetent official response.

 

Heavy Weather was created from Volume 1 of The Encyclopedia of Climate and Weather.  The wonderful graphs and images illustrate many types of weather patterns and statistics and lend a cohesiveness to the composition.  The collective effect of the graphics combined with the instances of “found poetry” readily encapsulates the chaos of the known and unknown elements we all witnessed and suffered through during our traumatic Katrina apocalypse.  At the same time, the clarity of illustrations and the analytical tone of the publication itself, provide an element of lightheartedness and hope.   

 

For the past thirty-plus years I have lived in the charming New Orleans’ neighborhood known as Lake Vista.  Neatly located between City Park and Lake Pontchartrain, the spacious parks and sheltered lanes arranged in an unusual star configuration, provide a singular pastoral experience.  Another unique feature of this area - each street is named after a bird; Anis, Bluebird, Crane, Dove, Egret… all the way to Wren.  The bird streets!

 

Not only are the streets named for birds.  Because of the amount of green space and deep canopy provided by hundreds of oak trees, flocks of numerous species habitually make Lake Vista a stop on their migration routes.  It is not unusual to see long legged egrets casually strolling through a yard or hear flocks of noisy black crows. In summer months, the gentle, rhythmic sound of mourning doves announces the rising sun.

 

When Katrina hit much of Lake Vista was spared flooding, but more than a few roofs were damaged, and tree and house debris covered everything.  FEMA crews were busy for months clearing the rubble.  And ultimately, the migration patterns of birds and many other creatures were disrupted.

 

All of the images for the Sanctuary trilogy were taken from a single copy of Birds of the World by Oliver Austin and Arthur Singer.  For each of the three vertical columns, I fused five volumes of a vintage encyclopedia set, essentially creating a blank canvas to work into.

 

This was a healing experience in that I could imagine many of these same species coming “home” to Lake Vista and repopulating what I consider my own private sanctuary.

 

As with all of my work, each piece is developed from front to back.  To this end, images of individual birds were collected from their initial source and gradually added into each panel moving steadily deeper and deeper as the composition developed.  One of the organizing factors used in making certain choices was the concept that the birds towards the bottom were more often than not walking or sitting on solid surfaces, while those in the middle were perched in trees.  The upper third of the composition features birds in flight.  My goal was to create a complex texture while showcasing the serene beauty of our feathered friends.

Inquire
TONY DAGRADI, Heavy Weather/Singling In The Rain, 2022

TONY DAGRADI

Heavy Weather/Singling In The Rain, 2022

hardcover books, acrylic varnish

(The Encyclopedia of Climate And Weather, Vol. 1 - 1996)

11h x 8.75w x 1.50d in

 

New Orleanians understand that when a storm approaches our city it is important to pay attention.  We have gotten used to stocking up on supplies to stay, or packing up to leave… or just making sure we have enough goodies for our upcoming hurricane party.  Many of us have evacuated enough times to be bored with the process, and in a bad mood facing the likelihood of deadlocked traffic crawling out of town.

 

Watching our favorite meteorologists expound on the imminent possibilities, we have all become experts in atmospheric pressure, outer rainbands, pumping station capacities, floodwalls, levees, and steering currents.

 

As Katrina entered the Gulf, those steering currents become important early indicators to anyone who was paying attention.  Many experts kept predicting that the monster storm was headed to Florida, but the wind direction pointed undeniably back towards New Orleans!  So, with little official warning and horrific luck with our poorly maintained levee system, we ended up with the debacle of a flooded city and totally incompetent official response.

 

Heavy Weather was created from Volume 1 of The Encyclopedia of Climate and Weather.  The wonderful graphs and images illustrate many types of weather patterns and statistics and lend a cohesiveness to the composition.  The collective effect of the graphics combined with the instances of “found poetry” readily encapsulates the chaos of the known and unknown elements we all witnessed and suffered through during our traumatic Katrina apocalypse.  At the same time, the clarity of illustrations and the analytical tone of the publication itself, provide an element of lightheartedness and hope.   

 

For the past thirty-plus years I have lived in the charming New Orleans’ neighborhood known as Lake Vista.  Neatly located between City Park and Lake Pontchartrain, the spacious parks and sheltered lanes arranged in an unusual star configuration, provide a singular pastoral experience.  Another unique feature of this area - each street is named after a bird; Anis, Bluebird, Crane, Dove, Egret… all the way to Wren.  The bird streets!

 

Not only are the streets named for birds.  Because of the amount of green space and deep canopy provided by hundreds of oak trees, flocks of numerous species habitually make Lake Vista a stop on their migration routes.  It is not unusual to see long legged egrets casually strolling through a yard or hear flocks of noisy black crows. In summer months, the gentle, rhythmic sound of mourning doves announces the rising sun.

 

When Katrina hit much of Lake Vista was spared flooding, but more than a few roofs were damaged, and tree and house debris covered everything.  FEMA crews were busy for months clearing the rubble.  And ultimately, the migration patterns of birds and many other creatures were disrupted.

 

All of the images for the Sanctuary trilogy were taken from a single copy of Birds of the World by Oliver Austin and Arthur Singer.  For each of the three vertical columns, I fused five volumes of a vintage encyclopedia set, essentially creating a blank canvas to work into.

 

This was a healing experience in that I could imagine many of these same species coming “home” to Lake Vista and repopulating what I consider my own private sanctuary.

 

As with all of my work, each piece is developed from front to back.  To this end, images of individual birds were collected from their initial source and gradually added into each panel moving steadily deeper and deeper as the composition developed.  One of the organizing factors used in making certain choices was the concept that the birds towards the bottom were more often than not walking or sitting on solid surfaces, while those in the middle were perched in trees.  The upper third of the composition features birds in flight.  My goal was to create a complex texture while showcasing the serene beauty of our feathered friends.

Inquire
TONY DAGRADI, Higher Ground, 2020

TONY DAGRADI

Higher Ground, 2020

hardcover book, acrylic varnish

14.50h x 11.50w x 1.25d in

 

New Orleanians understand that when a storm approaches our city it is important to pay attention.  We have gotten used to stocking up on supplies to stay, or packing up to leave… or just making sure we have enough goodies for our upcoming hurricane party.  Many of us have evacuated enough times to be bored with the process, and in a bad mood facing the likelihood of deadlocked traffic crawling out of town.

 

Watching our favorite meteorologists expound on the imminent possibilities, we have all become experts in atmospheric pressure, outer rainbands, pumping station capacities, floodwalls, levees, and steering currents.

 

As Katrina entered the Gulf, those steering currents become important early indicators to anyone who was paying attention.  Many experts kept predicting that the monster storm was headed to Florida, but the wind direction pointed undeniably back towards New Orleans!  So, with little official warning and horrific luck with our poorly maintained levee system, we ended up with the debacle of a flooded city and totally incompetent official response.

 

Heavy Weather was created from Volume 1 of The Encyclopedia of Climate and Weather.  The wonderful graphs and images illustrate many types of weather patterns and statistics and lend a cohesiveness to the composition.  The collective effect of the graphics combined with the instances of “found poetry” readily encapsulates the chaos of the known and unknown elements we all witnessed and suffered through during our traumatic Katrina apocalypse.  At the same time, the clarity of illustrations and the analytical tone of the publication itself, provide an element of lightheartedness and hope.   

 

For the past thirty-plus years I have lived in the charming New Orleans’ neighborhood known as Lake Vista.  Neatly located between City Park and Lake Pontchartrain, the spacious parks and sheltered lanes arranged in an unusual star configuration, provide a singular pastoral experience.  Another unique feature of this area - each street is named after a bird; Anis, Bluebird, Crane, Dove, Egret… all the way to Wren.  The bird streets!

 

Not only are the streets named for birds.  Because of the amount of green space and deep canopy provided by hundreds of oak trees, flocks of numerous species habitually make Lake Vista a stop on their migration routes.  It is not unusual to see long legged egrets casually strolling through a yard or hear flocks of noisy black crows. In summer months, the gentle, rhythmic sound of mourning doves announces the rising sun.

 

When Katrina hit much of Lake Vista was spared flooding, but more than a few roofs were damaged, and tree and house debris covered everything.  FEMA crews were busy for months clearing the rubble.  And ultimately, the migration patterns of birds and many other creatures were disrupted.

 

All of the images for the Sanctuary trilogy were taken from a single copy of Birds of the World by Oliver Austin and Arthur Singer.  For each of the three vertical columns, I fused five volumes of a vintage encyclopedia set, essentially creating a blank canvas to work into.

 

This was a healing experience in that I could imagine many of these same species coming “home” to Lake Vista and repopulating what I consider my own private sanctuary.

 

As with all of my work, each piece is developed from front to back.  To this end, images of individual birds were collected from their initial source and gradually added into each panel moving steadily deeper and deeper as the composition developed.  One of the organizing factors used in making certain choices was the concept that the birds towards the bottom were more often than not walking or sitting on solid surfaces, while those in the middle were perched in trees.  The upper third of the composition features birds in flight.  My goal was to create a complex texture while showcasing the serene beauty of our feathered friends.

Inquire
TONY DAGRADI, The Dark Knight, Vol. 8, 2019

TONY DAGRADI

The Dark Knight, Vol. 8, 2019

printed matter on paper, reclaimed books

10.50h x 7w x 0.5d in

 

New Orleanians understand that when a storm approaches our city it is important to pay attention.  We have gotten used to stocking up on supplies to stay, or packing up to leave… or just making sure we have enough goodies for our upcoming hurricane party.  Many of us have evacuated enough times to be bored with the process, and in a bad mood facing the likelihood of deadlocked traffic crawling out of town.

 

Watching our favorite meteorologists expound on the imminent possibilities, we have all become experts in atmospheric pressure, outer rainbands, pumping station capacities, floodwalls, levees, and steering currents.

 

As Katrina entered the Gulf, those steering currents become important early indicators to anyone who was paying attention.  Many experts kept predicting that the monster storm was headed to Florida, but the wind direction pointed undeniably back towards New Orleans!  So, with little official warning and horrific luck with our poorly maintained levee system, we ended up with the debacle of a flooded city and totally incompetent official response.

 

Heavy Weather was created from Volume 1 of The Encyclopedia of Climate and Weather.  The wonderful graphs and images illustrate many types of weather patterns and statistics and lend a cohesiveness to the composition.  The collective effect of the graphics combined with the instances of “found poetry” readily encapsulates the chaos of the known and unknown elements we all witnessed and suffered through during our traumatic Katrina apocalypse.  At the same time, the clarity of illustrations and the analytical tone of the publication itself, provide an element of lightheartedness and hope.   

 

For the past thirty-plus years I have lived in the charming New Orleans’ neighborhood known as Lake Vista.  Neatly located between City Park and Lake Pontchartrain, the spacious parks and sheltered lanes arranged in an unusual star configuration, provide a singular pastoral experience.  Another unique feature of this area - each street is named after a bird; Anis, Bluebird, Crane, Dove, Egret… all the way to Wren.  The bird streets!

 

Not only are the streets named for birds.  Because of the amount of green space and deep canopy provided by hundreds of oak trees, flocks of numerous species habitually make Lake Vista a stop on their migration routes.  It is not unusual to see long legged egrets casually strolling through a yard or hear flocks of noisy black crows. In summer months, the gentle, rhythmic sound of mourning doves announces the rising sun.

 

When Katrina hit much of Lake Vista was spared flooding, but more than a few roofs were damaged, and tree and house debris covered everything.  FEMA crews were busy for months clearing the rubble.  And ultimately, the migration patterns of birds and many other creatures were disrupted.

 

All of the images for the Sanctuary trilogy were taken from a single copy of Birds of the World by Oliver Austin and Arthur Singer.  For each of the three vertical columns, I fused five volumes of a vintage encyclopedia set, essentially creating a blank canvas to work into.

 

This was a healing experience in that I could imagine many of these same species coming “home” to Lake Vista and repopulating what I consider my own private sanctuary.

 

As with all of my work, each piece is developed from front to back.  To this end, images of individual birds were collected from their initial source and gradually added into each panel moving steadily deeper and deeper as the composition developed.  One of the organizing factors used in making certain choices was the concept that the birds towards the bottom were more often than not walking or sitting on solid surfaces, while those in the middle were perched in trees.  The upper third of the composition features birds in flight.  My goal was to create a complex texture while showcasing the serene beauty of our feathered friends.

Inquire
TONY DAGRADI, Superman...!, 2018

TONY DAGRADI

Superman...!, 2018

hardcover book, acrylic varnish

10.50h x 7w x 1d in

 

New Orleanians understand that when a storm approaches our city it is important to pay attention.  We have gotten used to stocking up on supplies to stay, or packing up to leave… or just making sure we have enough goodies for our upcoming hurricane party.  Many of us have evacuated enough times to be bored with the process, and in a bad mood facing the likelihood of deadlocked traffic crawling out of town.

 

Watching our favorite meteorologists expound on the imminent possibilities, we have all become experts in atmospheric pressure, outer rainbands, pumping station capacities, floodwalls, levees, and steering currents.

 

As Katrina entered the Gulf, those steering currents become important early indicators to anyone who was paying attention.  Many experts kept predicting that the monster storm was headed to Florida, but the wind direction pointed undeniably back towards New Orleans!  So, with little official warning and horrific luck with our poorly maintained levee system, we ended up with the debacle of a flooded city and totally incompetent official response.

 

Heavy Weather was created from Volume 1 of The Encyclopedia of Climate and Weather.  The wonderful graphs and images illustrate many types of weather patterns and statistics and lend a cohesiveness to the composition.  The collective effect of the graphics combined with the instances of “found poetry” readily encapsulates the chaos of the known and unknown elements we all witnessed and suffered through during our traumatic Katrina apocalypse.  At the same time, the clarity of illustrations and the analytical tone of the publication itself, provide an element of lightheartedness and hope.   

 

For the past thirty-plus years I have lived in the charming New Orleans’ neighborhood known as Lake Vista.  Neatly located between City Park and Lake Pontchartrain, the spacious parks and sheltered lanes arranged in an unusual star configuration, provide a singular pastoral experience.  Another unique feature of this area - each street is named after a bird; Anis, Bluebird, Crane, Dove, Egret… all the way to Wren.  The bird streets!

 

Not only are the streets named for birds.  Because of the amount of green space and deep canopy provided by hundreds of oak trees, flocks of numerous species habitually make Lake Vista a stop on their migration routes.  It is not unusual to see long legged egrets casually strolling through a yard or hear flocks of noisy black crows. In summer months, the gentle, rhythmic sound of mourning doves announces the rising sun.

 

When Katrina hit much of Lake Vista was spared flooding, but more than a few roofs were damaged, and tree and house debris covered everything.  FEMA crews were busy for months clearing the rubble.  And ultimately, the migration patterns of birds and many other creatures were disrupted.

 

All of the images for the Sanctuary trilogy were taken from a single copy of Birds of the World by Oliver Austin and Arthur Singer.  For each of the three vertical columns, I fused five volumes of a vintage encyclopedia set, essentially creating a blank canvas to work into.

 

This was a healing experience in that I could imagine many of these same species coming “home” to Lake Vista and repopulating what I consider my own private sanctuary.

 

As with all of my work, each piece is developed from front to back.  To this end, images of individual birds were collected from their initial source and gradually added into each panel moving steadily deeper and deeper as the composition developed.  One of the organizing factors used in making certain choices was the concept that the birds towards the bottom were more often than not walking or sitting on solid surfaces, while those in the middle were perched in trees.  The upper third of the composition features birds in flight.  My goal was to create a complex texture while showcasing the serene beauty of our feathered friends.

Inquire
JONATHAN FERRARA, Offering, 2025

JONATHAN FERRARA

Offering, 2025

polylactic acid, mirror chrome aerosol paint, varnish

96h x 74w x 8d in
243.84h x 187.96w x 20.32d cm

JonF004

 

Hands outstretched 

I offer to you 

Me

Mine 

Ours

As one 

If possible 

 

A simple but kind gesture 

An offering of sorts

 

I give to you 

You give to me 

Perhaps we meet in  the middle  Where you become me and I Become you 

 

As one 

We enter a sacred space

A safer place 

One where we can extend 

Our hands 

In trust 

In faith 

In vulnerability 

In confidence 

In hope

 

Knowing that when  we offer 

We expose the part of us 

That dares to give 

That dares to live 

That dares to care 

That dares to share

 

This lifts us up

Makes us more whole 

And gives us so much more 

 

This is my offering 

To you 

To me

To us 

Inquire
JONATHAN FERRARA, Offering, 2025

JONATHAN FERRARA

Offering, 2025

polylactic acid, mirror chrome aerosol paint, varnish

96h x 74w x 8d in
243.84h x 187.96w x 20.32d cm

JonF004

 

Hands outstretched 

I offer to you 

Me

Mine 

Ours

As one 

If possible 

 

A simple but kind gesture 

An offering of sorts

 

I give to you 

You give to me 

Perhaps we meet in  the middle  Where you become me and I Become you 

 

As one 

We enter a sacred space

A safer place 

One where we can extend 

Our hands 

In trust 

In faith 

In vulnerability 

In confidence 

In hope

 

Knowing that when  we offer 

We expose the part of us 

That dares to give 

That dares to live 

That dares to care 

That dares to share

 

This lifts us up

Makes us more whole 

And gives us so much more 

 

This is my offering 

To you 

To me

To us 

Inquire
JONATHAN FERRARA, Offering (side view 2), 2025

JONATHAN FERRARA

Offering (side view 2), 2025

polylactic acid, mirror chrome aerosol paint, varnish

96h x 74w x 8d in
243.84h x 187.96w x 20.32d cm

JonF034

Inquire
JONATHAN FERRARA, Offering, 2025

JONATHAN FERRARA

Offering, 2025

polylactic acid, mirror chrome aerosol paint, varnish

96h x 74w x 8d in
243.84h x 187.96w x 20.32d cm

JonF004

 

 

Inquire
E2 - KLEINVELD & JULIEN, Ode to Gauguin's Les Parau Parau (Conversation), 2025

E2 - KLEINVELD & JULIEN

Ode to Gauguin's Les Parau Parau (Conversation), 2025

archival pigment print

large: 35.8 x 48 inches, edition of 3, 2 APs
medium: 26.9 x 36 inches, edition of 5, 2 APs
small: 17.9 x 24 inches, edition of 7, 2 APs

E2808_001

 

E2 - Epaul Julien and Elizabeth Kleinveld’s Katrina experience

Excerpt from “Before, During, After: Louisiana Photographers Respond to Hurricane Katrina”

Epaul Julien

Before Hurricane Katrina, I focused my photography on documenting New Orleans and Haiti. Both are vibrant places, formed by the cultural influences of the French and the West Africans. Through my photography, I tried to portray their shared heritage.

 

On the day of Hurricane Katrina, my partner, our two-year-old son, and I packed one bag for what we thought would be a three-day vacation, three hours northwest of New Orleans, in New Roads, Louisiana. The next day, we woke to discover that the hurricane had blown through New Orleans, leaving tremendous wind damage. I assumed this meant that we could drive home to do the same serious cleaning and resume our lives. Anxious to get back to the city, I drove briskly, maneuvering through thousands of acres of sugarcane fields, listening to reports of the damage. Each report became increasingly troubling. As we sneaked around the winding river roads, I began to feel like a mouse trapped in a snake’s intestines. Then the radio reported that the floodwalls had broken and the water was rising. When I heard the reporters say that we would not be allowed back for three to six months, I stopped breathing—seconds seemed like hours.

 

Although I contemplated sneaking back into the city by boat, the voice of my two-year-old son stopped me. After being cast out by the waters, I began to wander aimlessly around the country. Since I had left New Orleans without my photography equipment, I began creating mixed-media collages as we traveled, using the few photographs I had or could reproduce. In the end, I lost ten years of work, and while the discovery of mixed media collage has been therapeutic, my work will never be the same.

 

Elizabeth Kleinveld

I was visiting my family in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina grew in the Gulf of Mexico and headed toward my hometown. Like thousands of others, I evacuated the city with my family, but my great-uncle wouldn’t come. Soon afterwards, I returned to my home in Amsterdam, heartbroken as I didn’t know what had happened to him.

I called a hotline so many times during the middle of the night in the States that they began to call me the Dutch lady. I posted comments all over, and one led to someone saying that former Vice President Al Gore had evacuated him to Knoxville, TN, and was in the hospital there.

When I called the hospital and finally got my beloved Uncle Jack on the phone, I burst into tears—tears of relief that I’d finally located him! The story of how he was rescued from his front porch in the Broadmoor section of town and taken by an old friend of mine in a canoe to the convention center was like something out of a movie. Surreal.

Uncle Jack had spent many afternoons and evenings on his porch watching the neighborhood and people go by. He was kind to everyone, and so it wasn’t a surprise that someone went to check on him.

When I heard that former Vice President Gore had held Jack’s hand and heard his World War II war stories, I really broke down. That Gore had to hire two American Airlines planes to get people out of there because the government wasn’t doing it was utter madness.

I think it was hearing this and seeing the images of people stuck at the Dome that made me feel like I had to do something. I needed to respond, but how?

My husband and our seven-year-old twins had evacuated to El Dorado, Arkansas, with my parents and eighty-nine-year-old Grandma. When it was clear that we couldn’t go back, my husband, kids, and I left for Little Rock and headed to Amsterdam.  Mom, Dad, and my Grandma stayed in El Dorado, and once we found Jack, he joined them.

Five weeks later, they let us back in.  I was astonished at what I saw. As the plane was descending, I saw roofs covered with blue tarps everywhere. When I got uptown, refrigerators with cryptic messages lined the streets, and the stench was unbearable. I knew then that words alone would not adequately capture the devastation wrought to the city, so the day after I arrived, I bought a new digital camera. Little did I know that purchase would re-ignite my passion for art.

My grandma was the first person back to her street (at 89 years old)! She had been lucky; no water had gotten in her house. Jack’s house had over five feet of water in it and was uninhabitable. While he substituted his Broadmoor porch for my parents’ one and watched as people went by, this was one blow too many. Jack, too, was in his eighties. He lived another six months in my parents’ living room before passing on the Ides of March 2006.

In the year after Katrina, I traveled to New Orleans six times, each time documenting what I saw. Photographing the devastation became my obsession—I felt compelled to capture nearly every affront I saw. In the beginning, I used a wide-angle lens, shooting piles of debris juxtaposed against the bluest of skies, which had a hauntingly beautiful quality. Later, I became more interested in capturing macro shots of the destruction or in singling out one item, which in some way began to represent the whole awful thing.

My interest in photography continued, and my obsession with telling the story of how the storm transformed not only me but also eleven other photographers.

Five years after the storm, UNO Press published “Before During After,” and we toured the show in the United States and the Netherlands, with support from the Louisiana State Museum, DiverseWorks, and Royal Haskoning.

It was after our show in Amsterdam that Epaul came to help me hang when he asked, ‘What’s next?’ And with that, we put our heads together. We both felt inspired by the old masters we saw, but wanted to experiment and give them a new quality, and so our artistic collaboration was born. Fifteen years later, we’ve created over 100 remakes of iconic images, adding a twist. The work transcends Katrina because it touches upon things that Katrina bared open to the world, but that still exist today—that discrimination and racism lead to the have-nots and not caring enough about them.

Some of our most recent work has focused on Rockwell’s The Four Freedoms. I don’t believe there has been a time since World War II when Roosevelt’s speech on Freedom from Fear, Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Worship, and Freedom from Want has been more apt and those things more at risk.

I am terrified to see due process being abandoned and the democratic values I grew up with abandoned. As much injustice as Katrina laid bare, that seems to have only been the iceberg.

Some of us will challenge injustices with words, but for those of us who can’t, we can do it with images, and we must. 

Inquire
E2 - KLEINVELD & JULIEN, Ode to Van Gogh's 'Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear and Pipe', 2023

E2 - KLEINVELD & JULIEN

Ode to Van Gogh's 'Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear and Pipe', 2023

archival pigment print

large: 36 x 32.1 inches, edition of 3, 2 APs

medium: 24 x 21.4 inches, edition of 5, 2 APs

small: 16 x 14.3 inches, edition of 7, 2 APs

"Ode to Van Gogh’s 'Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear and Pipe’” is a self-portrait of e2 artist E.Paul Julien as the tortured artist. This piece was inspired by Julien’s own struggles with mental health issues during isolation during pandemic lockdown, as he found himself in a place where he could relate to the fragile mindset that Van Gogh experienced through most of his life.

 

 

E2 - Epaul Julien and Elizabeth Kleinveld’s Katrina experience

Excerpt from “Before, During, After: Louisiana Photographers Respond to Hurricane Katrina”

Epaul Julien

Before Hurricane Katrina, I focused my photography on documenting New Orleans and Haiti. Both are vibrant places, formed by the cultural influences of the French and the West Africans. Through my photography, I tried to portray their shared heritage.

 

On the day of Hurricane Katrina, my partner, our two-year-old son, and I packed one bag for what we thought would be a three-day vacation, three hours northwest of New Orleans, in New Roads, Louisiana. The next day, we woke to discover that the hurricane had blown through New Orleans, leaving tremendous wind damage. I assumed this meant that we could drive home to do the same serious cleaning and resume our lives. Anxious to get back to the city, I drove briskly, maneuvering through thousands of acres of sugarcane fields, listening to reports of the damage. Each report became increasingly troubling. As we sneaked around the winding river roads, I began to feel like a mouse trapped in a snake’s intestines. Then the radio reported that the floodwalls had broken and the water was rising. When I heard the reporters say that we would not be allowed back for three to six months, I stopped breathing—seconds seemed like hours.

 

Although I contemplated sneaking back into the city by boat, the voice of my two-year-old son stopped me. After being cast out by the waters, I began to wander aimlessly around the country. Since I had left New Orleans without my photography equipment, I began creating mixed-media collages as we traveled, using the few photographs I had or could reproduce. In the end, I lost ten years of work, and while the discovery of mixed media collage has been therapeutic, my work will never be the same.

 

Elizabeth Kleinveld

I was visiting my family in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina grew in the Gulf of Mexico and headed toward my hometown. Like thousands of others, I evacuated the city with my family, but my great-uncle wouldn’t come. Soon afterwards, I returned to my home in Amsterdam, heartbroken as I didn’t know what had happened to him.

I called a hotline so many times during the middle of the night in the States that they began to call me the Dutch lady. I posted comments all over, and one led to someone saying that former Vice President Al Gore had evacuated him to Knoxville, TN, and was in the hospital there.

When I called the hospital and finally got my beloved Uncle Jack on the phone, I burst into tears—tears of relief that I’d finally located him! The story of how he was rescued from his front porch in the Broadmoor section of town and taken by an old friend of mine in a canoe to the convention center was like something out of a movie. Surreal.

Uncle Jack had spent many afternoons and evenings on his porch watching the neighborhood and people go by. He was kind to everyone, and so it wasn’t a surprise that someone went to check on him.

When I heard that former Vice President Gore had held Jack’s hand and heard his World War II war stories, I really broke down. That Gore had to hire two American Airlines planes to get people out of there because the government wasn’t doing it was utter madness.

I think it was hearing this and seeing the images of people stuck at the Dome that made me feel like I had to do something. I needed to respond, but how?

My husband and our seven-year-old twins had evacuated to El Dorado, Arkansas, with my parents and eighty-nine-year-old Grandma. When it was clear that we couldn’t go back, my husband, kids, and I left for Little Rock and headed to Amsterdam.  Mom, Dad, and my Grandma stayed in El Dorado, and once we found Jack, he joined them.

Five weeks later, they let us back in.  I was astonished at what I saw. As the plane was descending, I saw roofs covered with blue tarps everywhere. When I got uptown, refrigerators with cryptic messages lined the streets, and the stench was unbearable. I knew then that words alone would not adequately capture the devastation wrought to the city, so the day after I arrived, I bought a new digital camera. Little did I know that purchase would re-ignite my passion for art.

My grandma was the first person back to her street (at 89 years old)! She had been lucky; no water had gotten in her house. Jack’s house had over five feet of water in it and was uninhabitable. While he substituted his Broadmoor porch for my parents’ one and watched as people went by, this was one blow too many. Jack, too, was in his eighties. He lived another six months in my parents’ living room before passing on the Ides of March 2006.

In the year after Katrina, I traveled to New Orleans six times, each time documenting what I saw. Photographing the devastation became my obsession—I felt compelled to capture nearly every affront I saw. In the beginning, I used a wide-angle lens, shooting piles of debris juxtaposed against the bluest of skies, which had a hauntingly beautiful quality. Later, I became more interested in capturing macro shots of the destruction or in singling out one item, which in some way began to represent the whole awful thing.

My interest in photography continued, and my obsession with telling the story of how the storm transformed not only me but also eleven other photographers.

Five years after the storm, UNO Press published “Before During After,” and we toured the show in the United States and the Netherlands, with support from the Louisiana State Museum, DiverseWorks, and Royal Haskoning.

It was after our show in Amsterdam that Epaul came to help me hang when he asked, ‘What’s next?’ And with that, we put our heads together. We both felt inspired by the old masters we saw, but wanted to experiment and give them a new quality, and so our artistic collaboration was born. Fifteen years later, we’ve created over 100 remakes of iconic images, adding a twist. The work transcends Katrina because it touches upon things that Katrina bared open to the world, but that still exist today—that discrimination and racism lead to the have-nots and not caring enough about them.

Some of our most recent work has focused on Rockwell’s The Four Freedoms. I don’t believe there has been a time since World War II when Roosevelt’s speech on Freedom from Fear, Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Worship, and Freedom from Want has been more apt and those things more at risk.

I am terrified to see due process being abandoned and the democratic values I grew up with abandoned. As much injustice as Katrina laid bare, that seems to have only been the iceberg.

Some of us will challenge injustices with words, but for those of us who can’t, we can do it with images, and we must. 

Inquire
E2 - KLEINVELD & JULIEN, Ode to Rockwell's Freedom from Fear, 2020

E2 - KLEINVELD & JULIEN

Ode to Rockwell's Freedom from Fear, 2020

archival pigment print

large: 36 x 27 inches, edition of 3, 2 APs
medium: 24 x 18 inches, edition of 5, 2 APs
small: 16 x 12 inches, edition of 7, 2 APs

 

E2 - Epaul Julien and Elizabeth Kleinveld’s Katrina experience

Excerpt from “Before, During, After: Louisiana Photographers Respond to Hurricane Katrina”

Epaul Julien

Before Hurricane Katrina, I focused my photography on documenting New Orleans and Haiti. Both are vibrant places, formed by the cultural influences of the French and the West Africans. Through my photography, I tried to portray their shared heritage.

 

On the day of Hurricane Katrina, my partner, our two-year-old son, and I packed one bag for what we thought would be a three-day vacation, three hours northwest of New Orleans, in New Roads, Louisiana. The next day, we woke to discover that the hurricane had blown through New Orleans, leaving tremendous wind damage. I assumed this meant that we could drive home to do the same serious cleaning and resume our lives. Anxious to get back to the city, I drove briskly, maneuvering through thousands of acres of sugarcane fields, listening to reports of the damage. Each report became increasingly troubling. As we sneaked around the winding river roads, I began to feel like a mouse trapped in a snake’s intestines. Then the radio reported that the floodwalls had broken and the water was rising. When I heard the reporters say that we would not be allowed back for three to six months, I stopped breathing—seconds seemed like hours.

 

Although I contemplated sneaking back into the city by boat, the voice of my two-year-old son stopped me. After being cast out by the waters, I began to wander aimlessly around the country. Since I had left New Orleans without my photography equipment, I began creating mixed-media collages as we traveled, using the few photographs I had or could reproduce. In the end, I lost ten years of work, and while the discovery of mixed media collage has been therapeutic, my work will never be the same.

 

Elizabeth Kleinveld

I was visiting my family in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina grew in the Gulf of Mexico and headed toward my hometown. Like thousands of others, I evacuated the city with my family, but my great-uncle wouldn’t come. Soon afterwards, I returned to my home in Amsterdam, heartbroken as I didn’t know what had happened to him.

I called a hotline so many times during the middle of the night in the States that they began to call me the Dutch lady. I posted comments all over, and one led to someone saying that former Vice President Al Gore had evacuated him to Knoxville, TN, and was in the hospital there.

When I called the hospital and finally got my beloved Uncle Jack on the phone, I burst into tears—tears of relief that I’d finally located him! The story of how he was rescued from his front porch in the Broadmoor section of town and taken by an old friend of mine in a canoe to the convention center was like something out of a movie. Surreal.

Uncle Jack had spent many afternoons and evenings on his porch watching the neighborhood and people go by. He was kind to everyone, and so it wasn’t a surprise that someone went to check on him.

When I heard that former Vice President Gore had held Jack’s hand and heard his World War II war stories, I really broke down. That Gore had to hire two American Airlines planes to get people out of there because the government wasn’t doing it was utter madness.

I think it was hearing this and seeing the images of people stuck at the Dome that made me feel like I had to do something. I needed to respond, but how?

My husband and our seven-year-old twins had evacuated to El Dorado, Arkansas, with my parents and eighty-nine-year-old Grandma. When it was clear that we couldn’t go back, my husband, kids, and I left for Little Rock and headed to Amsterdam.  Mom, Dad, and my Grandma stayed in El Dorado, and once we found Jack, he joined them.

Five weeks later, they let us back in.  I was astonished at what I saw. As the plane was descending, I saw roofs covered with blue tarps everywhere. When I got uptown, refrigerators with cryptic messages lined the streets, and the stench was unbearable. I knew then that words alone would not adequately capture the devastation wrought to the city, so the day after I arrived, I bought a new digital camera. Little did I know that purchase would re-ignite my passion for art.

My grandma was the first person back to her street (at 89 years old)! She had been lucky; no water had gotten in her house. Jack’s house had over five feet of water in it and was uninhabitable. While he substituted his Broadmoor porch for my parents’ one and watched as people went by, this was one blow too many. Jack, too, was in his eighties. He lived another six months in my parents’ living room before passing on the Ides of March 2006.

In the year after Katrina, I traveled to New Orleans six times, each time documenting what I saw. Photographing the devastation became my obsession—I felt compelled to capture nearly every affront I saw. In the beginning, I used a wide-angle lens, shooting piles of debris juxtaposed against the bluest of skies, which had a hauntingly beautiful quality. Later, I became more interested in capturing macro shots of the destruction or in singling out one item, which in some way began to represent the whole awful thing.

My interest in photography continued, and my obsession with telling the story of how the storm transformed not only me but also eleven other photographers.

Five years after the storm, UNO Press published “Before During After,” and we toured the show in the United States and the Netherlands, with support from the Louisiana State Museum, DiverseWorks, and Royal Haskoning.

It was after our show in Amsterdam that Epaul came to help me hang when he asked, ‘What’s next?’ And with that, we put our heads together. We both felt inspired by the old masters we saw, but wanted to experiment and give them a new quality, and so our artistic collaboration was born. Fifteen years later, we’ve created over 100 remakes of iconic images, adding a twist. The work transcends Katrina because it touches upon things that Katrina bared open to the world, but that still exist today—that discrimination and racism lead to the have-nots and not caring enough about them.

Some of our most recent work has focused on Rockwell’s The Four Freedoms. I don’t believe there has been a time since World War II when Roosevelt’s speech on Freedom from Fear, Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Worship, and Freedom from Want has been more apt and those things more at risk.

I am terrified to see due process being abandoned and the democratic values I grew up with abandoned. As much injustice as Katrina laid bare, that seems to have only been the iceberg.

Some of us will challenge injustices with words, but for those of us who can’t, we can do it with images, and we must. 

Inquire
E2 - KLEINVELD & JULIEN

E2 - KLEINVELD & JULIEN
Ode to Leutze's Washington Crossing the Delaware, 2016
archival pigment print
30.5 x 48 inches
extra large: 30.5 x 48 inches, edition of 3, 2 APs
large: 20 x 30 inches, edition of 3, 2 APs
medium: 16 x 20 inches, edition of 5, 2 APs

 

E2 - Epaul Julien and Elizabeth Kleinveld’s Katrina experience

Excerpt from “Before, During, After: Louisiana Photographers Respond to Hurricane Katrina”

Epaul Julien

Before Hurricane Katrina, I focused my photography on documenting New Orleans and Haiti. Both are vibrant places, formed by the cultural influences of the French and the West Africans. Through my photography, I tried to portray their shared heritage.

 

On the day of Hurricane Katrina, my partner, our two-year-old son, and I packed one bag for what we thought would be a three-day vacation, three hours northwest of New Orleans, in New Roads, Louisiana. The next day, we woke to discover that the hurricane had blown through New Orleans, leaving tremendous wind damage. I assumed this meant that we could drive home to do the same serious cleaning and resume our lives. Anxious to get back to the city, I drove briskly, maneuvering through thousands of acres of sugarcane fields, listening to reports of the damage. Each report became increasingly troubling. As we sneaked around the winding river roads, I began to feel like a mouse trapped in a snake’s intestines. Then the radio reported that the floodwalls had broken and the water was rising. When I heard the reporters say that we would not be allowed back for three to six months, I stopped breathing—seconds seemed like hours.

 

Although I contemplated sneaking back into the city by boat, the voice of my two-year-old son stopped me. After being cast out by the waters, I began to wander aimlessly around the country. Since I had left New Orleans without my photography equipment, I began creating mixed-media collages as we traveled, using the few photographs I had or could reproduce. In the end, I lost ten years of work, and while the discovery of mixed media collage has been therapeutic, my work will never be the same.

 

Elizabeth Kleinveld

I was visiting my family in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina grew in the Gulf of Mexico and headed toward my hometown. Like thousands of others, I evacuated the city with my family, but my great-uncle wouldn’t come. Soon afterwards, I returned to my home in Amsterdam, heartbroken as I didn’t know what had happened to him.

I called a hotline so many times during the middle of the night in the States that they began to call me the Dutch lady. I posted comments all over, and one led to someone saying that former Vice President Al Gore had evacuated him to Knoxville, TN, and was in the hospital there.

When I called the hospital and finally got my beloved Uncle Jack on the phone, I burst into tears—tears of relief that I’d finally located him! The story of how he was rescued from his front porch in the Broadmoor section of town and taken by an old friend of mine in a canoe to the convention center was like something out of a movie. Surreal.

Uncle Jack had spent many afternoons and evenings on his porch watching the neighborhood and people go by. He was kind to everyone, and so it wasn’t a surprise that someone went to check on him.

When I heard that former Vice President Gore had held Jack’s hand and heard his World War II war stories, I really broke down. That Gore had to hire two American Airlines planes to get people out of there because the government wasn’t doing it was utter madness.

I think it was hearing this and seeing the images of people stuck at the Dome that made me feel like I had to do something. I needed to respond, but how?

My husband and our seven-year-old twins had evacuated to El Dorado, Arkansas, with my parents and eighty-nine-year-old Grandma. When it was clear that we couldn’t go back, my husband, kids, and I left for Little Rock and headed to Amsterdam.  Mom, Dad, and my Grandma stayed in El Dorado, and once we found Jack, he joined them.

Five weeks later, they let us back in.  I was astonished at what I saw. As the plane was descending, I saw roofs covered with blue tarps everywhere. When I got uptown, refrigerators with cryptic messages lined the streets, and the stench was unbearable. I knew then that words alone would not adequately capture the devastation wrought to the city, so the day after I arrived, I bought a new digital camera. Little did I know that purchase would re-ignite my passion for art.

My grandma was the first person back to her street (at 89 years old)! She had been lucky; no water had gotten in her house. Jack’s house had over five feet of water in it and was uninhabitable. While he substituted his Broadmoor porch for my parents’ one and watched as people went by, this was one blow too many. Jack, too, was in his eighties. He lived another six months in my parents’ living room before passing on the Ides of March 2006.

In the year after Katrina, I traveled to New Orleans six times, each time documenting what I saw. Photographing the devastation became my obsession—I felt compelled to capture nearly every affront I saw. In the beginning, I used a wide-angle lens, shooting piles of debris juxtaposed against the bluest of skies, which had a hauntingly beautiful quality. Later, I became more interested in capturing macro shots of the destruction or in singling out one item, which in some way began to represent the whole awful thing.

My interest in photography continued, and my obsession with telling the story of how the storm transformed not only me but also eleven other photographers.

Five years after the storm, UNO Press published “Before During After,” and we toured the show in the United States and the Netherlands, with support from the Louisiana State Museum, DiverseWorks, and Royal Haskoning.

It was after our show in Amsterdam that Epaul came to help me hang when he asked, ‘What’s next?’ And with that, we put our heads together. We both felt inspired by the old masters we saw, but wanted to experiment and give them a new quality, and so our artistic collaboration was born. Fifteen years later, we’ve created over 100 remakes of iconic images, adding a twist. The work transcends Katrina because it touches upon things that Katrina bared open to the world, but that still exist today—that discrimination and racism lead to the have-nots and not caring enough about them.

Some of our most recent work has focused on Rockwell’s The Four Freedoms. I don’t believe there has been a time since World War II when Roosevelt’s speech on Freedom from Fear, Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Worship, and Freedom from Want has been more apt and those things more at risk.

I am terrified to see due process being abandoned and the democratic values I grew up with abandoned. As much injustice as Katrina laid bare, that seems to have only been the iceberg.

Some of us will challenge injustices with words, but for those of us who can’t, we can do it with images, and we must. 

Inquire
BONNIE MAYGARDEN, Moored I, 2025

BONNIE MAYGARDEN

Moored I, 2025

acrylic on canvas

48h x 36w in
121.92h x 91.44w cm

 

Katrina happened three months after my high school graduation. It was that pivotal moment in my life where adulthood was supposed to begin, but instead I witnessed the only community I had ever known, experience unbearable destruction. It affected everyone I knew and loved, and for me it was not only a loss of a material word, but a loss of innocence. A privilege that so many of us feel as Americans is that we are meant to be protected from many of the horrors of the world, but in the aftermath of the storm I realized how unprotected we truly are. The safety net protecting New Orleans’ most vulnerable residents was absent and the suffering in my community was something that changed the way I see the world. 

It took me years to make any artwork relating to the storm because I think it was my first real experience with trauma and grief, and it took years to understand and articulate the effects. However, I think what helped me and many others heal was work made by other New Orleanians that helped to articulate the shared experiences and love we all shared for the city.

Inquire
BONNIE MAYGARDEN, Moored II, 2025

BONNIE MAYGARDEN

Moored II, 2025

acrylic on canvas

48h x 36w in
121.92h x 91.44w cm

 

Katrina happened three months after my high school graduation. It was that pivotal moment in my life where adulthood was supposed to begin, but instead I witnessed the only community I had ever known, experience unbearable destruction. It affected everyone I knew and loved, and for me it was not only a loss of a material word, but a loss of innocence. A privilege that so many of us feel as Americans is that we are meant to be protected from many of the horrors of the world, but in the aftermath of the storm I realized how unprotected we truly are. The safety net protecting New Orleans’ most vulnerable residents was absent and the suffering in my community was something that changed the way I see the world. 

It took me years to make any artwork relating to the storm because I think it was my first real experience with trauma and grief, and it took years to understand and articulate the effects. However, I think what helped me and many others heal was work made by other New Orleanians that helped to articulate the shared experiences and love we all shared for the city.

Inquire
BONNIE MAYGARDEN, Nights End, 2024

BONNIE MAYGARDEN

Nights End, 2024

acrylic on canvas

40h x 48w in
101.60h x 121.92w cm

 

Katrina happened three months after my high school graduation. It was that pivotal moment in my life where adulthood was supposed to begin, but instead I witnessed the only community I had ever known, experience unbearable destruction. It affected everyone I knew and loved, and for me it was not only a loss of a material word, but a loss of innocence. A privilege that so many of us feel as Americans is that we are meant to be protected from many of the horrors of the world, but in the aftermath of the storm I realized how unprotected we truly are. The safety net protecting New Orleans’ most vulnerable residents was absent and the suffering in my community was something that changed the way I see the world. 

It took me years to make any artwork relating to the storm because I think it was my first real experience with trauma and grief, and it took years to understand and articulate the effects. However, I think what helped me and many others heal was work made by other New Orleanians that helped to articulate the shared experiences and love we all shared for the city.

Inquire
BONNIE MAYGARDEN Surge, 2015

BONNIE MAYGARDEN
Surge, 2015
enamel on plastic tarp
48 x 45 inches

 

Katrina happened three months after my high school graduation. It was that pivotal moment in my life where adulthood was supposed to begin, but instead I witnessed the only community I had ever known, experience unbearable destruction. It affected everyone I knew and loved, and for me it was not only a loss of a material word, but a loss of innocence. A privilege that so many of us feel as Americans is that we are meant to be protected from many of the horrors of the world, but in the aftermath of the storm I realized how unprotected we truly are. The safety net protecting New Orleans’ most vulnerable residents was absent and the suffering in my community was something that changed the way I see the world. 

It took me years to make any artwork relating to the storm because I think it was my first real experience with trauma and grief, and it took years to understand and articulate the effects. However, I think what helped me and many others heal was work made by other New Orleanians that helped to articulate the shared experiences and love we all shared for the city.

Inquire
RUTH OWENS, Water Boy, 2025

RUTH OWENS

Water Boy, 2025

oil on canvas

40h x 40w in
101.60h x 101.60w cm

RO164

 

I was able to return to my flooded home two weeks after the hurricane had passed. Upon entering I was immediately accosted by a sickly sour stench of rotting leaves blown in from outside and wooden floor boards rotting in their uprooted gestures, escaped from their flat confinement. The flooding had made quick work of reverting our home back to nature, wild and dangerous, yet beautiful in its unbridled expression.

The sour smell faded as I ascended the stairs to the bedroom that my young daughters shared. It was replaced by the sweet fragrance of girlie childhood dress-up play. Fragranced play make-up and perfumes still wafted in the air. This room never saw the hurricane, it was preserved entirely and ready to welcome the girls back. They never came back, though, and they never lived in the house of their girlhood again.

The painting, How?, 2017, is a self-portrait as a young girl smiling while immersed in sinister waters. And the question, “How?” does she smile in those surroundings comes to mind. There is hope in that smile, the hope that will carry her through the storms of her life.

Inquire
RUTH OWENS, Breathe, 2018

RUTH OWENS

Breathe, 2018

oil on canvas

36h x 36w in
91.44h x 91.44w cm

RO159

 

I was able to return to my flooded home two weeks after the hurricane had passed. Upon entering I was immediately accosted by a sickly sour stench of rotting leaves blown in from outside and wooden floor boards rotting in their uprooted gestures, escaped from their flat confinement. The flooding had made quick work of reverting our home back to nature, wild and dangerous, yet beautiful in its unbridled expression.

The sour smell faded as I ascended the stairs to the bedroom that my young daughters shared. It was replaced by the sweet fragrance of girlie childhood dress-up play. Fragranced play make-up and perfumes still wafted in the air. This room never saw the hurricane, it was preserved entirely and ready to welcome the girls back. They never came back, though, and they never lived in the house of their girlhood again.

The painting, How?, 2017, is a self-portrait as a young girl smiling while immersed in sinister waters. And the question, “How?” does she smile in those surroundings comes to mind. There is hope in that smile, the hope that will carry her through the storms of her life.

Inquire
RUTH OWENS, Shooting Gallery, 2017

RUTH OWENS

Shooting Gallery, 2017

oil on canvas

30 x 30 inches installed, quadriptych 14.75 x 14.75 inches each

RO165

 

I was able to return to my flooded home two weeks after the hurricane had passed. Upon entering I was immediately accosted by a sickly sour stench of rotting leaves blown in from outside and wooden floor boards rotting in their uprooted gestures, escaped from their flat confinement. The flooding had made quick work of reverting our home back to nature, wild and dangerous, yet beautiful in its unbridled expression.

The sour smell faded as I ascended the stairs to the bedroom that my young daughters shared. It was replaced by the sweet fragrance of girlie childhood dress-up play. Fragranced play make-up and perfumes still wafted in the air. This room never saw the hurricane, it was preserved entirely and ready to welcome the girls back. They never came back, though, and they never lived in the house of their girlhood again.

The painting, How?, 2017, is a self-portrait as a young girl smiling while immersed in sinister waters. And the question, “How?” does she smile in those surroundings comes to mind. There is hope in that smile, the hope that will carry her through the storms of her life.

Inquire
RUTH OWENS, How?, 2017

RUTH OWENS

How?, 2017

oil on canvas

18h x 18w in
45.72h x 45.72w cm

RO010

 

I was able to return to my flooded home two weeks after the hurricane had passed. Upon entering I was immediately accosted by a sickly sour stench of rotting leaves blown in from outside and wooden floor boards rotting in their uprooted gestures, escaped from their flat confinement. The flooding had made quick work of reverting our home back to nature, wild and dangerous, yet beautiful in its unbridled expression.

The sour smell faded as I ascended the stairs to the bedroom that my young daughters shared. It was replaced by the sweet fragrance of girlie childhood dress-up play. Fragranced play make-up and perfumes still wafted in the air. This room never saw the hurricane, it was preserved entirely and ready to welcome the girls back. They never came back, though, and they never lived in the house of their girlhood again.

The painting, How?, 2017, is a self-portrait as a young girl smiling while immersed in sinister waters. And the question, “How?” does she smile in those surroundings comes to mind. There is hope in that smile, the hope that will carry her through the storms of her life.

Inquire
ANASTASIA PELIAS, Ritual Devotion Two (madder root tone, prussian paris blue), 2013

ANASTASIA PELIAS

Ritual Devotion Two (madder root tone, prussian paris blue), 2013

oil on canvas

diptych, 72 x 144 in

8594

 

I hate revisiting the trauma of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. The City of New Orleans, six feet below sea level, endured the devastating effects of the failure of the levees when Lake Pontchartrain emptied into our vulnerable City in the days following the hurricane.



It became immediately clear that anything could happen at any time, and that we really have very little control over our immediate environment and our lives. The people of New Orleans were not protected by the powers that be, in this case the Army Corps of Engineers, who knew that our levees were unstable and that a disastrous event was not just a possibility, but was imminent.



All of the citizens of New Orleans were betrayed, but the pointedly inequitable treatment of different demographics - people in low income neighborhoods - immediately became very clear. New Orleans was exposed for its great racial and socio-economic disparities and divide.

In the days following Katrina, five houses directly behind my house/studio burned to the ground after an angry man lit a match and started a fire to punish his girlfriend. New Orleans fire fighters drained my neighbor’s pool, using the water to hose down my house, protecting it against the raging fire. I am grateful for that. When we returned to my house the surrounding charred landscape was a constant visual reminder of how much worse things could have been.

In the aftermath, New Orleanians were displaced and forced to find another place to stay for an indeterminate amount of time. After evacuating for the hurricane, we moved like zombie nomads to any friends, acquaintances and family who would take us in. We tried not to overstay our welcome. When we were finally allowed to return home several months later, the apocalyptic post-Katrina landscape in New Orleans prompted me to rethink everything that I thought I knew. About life, about being an artist, about what it means to be safe. I couldn’t just return to my studio practice. There was real work to be done; demolition and repairs, cutting trees, foraging for food and water and unending paperwork with insurance companies and FEMA. Paperwork designed to wear us down and to give up trying to get compensation.

My daughter came to town for her fall break from college to offer support, to help me demo much of the interior of my house/studio, to take inventory of all that was destroyed, and to clean and then clean again. After we finished cleaning the walls in my studio I asked her to photograph me cleaning the already clean walls – the photos became a series called Still Cleaning. I didn’t know what else to do. Then I spent an entire year driving around the City picking up from the ground slate fragments from the shingles that had been ripped from the rooftops during the hurricane. Roofs that had provided shelter and protected the inhabitants of the houses were now destroyed. The inhabitants were gone and were not coming back. I spent the next two years making Fixed, a series of slate collages in which I obsessively tried to fit the salvaged slate pieces back together in an attempt to fix what was broken, futilely trying to undo the destruction that the City and her people had endured. Making large scale paintings seemed like an absurd thing to do. I tried to fall in love with painting again but it took a few year.

.

I’ve left out so many details about what happened after Katrina... Breaking back into the City with a man I barely knew — he stood guard with his shotgun outside of my house when I went inside to rescue my 2 cats, taking care of my elderly Mom, having to re-evacuate our temporary home in Houston for Hurricane Rita, the incessant watching of CNN news, accidentally ending up in George W Bush’s motorcade on a trip from Houston with my brother to check on friends’ houses and pets, falling in love, wearing only one dress and one pair of cut off jeans for 3 months, listening only to the 2 CD’s that happened to be in my car, Johnny Cash’s American IV: The Man Comes Around and Lucinda Williams’ Car Wheels on a Gravel Road.


Parking outside of The Menil Collection in Houston, but not being able to go inside. The only art I was able to experience was Dan Flavin’s permanent installation in Richmond Hall. The light installation required nothing of me but my presence and it soothed me.


My days were filled with ritualistic tasks and states of being. It is no accident that a forthcoming series of paintings would be titled Washed (to the sea and other waters), and later Ritual Devotion, a reflection of the watery landscape that surrounds us, both psychologically and physically. The last thing New Orleans needed was a catastrophic event which would inevitably make the City even more nostalgic, more soulful. But here we are 20 years later, more nostalgic, more soulful.

Inquire
ANASTASIA PELIAS, Infinite Unapologetic Love, 2023

ANASTASIA PELIAS

Infinite Unapologetic Love, 2023

oil and oil stick on canvas

84h x 84w in
213.36h x 213.36w cm

 

I hate revisiting the trauma of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. The City of New Orleans, six feet below sea level, endured the devastating effects of the failure of the levees when Lake Pontchartrain emptied into our vulnerable City in the days following the hurricane.



It became immediately clear that anything could happen at any time, and that we really have very little control over our immediate environment and our lives. The people of New Orleans were not protected by the powers that be, in this case the Army Corps of Engineers, who knew that our levees were unstable and that a disastrous event was not just a possibility, but was imminent.



All of the citizens of New Orleans were betrayed, but the pointedly inequitable treatment of different demographics - people in low income neighborhoods - immediately became very clear. New Orleans was exposed for its great racial and socio-economic disparities and divide.

In the days following Katrina, five houses directly behind my house/studio burned to the ground after an angry man lit a match and started a fire to punish his girlfriend. New Orleans fire fighters drained my neighbor’s pool, using the water to hose down my house, protecting it against the raging fire. I am grateful for that. When we returned to my house the surrounding charred landscape was a constant visual reminder of how much worse things could have been.

In the aftermath, New Orleanians were displaced and forced to find another place to stay for an indeterminate amount of time. After evacuating for the hurricane, we moved like zombie nomads to any friends, acquaintances and family who would take us in. We tried not to overstay our welcome. When we were finally allowed to return home several months later, the apocalyptic post-Katrina landscape in New Orleans prompted me to rethink everything that I thought I knew. About life, about being an artist, about what it means to be safe. I couldn’t just return to my studio practice. There was real work to be done; demolition and repairs, cutting trees, foraging for food and water and unending paperwork with insurance companies and FEMA. Paperwork designed to wear us down and to give up trying to get compensation.

My daughter came to town for her fall break from college to offer support, to help me demo much of the interior of my house/studio, to take inventory of all that was destroyed, and to clean and then clean again. After we finished cleaning the walls in my studio I asked her to photograph me cleaning the already clean walls – the photos became a series called Still Cleaning. I didn’t know what else to do. Then I spent an entire year driving around the City picking up from the ground slate fragments from the shingles that had been ripped from the rooftops during the hurricane. Roofs that had provided shelter and protected the inhabitants of the houses were now destroyed. The inhabitants were gone and were not coming back. I spent the next two years making Fixed, a series of slate collages in which I obsessively tried to fit the salvaged slate pieces back together in an attempt to fix what was broken, futilely trying to undo the destruction that the City and her people had endured. Making large scale paintings seemed like an absurd thing to do. I tried to fall in love with painting again but it took a few year.

.

I’ve left out so many details about what happened after Katrina... Breaking back into the City with a man I barely knew — he stood guard with his shotgun outside of my house when I went inside to rescue my 2 cats, taking care of my elderly Mom, having to re-evacuate our temporary home in Houston for Hurricane Rita, the incessant watching of CNN news, accidentally ending up in George W Bush’s motorcade on a trip from Houston with my brother to check on friends’ houses and pets, falling in love, wearing only one dress and one pair of cut off jeans for 3 months, listening only to the 2 CD’s that happened to be in my car, Johnny Cash’s American IV: The Man Comes Around and Lucinda Williams’ Car Wheels on a Gravel Road.


Parking outside of The Menil Collection in Houston, but not being able to go inside. The only art I was able to experience was Dan Flavin’s permanent installation in Richmond Hall. The light installation required nothing of me but my presence and it soothed me.


My days were filled with ritualistic tasks and states of being. It is no accident that a forthcoming series of paintings would be titled Washed (to the sea and other waters), and later Ritual Devotion, a reflection of the watery landscape that surrounds us, both psychologically and physically. The last thing New Orleans needed was a catastrophic event which would inevitably make the City even more nostalgic, more soulful. But here we are 20 years later, more nostalgic, more soulful.

Inquire
ANASTASIA PELIAS Brianna, 2014

ANASTASIA PELIAS
Brianna, 2014
oil on canvas
72 x 70 inches

 

I hate revisiting the trauma of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. The City of New Orleans, six feet below sea level, endured the devastating effects of the failure of the levees when Lake Pontchartrain emptied into our vulnerable City in the days following the hurricane.



It became immediately clear that anything could happen at any time, and that we really have very little control over our immediate environment and our lives. The people of New Orleans were not protected by the powers that be, in this case the Army Corps of Engineers, who knew that our levees were unstable and that a disastrous event was not just a possibility, but was imminent.



All of the citizens of New Orleans were betrayed, but the pointedly inequitable treatment of different demographics - people in low income neighborhoods - immediately became very clear. New Orleans was exposed for its great racial and socio-economic disparities and divide.

In the days following Katrina, five houses directly behind my house/studio burned to the ground after an angry man lit a match and started a fire to punish his girlfriend. New Orleans fire fighters drained my neighbor’s pool, using the water to hose down my house, protecting it against the raging fire. I am grateful for that. When we returned to my house the surrounding charred landscape was a constant visual reminder of how much worse things could have been.

In the aftermath, New Orleanians were displaced and forced to find another place to stay for an indeterminate amount of time. After evacuating for the hurricane, we moved like zombie nomads to any friends, acquaintances and family who would take us in. We tried not to overstay our welcome. When we were finally allowed to return home several months later, the apocalyptic post-Katrina landscape in New Orleans prompted me to rethink everything that I thought I knew. About life, about being an artist, about what it means to be safe. I couldn’t just return to my studio practice. There was real work to be done; demolition and repairs, cutting trees, foraging for food and water and unending paperwork with insurance companies and FEMA. Paperwork designed to wear us down and to give up trying to get compensation.

My daughter came to town for her fall break from college to offer support, to help me demo much of the interior of my house/studio, to take inventory of all that was destroyed, and to clean and then clean again. After we finished cleaning the walls in my studio I asked her to photograph me cleaning the already clean walls – the photos became a series called Still Cleaning. I didn’t know what else to do. Then I spent an entire year driving around the City picking up from the ground slate fragments from the shingles that had been ripped from the rooftops during the hurricane. Roofs that had provided shelter and protected the inhabitants of the houses were now destroyed. The inhabitants were gone and were not coming back. I spent the next two years making Fixed, a series of slate collages in which I obsessively tried to fit the salvaged slate pieces back together in an attempt to fix what was broken, futilely trying to undo the destruction that the City and her people had endured. Making large scale paintings seemed like an absurd thing to do. I tried to fall in love with painting again but it took a few year.

.

I’ve left out so many details about what happened after Katrina... Breaking back into the City with a man I barely knew — he stood guard with his shotgun outside of my house when I went inside to rescue my 2 cats, taking care of my elderly Mom, having to re-evacuate our temporary home in Houston for Hurricane Rita, the incessant watching of CNN news, accidentally ending up in George W Bush’s motorcade on a trip from Houston with my brother to check on friends’ houses and pets, falling in love, wearing only one dress and one pair of cut off jeans for 3 months, listening only to the 2 CD’s that happened to be in my car, Johnny Cash’s American IV: The Man Comes Around and Lucinda Williams’ Car Wheels on a Gravel Road.


Parking outside of The Menil Collection in Houston, but not being able to go inside. The only art I was able to experience was Dan Flavin’s permanent installation in Richmond Hall. The light installation required nothing of me but my presence and it soothed me.


My days were filled with ritualistic tasks and states of being. It is no accident that a forthcoming series of paintings would be titled Washed (to the sea and other waters), and later Ritual Devotion, a reflection of the watery landscape that surrounds us, both psychologically and physically. The last thing New Orleans needed was a catastrophic event which would inevitably make the City even more nostalgic, more soulful. But here we are 20 years later, more nostalgic, more soulful.

Inquire
ANASTASIA PELIAS, Isis, oh Isis, 2023

ANASTASIA PELIAS

Isis, oh Isis, 2023

oil and oil stick on canvas

48h x 48w in
121.92h x 121.92w cm

 

I hate revisiting the trauma of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. The City of New Orleans, six feet below sea level, endured the devastating effects of the failure of the levees when Lake Pontchartrain emptied into our vulnerable City in the days following the hurricane.



It became immediately clear that anything could happen at any time, and that we really have very little control over our immediate environment and our lives. The people of New Orleans were not protected by the powers that be, in this case the Army Corps of Engineers, who knew that our levees were unstable and that a disastrous event was not just a possibility, but was imminent.



All of the citizens of New Orleans were betrayed, but the pointedly inequitable treatment of different demographics - people in low income neighborhoods - immediately became very clear. New Orleans was exposed for its great racial and socio-economic disparities and divide.

In the days following Katrina, five houses directly behind my house/studio burned to the ground after an angry man lit a match and started a fire to punish his girlfriend. New Orleans fire fighters drained my neighbor’s pool, using the water to hose down my house, protecting it against the raging fire. I am grateful for that. When we returned to my house the surrounding charred landscape was a constant visual reminder of how much worse things could have been.

In the aftermath, New Orleanians were displaced and forced to find another place to stay for an indeterminate amount of time. After evacuating for the hurricane, we moved like zombie nomads to any friends, acquaintances and family who would take us in. We tried not to overstay our welcome. When we were finally allowed to return home several months later, the apocalyptic post-Katrina landscape in New Orleans prompted me to rethink everything that I thought I knew. About life, about being an artist, about what it means to be safe. I couldn’t just return to my studio practice. There was real work to be done; demolition and repairs, cutting trees, foraging for food and water and unending paperwork with insurance companies and FEMA. Paperwork designed to wear us down and to give up trying to get compensation.

My daughter came to town for her fall break from college to offer support, to help me demo much of the interior of my house/studio, to take inventory of all that was destroyed, and to clean and then clean again. After we finished cleaning the walls in my studio I asked her to photograph me cleaning the already clean walls – the photos became a series called Still Cleaning. I didn’t know what else to do. Then I spent an entire year driving around the City picking up from the ground slate fragments from the shingles that had been ripped from the rooftops during the hurricane. Roofs that had provided shelter and protected the inhabitants of the houses were now destroyed. The inhabitants were gone and were not coming back. I spent the next two years making Fixed, a series of slate collages in which I obsessively tried to fit the salvaged slate pieces back together in an attempt to fix what was broken, futilely trying to undo the destruction that the City and her people had endured. Making large scale paintings seemed like an absurd thing to do. I tried to fall in love with painting again but it took a few year.

.

I’ve left out so many details about what happened after Katrina... Breaking back into the City with a man I barely knew — he stood guard with his shotgun outside of my house when I went inside to rescue my 2 cats, taking care of my elderly Mom, having to re-evacuate our temporary home in Houston for Hurricane Rita, the incessant watching of CNN news, accidentally ending up in George W Bush’s motorcade on a trip from Houston with my brother to check on friends’ houses and pets, falling in love, wearing only one dress and one pair of cut off jeans for 3 months, listening only to the 2 CD’s that happened to be in my car, Johnny Cash’s American IV: The Man Comes Around and Lucinda Williams’ Car Wheels on a Gravel Road.


Parking outside of The Menil Collection in Houston, but not being able to go inside. The only art I was able to experience was Dan Flavin’s permanent installation in Richmond Hall. The light installation required nothing of me but my presence and it soothed me.


My days were filled with ritualistic tasks and states of being. It is no accident that a forthcoming series of paintings would be titled Washed (to the sea and other waters), and later Ritual Devotion, a reflection of the watery landscape that surrounds us, both psychologically and physically. The last thing New Orleans needed was a catastrophic event which would inevitably make the City even more nostalgic, more soulful. But here we are 20 years later, more nostalgic, more soulful.

Inquire
GINA PHILLIPS, Johnny Kashner, 2015

GINA PHILLIPS

Johnny Kashner, 2015

fabric, thread, paint

65 x 28 inches

 

I moved to New Orleans in August 1995 to attend Tulane University’s MFA program in studio art. I graduated in 1997. Over the next few years, I taught as an adjunct at Tulane and began my professional career as an exhibiting artist, showing at Marguerite Oestreicher Gallery on Julia Street. As I became more enmeshed in the New Orleans art and music community, I decided to buy a fixer-upper by the river. I found my house through a HUD auction site in 2004 and put a bid on the property without even seeing the inside, taken as I was with the house’s unique location—nestled in the Holy Cross pocket neighborhood, at the crook of the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal.

I bought the house for $55,000, with an additional $15,000 in renovation funds through the FHA renovation loan I had qualified for. I launched into the renovations right away after closing on the property in August 2004. Even then, $15,000 wasn’t a lot of money to fix a house, so there was a lot of sweat equity on my part. The house was completely clad in asbestos shingles—on the roof and over the original wood siding. That was the first thing I tackled: removing all the asbestos. I also tore out the worst of the termite damage in the kitchen area. I remember demoing a load-bearing wall in the kitchen and reaching for what looked like a solid piece of wood, only to have it crumble in my hands like toothpicks from the extensive termite damage. I patched the original heart pine floors and installed new hardwood floors in the kitchen. I also paid subcontractors to install a new roof, new electrical, and new plumbing.

After a year of hard work, I took my last FHA renovation loan draw in mid-August 2005. I celebrated by taking a trip to visit a new boyfriend living in Richmond, Virginia. We had a summery, long-distance romance going. He had been to New Orleans a few times, and this was the first time I was visiting him on his home turf. My flight was on August 23, 2005; my return flight was supposed to be August 30, 2005. I now think back on that week as the eerie calm before the storm. I enjoyed myself but also remember feeling like I was looking forward to getting back home to New Orleans to really begin my new life in my beautiful house by the river.

Well, fate intervened, and my whole life changed on August 29 when Hurricane Katrina came crashing into my beloved home via New Orleans’ backdoor Achilles’ heel, the Industrial Canal. That morning, I remember waking up and being glued to the news coverage of the storm. I saw a rescue crew floating in a canoe up to the edge of the pedestrian steps at the St. Claude Bridge, and that’s when I really broke down—seeing ten feet of floodwater in that area of my neighborhood.

The next few days and weeks, friends and neighbors checked in with each other for any scraps of news we could find. It would be several weeks before residents were even allowed on the Lower Ninth Ward side of the canal. By this time, my light and lively summer romance had turned exponentially more serious. I was homeless—not exactly ideal conditions for starting a new relationship. I ended up staying in Richmond with Louis, who, over the next few months, would become my fiancé.

We made a plan to get back to my house in early October. We rented a huge van. I wasn’t completely sure of my plan, but I thought I might pack up anything salvageable and bring it back to Virginia. Residents still weren’t officially allowed back into the neighborhood yet, but a friend of mine was printing bogus press passes, so we were able to cross the checkpoint by the St. Claude Bridge. I distinctly remember how emotional it was seeing my flooded house for the first time. Being a few blocks closer to the river, my house hadn’t been ten feet underwater—it was more like six feet (four feet inside the house, taking into account the two-foot piers). I was crying as I entered my front door, but then the tears stopped as I was immediately mesmerized by the bizarre system of chaos that the floodwaters had wreaked on my house and belongings. The smell was intense: swamp mud and mold. We wore respirators and Tyvek suits and emptied the worst of the flooded contents out of the house and onto the curb. I remember feeling oddly like the person who traverses a pristine snowy trail before anyone else. I was the first person on my block to start piling up the contents of my house out by the street.

I went back a couple more times before moving back to New Orleans in July 2006. I had a FEMA trailer waiting for me in my backyard. I was supposed to meet with a FEMA representative to sign paperwork and get the keys, but I utilized my Pop-A-Lock skills and picked the lock on the trailer. Opening the door for the first time was a shock: a thick wave of formaldehyde-laden air choked me and stung my eyes. My particular model of travel trailer was one of the more toxic ones. All the travel trailer recipients became well-versed in knowing which models were relatively fresh and which were toxic. I had one of the bad ones, and we had to get into the habit of turning on the AC in the afternoon and through the evening, then first thing in the morning, opening doors and windows to air it out.

Being in a neighborhood so close to the river, my house is located in a “good” flood zone, meaning we don’t have to worry about typical torrential rain event street flooding. So I hadn’t even purchased flood insurance when I bought the house. I can’t think of a single friend in my neighborhood who had flood insurance. I know it sounds crazy now, but we just didn’t worry about floods—that was a Mid-City/Lakeview, bottom-of-the-bowl problem.

Soon enough, my soon-to-be husband Louis and I launched into repairing my home for the second time. We had to navigate Road Home grant money, and there was a lot of uncertainty. I eventually received the full extent of the grant, and I don’t know what I would have done without it. The repairs I had made the first time had definitely strengthened the house, but having to do it all over again, I took it to the next level—gutting the whole house, putting in insulation, and even installing central AC and heat. (I didn’t even have a window unit before the storm!)

For a long time, I felt like I lived in Destructoville—that was my nickname for my neighborhood. For more than a year after the storm, you could still find houses in the middle of streets, and cars turned upside down or even perched on rooftops. We didn’t have mail service or garbage pickup for a long time. Most of the Lower Ninth Ward was still in pitch-black darkness at night—only the older neighborhood closer to the river had a functioning electrical grid. Then, crossing the bridge over the canal into “New Orleans,” life was eerily normal (relatively). It was jarring.

I had never attended any homeowners or neighborhood association meetings before, but after the storm, my friends and neighbors flocked to the weekly meetings for news and support. That experience was galvanizing—we were all in the same boat, navigating insurance claims, trying to get our Road Home money, and grappling with the controversy about how to rebuild the city. Many (outsiders) thought the Lower Ninth Ward should be bulldozed and no one should have been allowed to return.

Finally, I finished rebuilding my home for the second time in the fall of 2007. My house is pretty small (1,100 square feet), but it felt huge after living in a FEMA trailer for almost a year and a half. I finally got back to work in the studio, using my newly acquired longarm quilting machine. More than ever, I began to explore themes of place and did a deep dive on narratives about Fats Domino and imagery relating to New Orleans history and geography. Oh, and within a couple of years, my Katrina-induced marriage turned into a relationship-born-out-of-disaster divorce.

Now it’s been 20 years since Hurricane Katrina—hard to believe. Also hard to believe I’m about to say this—but I wouldn’t change anything. The experience is part of my makeup now and only made me stronger.

Inquire
GINA PHILLIPS Kiyoko and Koji, 2016

GINA PHILLIPS
Kiyoko and Koji, 2016
fabric, thread, paint
63 x 31 inches

 

I moved to New Orleans in August 1995 to attend Tulane University’s MFA program in studio art. I graduated in 1997. Over the next few years, I taught as an adjunct at Tulane and began my professional career as an exhibiting artist, showing at Marguerite Oestreicher Gallery on Julia Street. As I became more enmeshed in the New Orleans art and music community, I decided to buy a fixer-upper by the river. I found my house through a HUD auction site in 2004 and put a bid on the property without even seeing the inside, taken as I was with the house’s unique location—nestled in the Holy Cross pocket neighborhood, at the crook of the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal.

I bought the house for $55,000, with an additional $15,000 in renovation funds through the FHA renovation loan I had qualified for. I launched into the renovations right away after closing on the property in August 2004. Even then, $15,000 wasn’t a lot of money to fix a house, so there was a lot of sweat equity on my part. The house was completely clad in asbestos shingles—on the roof and over the original wood siding. That was the first thing I tackled: removing all the asbestos. I also tore out the worst of the termite damage in the kitchen area. I remember demoing a load-bearing wall in the kitchen and reaching for what looked like a solid piece of wood, only to have it crumble in my hands like toothpicks from the extensive termite damage. I patched the original heart pine floors and installed new hardwood floors in the kitchen. I also paid subcontractors to install a new roof, new electrical, and new plumbing.

After a year of hard work, I took my last FHA renovation loan draw in mid-August 2005. I celebrated by taking a trip to visit a new boyfriend living in Richmond, Virginia. We had a summery, long-distance romance going. He had been to New Orleans a few times, and this was the first time I was visiting him on his home turf. My flight was on August 23, 2005; my return flight was supposed to be August 30, 2005. I now think back on that week as the eerie calm before the storm. I enjoyed myself but also remember feeling like I was looking forward to getting back home to New Orleans to really begin my new life in my beautiful house by the river.

Well, fate intervened, and my whole life changed on August 29 when Hurricane Katrina came crashing into my beloved home via New Orleans’ backdoor Achilles’ heel, the Industrial Canal. That morning, I remember waking up and being glued to the news coverage of the storm. I saw a rescue crew floating in a canoe up to the edge of the pedestrian steps at the St. Claude Bridge, and that’s when I really broke down—seeing ten feet of floodwater in that area of my neighborhood.

The next few days and weeks, friends and neighbors checked in with each other for any scraps of news we could find. It would be several weeks before residents were even allowed on the Lower Ninth Ward side of the canal. By this time, my light and lively summer romance had turned exponentially more serious. I was homeless—not exactly ideal conditions for starting a new relationship. I ended up staying in Richmond with Louis, who, over the next few months, would become my fiancé.

We made a plan to get back to my house in early October. We rented a huge van. I wasn’t completely sure of my plan, but I thought I might pack up anything salvageable and bring it back to Virginia. Residents still weren’t officially allowed back into the neighborhood yet, but a friend of mine was printing bogus press passes, so we were able to cross the checkpoint by the St. Claude Bridge. I distinctly remember how emotional it was seeing my flooded house for the first time. Being a few blocks closer to the river, my house hadn’t been ten feet underwater—it was more like six feet (four feet inside the house, taking into account the two-foot piers). I was crying as I entered my front door, but then the tears stopped as I was immediately mesmerized by the bizarre system of chaos that the floodwaters had wreaked on my house and belongings. The smell was intense: swamp mud and mold. We wore respirators and Tyvek suits and emptied the worst of the flooded contents out of the house and onto the curb. I remember feeling oddly like the person who traverses a pristine snowy trail before anyone else. I was the first person on my block to start piling up the contents of my house out by the street.

I went back a couple more times before moving back to New Orleans in July 2006. I had a FEMA trailer waiting for me in my backyard. I was supposed to meet with a FEMA representative to sign paperwork and get the keys, but I utilized my Pop-A-Lock skills and picked the lock on the trailer. Opening the door for the first time was a shock: a thick wave of formaldehyde-laden air choked me and stung my eyes. My particular model of travel trailer was one of the more toxic ones. All the travel trailer recipients became well-versed in knowing which models were relatively fresh and which were toxic. I had one of the bad ones, and we had to get into the habit of turning on the AC in the afternoon and through the evening, then first thing in the morning, opening doors and windows to air it out.

Being in a neighborhood so close to the river, my house is located in a “good” flood zone, meaning we don’t have to worry about typical torrential rain event street flooding. So I hadn’t even purchased flood insurance when I bought the house. I can’t think of a single friend in my neighborhood who had flood insurance. I know it sounds crazy now, but we just didn’t worry about floods—that was a Mid-City/Lakeview, bottom-of-the-bowl problem.

Soon enough, my soon-to-be husband Louis and I launched into repairing my home for the second time. We had to navigate Road Home grant money, and there was a lot of uncertainty. I eventually received the full extent of the grant, and I don’t know what I would have done without it. The repairs I had made the first time had definitely strengthened the house, but having to do it all over again, I took it to the next level—gutting the whole house, putting in insulation, and even installing central AC and heat. (I didn’t even have a window unit before the storm!)

For a long time, I felt like I lived in Destructoville—that was my nickname for my neighborhood. For more than a year after the storm, you could still find houses in the middle of streets, and cars turned upside down or even perched on rooftops. We didn’t have mail service or garbage pickup for a long time. Most of the Lower Ninth Ward was still in pitch-black darkness at night—only the older neighborhood closer to the river had a functioning electrical grid. Then, crossing the bridge over the canal into “New Orleans,” life was eerily normal (relatively). It was jarring.

I had never attended any homeowners or neighborhood association meetings before, but after the storm, my friends and neighbors flocked to the weekly meetings for news and support. That experience was galvanizing—we were all in the same boat, navigating insurance claims, trying to get our Road Home money, and grappling with the controversy about how to rebuild the city. Many (outsiders) thought the Lower Ninth Ward should be bulldozed and no one should have been allowed to return.

Finally, I finished rebuilding my home for the second time in the fall of 2007. My house is pretty small (1,100 square feet), but it felt huge after living in a FEMA trailer for almost a year and a half. I finally got back to work in the studio, using my newly acquired longarm quilting machine. More than ever, I began to explore themes of place and did a deep dive on narratives about Fats Domino and imagery relating to New Orleans history and geography. Oh, and within a couple of years, my Katrina-induced marriage turned into a relationship-born-out-of-disaster divorce.

Now it’s been 20 years since Hurricane Katrina—hard to believe. Also hard to believe I’m about to say this—but I wouldn’t change anything. The experience is part of my makeup now and only made me stronger.

Inquire
GINA PHILLIPS Joy and Ferdinand, 2016

GINA PHILLIPS
Joy and Ferdinand, 2016
fabric, thread, paint
51 x 31.5 inches

 

I moved to New Orleans in August 1995 to attend Tulane University’s MFA program in studio art. I graduated in 1997. Over the next few years, I taught as an adjunct at Tulane and began my professional career as an exhibiting artist, showing at Marguerite Oestreicher Gallery on Julia Street. As I became more enmeshed in the New Orleans art and music community, I decided to buy a fixer-upper by the river. I found my house through a HUD auction site in 2004 and put a bid on the property without even seeing the inside, taken as I was with the house’s unique location—nestled in the Holy Cross pocket neighborhood, at the crook of the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal.

I bought the house for $55,000, with an additional $15,000 in renovation funds through the FHA renovation loan I had qualified for. I launched into the renovations right away after closing on the property in August 2004. Even then, $15,000 wasn’t a lot of money to fix a house, so there was a lot of sweat equity on my part. The house was completely clad in asbestos shingles—on the roof and over the original wood siding. That was the first thing I tackled: removing all the asbestos. I also tore out the worst of the termite damage in the kitchen area. I remember demoing a load-bearing wall in the kitchen and reaching for what looked like a solid piece of wood, only to have it crumble in my hands like toothpicks from the extensive termite damage. I patched the original heart pine floors and installed new hardwood floors in the kitchen. I also paid subcontractors to install a new roof, new electrical, and new plumbing.

After a year of hard work, I took my last FHA renovation loan draw in mid-August 2005. I celebrated by taking a trip to visit a new boyfriend living in Richmond, Virginia. We had a summery, long-distance romance going. He had been to New Orleans a few times, and this was the first time I was visiting him on his home turf. My flight was on August 23, 2005; my return flight was supposed to be August 30, 2005. I now think back on that week as the eerie calm before the storm. I enjoyed myself but also remember feeling like I was looking forward to getting back home to New Orleans to really begin my new life in my beautiful house by the river.

Well, fate intervened, and my whole life changed on August 29 when Hurricane Katrina came crashing into my beloved home via New Orleans’ backdoor Achilles’ heel, the Industrial Canal. That morning, I remember waking up and being glued to the news coverage of the storm. I saw a rescue crew floating in a canoe up to the edge of the pedestrian steps at the St. Claude Bridge, and that’s when I really broke down—seeing ten feet of floodwater in that area of my neighborhood.

The next few days and weeks, friends and neighbors checked in with each other for any scraps of news we could find. It would be several weeks before residents were even allowed on the Lower Ninth Ward side of the canal. By this time, my light and lively summer romance had turned exponentially more serious. I was homeless—not exactly ideal conditions for starting a new relationship. I ended up staying in Richmond with Louis, who, over the next few months, would become my fiancé.

We made a plan to get back to my house in early October. We rented a huge van. I wasn’t completely sure of my plan, but I thought I might pack up anything salvageable and bring it back to Virginia. Residents still weren’t officially allowed back into the neighborhood yet, but a friend of mine was printing bogus press passes, so we were able to cross the checkpoint by the St. Claude Bridge. I distinctly remember how emotional it was seeing my flooded house for the first time. Being a few blocks closer to the river, my house hadn’t been ten feet underwater—it was more like six feet (four feet inside the house, taking into account the two-foot piers). I was crying as I entered my front door, but then the tears stopped as I was immediately mesmerized by the bizarre system of chaos that the floodwaters had wreaked on my house and belongings. The smell was intense: swamp mud and mold. We wore respirators and Tyvek suits and emptied the worst of the flooded contents out of the house and onto the curb. I remember feeling oddly like the person who traverses a pristine snowy trail before anyone else. I was the first person on my block to start piling up the contents of my house out by the street.

I went back a couple more times before moving back to New Orleans in July 2006. I had a FEMA trailer waiting for me in my backyard. I was supposed to meet with a FEMA representative to sign paperwork and get the keys, but I utilized my Pop-A-Lock skills and picked the lock on the trailer. Opening the door for the first time was a shock: a thick wave of formaldehyde-laden air choked me and stung my eyes. My particular model of travel trailer was one of the more toxic ones. All the travel trailer recipients became well-versed in knowing which models were relatively fresh and which were toxic. I had one of the bad ones, and we had to get into the habit of turning on the AC in the afternoon and through the evening, then first thing in the morning, opening doors and windows to air it out.

Being in a neighborhood so close to the river, my house is located in a “good” flood zone, meaning we don’t have to worry about typical torrential rain event street flooding. So I hadn’t even purchased flood insurance when I bought the house. I can’t think of a single friend in my neighborhood who had flood insurance. I know it sounds crazy now, but we just didn’t worry about floods—that was a Mid-City/Lakeview, bottom-of-the-bowl problem.

Soon enough, my soon-to-be husband Louis and I launched into repairing my home for the second time. We had to navigate Road Home grant money, and there was a lot of uncertainty. I eventually received the full extent of the grant, and I don’t know what I would have done without it. The repairs I had made the first time had definitely strengthened the house, but having to do it all over again, I took it to the next level—gutting the whole house, putting in insulation, and even installing central AC and heat. (I didn’t even have a window unit before the storm!)

For a long time, I felt like I lived in Destructoville—that was my nickname for my neighborhood. For more than a year after the storm, you could still find houses in the middle of streets, and cars turned upside down or even perched on rooftops. We didn’t have mail service or garbage pickup for a long time. Most of the Lower Ninth Ward was still in pitch-black darkness at night—only the older neighborhood closer to the river had a functioning electrical grid. Then, crossing the bridge over the canal into “New Orleans,” life was eerily normal (relatively). It was jarring.

I had never attended any homeowners or neighborhood association meetings before, but after the storm, my friends and neighbors flocked to the weekly meetings for news and support. That experience was galvanizing—we were all in the same boat, navigating insurance claims, trying to get our Road Home money, and grappling with the controversy about how to rebuild the city. Many (outsiders) thought the Lower Ninth Ward should be bulldozed and no one should have been allowed to return.

Finally, I finished rebuilding my home for the second time in the fall of 2007. My house is pretty small (1,100 square feet), but it felt huge after living in a FEMA trailer for almost a year and a half. I finally got back to work in the studio, using my newly acquired longarm quilting machine. More than ever, I began to explore themes of place and did a deep dive on narratives about Fats Domino and imagery relating to New Orleans history and geography. Oh, and within a couple of years, my Katrina-induced marriage turned into a relationship-born-out-of-disaster divorce.

Now it’s been 20 years since Hurricane Katrina—hard to believe. Also hard to believe I’m about to say this—but I wouldn’t change anything. The experience is part of my makeup now and only made me stronger.

Inquire
GINA PHILLIPS Italian Travis, 2011

GINA PHILLIPS
Italian Travis, 2011
fabric, thread, synthetic hair, paint
​55 x 24 inches

 

I moved to New Orleans in August 1995 to attend Tulane University’s MFA program in studio art. I graduated in 1997. Over the next few years, I taught as an adjunct at Tulane and began my professional career as an exhibiting artist, showing at Marguerite Oestreicher Gallery on Julia Street. As I became more enmeshed in the New Orleans art and music community, I decided to buy a fixer-upper by the river. I found my house through a HUD auction site in 2004 and put a bid on the property without even seeing the inside, taken as I was with the house’s unique location—nestled in the Holy Cross pocket neighborhood, at the crook of the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal.

I bought the house for $55,000, with an additional $15,000 in renovation funds through the FHA renovation loan I had qualified for. I launched into the renovations right away after closing on the property in August 2004. Even then, $15,000 wasn’t a lot of money to fix a house, so there was a lot of sweat equity on my part. The house was completely clad in asbestos shingles—on the roof and over the original wood siding. That was the first thing I tackled: removing all the asbestos. I also tore out the worst of the termite damage in the kitchen area. I remember demoing a load-bearing wall in the kitchen and reaching for what looked like a solid piece of wood, only to have it crumble in my hands like toothpicks from the extensive termite damage. I patched the original heart pine floors and installed new hardwood floors in the kitchen. I also paid subcontractors to install a new roof, new electrical, and new plumbing.

After a year of hard work, I took my last FHA renovation loan draw in mid-August 2005. I celebrated by taking a trip to visit a new boyfriend living in Richmond, Virginia. We had a summery, long-distance romance going. He had been to New Orleans a few times, and this was the first time I was visiting him on his home turf. My flight was on August 23, 2005; my return flight was supposed to be August 30, 2005. I now think back on that week as the eerie calm before the storm. I enjoyed myself but also remember feeling like I was looking forward to getting back home to New Orleans to really begin my new life in my beautiful house by the river.

Well, fate intervened, and my whole life changed on August 29 when Hurricane Katrina came crashing into my beloved home via New Orleans’ backdoor Achilles’ heel, the Industrial Canal. That morning, I remember waking up and being glued to the news coverage of the storm. I saw a rescue crew floating in a canoe up to the edge of the pedestrian steps at the St. Claude Bridge, and that’s when I really broke down—seeing ten feet of floodwater in that area of my neighborhood.

The next few days and weeks, friends and neighbors checked in with each other for any scraps of news we could find. It would be several weeks before residents were even allowed on the Lower Ninth Ward side of the canal. By this time, my light and lively summer romance had turned exponentially more serious. I was homeless—not exactly ideal conditions for starting a new relationship. I ended up staying in Richmond with Louis, who, over the next few months, would become my fiancé.

We made a plan to get back to my house in early October. We rented a huge van. I wasn’t completely sure of my plan, but I thought I might pack up anything salvageable and bring it back to Virginia. Residents still weren’t officially allowed back into the neighborhood yet, but a friend of mine was printing bogus press passes, so we were able to cross the checkpoint by the St. Claude Bridge. I distinctly remember how emotional it was seeing my flooded house for the first time. Being a few blocks closer to the river, my house hadn’t been ten feet underwater—it was more like six feet (four feet inside the house, taking into account the two-foot piers). I was crying as I entered my front door, but then the tears stopped as I was immediately mesmerized by the bizarre system of chaos that the floodwaters had wreaked on my house and belongings. The smell was intense: swamp mud and mold. We wore respirators and Tyvek suits and emptied the worst of the flooded contents out of the house and onto the curb. I remember feeling oddly like the person who traverses a pristine snowy trail before anyone else. I was the first person on my block to start piling up the contents of my house out by the street.

I went back a couple more times before moving back to New Orleans in July 2006. I had a FEMA trailer waiting for me in my backyard. I was supposed to meet with a FEMA representative to sign paperwork and get the keys, but I utilized my Pop-A-Lock skills and picked the lock on the trailer. Opening the door for the first time was a shock: a thick wave of formaldehyde-laden air choked me and stung my eyes. My particular model of travel trailer was one of the more toxic ones. All the travel trailer recipients became well-versed in knowing which models were relatively fresh and which were toxic. I had one of the bad ones, and we had to get into the habit of turning on the AC in the afternoon and through the evening, then first thing in the morning, opening doors and windows to air it out.

Being in a neighborhood so close to the river, my house is located in a “good” flood zone, meaning we don’t have to worry about typical torrential rain event street flooding. So I hadn’t even purchased flood insurance when I bought the house. I can’t think of a single friend in my neighborhood who had flood insurance. I know it sounds crazy now, but we just didn’t worry about floods—that was a Mid-City/Lakeview, bottom-of-the-bowl problem.

Soon enough, my soon-to-be husband Louis and I launched into repairing my home for the second time. We had to navigate Road Home grant money, and there was a lot of uncertainty. I eventually received the full extent of the grant, and I don’t know what I would have done without it. The repairs I had made the first time had definitely strengthened the house, but having to do it all over again, I took it to the next level—gutting the whole house, putting in insulation, and even installing central AC and heat. (I didn’t even have a window unit before the storm!)

For a long time, I felt like I lived in Destructoville—that was my nickname for my neighborhood. For more than a year after the storm, you could still find houses in the middle of streets, and cars turned upside down or even perched on rooftops. We didn’t have mail service or garbage pickup for a long time. Most of the Lower Ninth Ward was still in pitch-black darkness at night—only the older neighborhood closer to the river had a functioning electrical grid. Then, crossing the bridge over the canal into “New Orleans,” life was eerily normal (relatively). It was jarring.

I had never attended any homeowners or neighborhood association meetings before, but after the storm, my friends and neighbors flocked to the weekly meetings for news and support. That experience was galvanizing—we were all in the same boat, navigating insurance claims, trying to get our Road Home money, and grappling with the controversy about how to rebuild the city. Many (outsiders) thought the Lower Ninth Ward should be bulldozed and no one should have been allowed to return.

Finally, I finished rebuilding my home for the second time in the fall of 2007. My house is pretty small (1,100 square feet), but it felt huge after living in a FEMA trailer for almost a year and a half. I finally got back to work in the studio, using my newly acquired longarm quilting machine. More than ever, I began to explore themes of place and did a deep dive on narratives about Fats Domino and imagery relating to New Orleans history and geography. Oh, and within a couple of years, my Katrina-induced marriage turned into a relationship-born-out-of-disaster divorce.

Now it’s been 20 years since Hurricane Katrina—hard to believe. Also hard to believe I’m about to say this—but I wouldn’t change anything. The experience is part of my makeup now and only made me stronger.

Inquire
GINA PHILLIPS, Dance Hall Fats, 2025

GINA PHILLIPS

Dance Hall Fats, 2025

archival inkjet print on paper

10h x 20w in
25.40h x 50.80w cm

Framed: 15h x 25.25w in
38.10h x 64.14w cm

Edition 1 of 5

GIPH065_001

 

I moved to New Orleans in August 1995 to attend Tulane University’s MFA program in studio art. I graduated in 1997. Over the next few years, I taught as an adjunct at Tulane and began my professional career as an exhibiting artist, showing at Marguerite Oestreicher Gallery on Julia Street. As I became more enmeshed in the New Orleans art and music community, I decided to buy a fixer-upper by the river. I found my house through a HUD auction site in 2004 and put a bid on the property without even seeing the inside, taken as I was with the house’s unique location—nestled in the Holy Cross pocket neighborhood, at the crook of the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal.

I bought the house for $55,000, with an additional $15,000 in renovation funds through the FHA renovation loan I had qualified for. I launched into the renovations right away after closing on the property in August 2004. Even then, $15,000 wasn’t a lot of money to fix a house, so there was a lot of sweat equity on my part. The house was completely clad in asbestos shingles—on the roof and over the original wood siding. That was the first thing I tackled: removing all the asbestos. I also tore out the worst of the termite damage in the kitchen area. I remember demoing a load-bearing wall in the kitchen and reaching for what looked like a solid piece of wood, only to have it crumble in my hands like toothpicks from the extensive termite damage. I patched the original heart pine floors and installed new hardwood floors in the kitchen. I also paid subcontractors to install a new roof, new electrical, and new plumbing.

After a year of hard work, I took my last FHA renovation loan draw in mid-August 2005. I celebrated by taking a trip to visit a new boyfriend living in Richmond, Virginia. We had a summery, long-distance romance going. He had been to New Orleans a few times, and this was the first time I was visiting him on his home turf. My flight was on August 23, 2005; my return flight was supposed to be August 30, 2005. I now think back on that week as the eerie calm before the storm. I enjoyed myself but also remember feeling like I was looking forward to getting back home to New Orleans to really begin my new life in my beautiful house by the river.

Well, fate intervened, and my whole life changed on August 29 when Hurricane Katrina came crashing into my beloved home via New Orleans’ backdoor Achilles’ heel, the Industrial Canal. That morning, I remember waking up and being glued to the news coverage of the storm. I saw a rescue crew floating in a canoe up to the edge of the pedestrian steps at the St. Claude Bridge, and that’s when I really broke down—seeing ten feet of floodwater in that area of my neighborhood.

The next few days and weeks, friends and neighbors checked in with each other for any scraps of news we could find. It would be several weeks before residents were even allowed on the Lower Ninth Ward side of the canal. By this time, my light and lively summer romance had turned exponentially more serious. I was homeless—not exactly ideal conditions for starting a new relationship. I ended up staying in Richmond with Louis, who, over the next few months, would become my fiancé.

We made a plan to get back to my house in early October. We rented a huge van. I wasn’t completely sure of my plan, but I thought I might pack up anything salvageable and bring it back to Virginia. Residents still weren’t officially allowed back into the neighborhood yet, but a friend of mine was printing bogus press passes, so we were able to cross the checkpoint by the St. Claude Bridge. I distinctly remember how emotional it was seeing my flooded house for the first time. Being a few blocks closer to the river, my house hadn’t been ten feet underwater—it was more like six feet (four feet inside the house, taking into account the two-foot piers). I was crying as I entered my front door, but then the tears stopped as I was immediately mesmerized by the bizarre system of chaos that the floodwaters had wreaked on my house and belongings. The smell was intense: swamp mud and mold. We wore respirators and Tyvek suits and emptied the worst of the flooded contents out of the house and onto the curb. I remember feeling oddly like the person who traverses a pristine snowy trail before anyone else. I was the first person on my block to start piling up the contents of my house out by the street.

I went back a couple more times before moving back to New Orleans in July 2006. I had a FEMA trailer waiting for me in my backyard. I was supposed to meet with a FEMA representative to sign paperwork and get the keys, but I utilized my Pop-A-Lock skills and picked the lock on the trailer. Opening the door for the first time was a shock: a thick wave of formaldehyde-laden air choked me and stung my eyes. My particular model of travel trailer was one of the more toxic ones. All the travel trailer recipients became well-versed in knowing which models were relatively fresh and which were toxic. I had one of the bad ones, and we had to get into the habit of turning on the AC in the afternoon and through the evening, then first thing in the morning, opening doors and windows to air it out.

Being in a neighborhood so close to the river, my house is located in a “good” flood zone, meaning we don’t have to worry about typical torrential rain event street flooding. So I hadn’t even purchased flood insurance when I bought the house. I can’t think of a single friend in my neighborhood who had flood insurance. I know it sounds crazy now, but we just didn’t worry about floods—that was a Mid-City/Lakeview, bottom-of-the-bowl problem.

Soon enough, my soon-to-be husband Louis and I launched into repairing my home for the second time. We had to navigate Road Home grant money, and there was a lot of uncertainty. I eventually received the full extent of the grant, and I don’t know what I would have done without it. The repairs I had made the first time had definitely strengthened the house, but having to do it all over again, I took it to the next level—gutting the whole house, putting in insulation, and even installing central AC and heat. (I didn’t even have a window unit before the storm!)

For a long time, I felt like I lived in Destructoville—that was my nickname for my neighborhood. For more than a year after the storm, you could still find houses in the middle of streets, and cars turned upside down or even perched on rooftops. We didn’t have mail service or garbage pickup for a long time. Most of the Lower Ninth Ward was still in pitch-black darkness at night—only the older neighborhood closer to the river had a functioning electrical grid. Then, crossing the bridge over the canal into “New Orleans,” life was eerily normal (relatively). It was jarring.

I had never attended any homeowners or neighborhood association meetings before, but after the storm, my friends and neighbors flocked to the weekly meetings for news and support. That experience was galvanizing—we were all in the same boat, navigating insurance claims, trying to get our Road Home money, and grappling with the controversy about how to rebuild the city. Many (outsiders) thought the Lower Ninth Ward should be bulldozed and no one should have been allowed to return.

Finally, I finished rebuilding my home for the second time in the fall of 2007. My house is pretty small (1,100 square feet), but it felt huge after living in a FEMA trailer for almost a year and a half. I finally got back to work in the studio, using my newly acquired longarm quilting machine. More than ever, I began to explore themes of place and did a deep dive on narratives about Fats Domino and imagery relating to New Orleans history and geography. Oh, and within a couple of years, my Katrina-induced marriage turned into a relationship-born-out-of-disaster divorce.

Now it’s been 20 years since Hurricane Katrina—hard to believe. Also hard to believe I’m about to say this—but I wouldn’t change anything. The experience is part of my makeup now and only made me stronger.

Inquire
GINA PHILLIPS, Fats Got Out, 2025

GINA PHILLIPS

Fats Got Out, 2025

archival inkjet print on paper

20h x 16w in
50.80h x 40.64w cm

Framed: 25.25h x 21.50w in
64.14h x 54.61w cm

Edition 1 of 5

GIPH068_001

 

I moved to New Orleans in August 1995 to attend Tulane University’s MFA program in studio art. I graduated in 1997. Over the next few years, I taught as an adjunct at Tulane and began my professional career as an exhibiting artist, showing at Marguerite Oestreicher Gallery on Julia Street. As I became more enmeshed in the New Orleans art and music community, I decided to buy a fixer-upper by the river. I found my house through a HUD auction site in 2004 and put a bid on the property without even seeing the inside, taken as I was with the house’s unique location—nestled in the Holy Cross pocket neighborhood, at the crook of the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal.

I bought the house for $55,000, with an additional $15,000 in renovation funds through the FHA renovation loan I had qualified for. I launched into the renovations right away after closing on the property in August 2004. Even then, $15,000 wasn’t a lot of money to fix a house, so there was a lot of sweat equity on my part. The house was completely clad in asbestos shingles—on the roof and over the original wood siding. That was the first thing I tackled: removing all the asbestos. I also tore out the worst of the termite damage in the kitchen area. I remember demoing a load-bearing wall in the kitchen and reaching for what looked like a solid piece of wood, only to have it crumble in my hands like toothpicks from the extensive termite damage. I patched the original heart pine floors and installed new hardwood floors in the kitchen. I also paid subcontractors to install a new roof, new electrical, and new plumbing.

After a year of hard work, I took my last FHA renovation loan draw in mid-August 2005. I celebrated by taking a trip to visit a new boyfriend living in Richmond, Virginia. We had a summery, long-distance romance going. He had been to New Orleans a few times, and this was the first time I was visiting him on his home turf. My flight was on August 23, 2005; my return flight was supposed to be August 30, 2005. I now think back on that week as the eerie calm before the storm. I enjoyed myself but also remember feeling like I was looking forward to getting back home to New Orleans to really begin my new life in my beautiful house by the river.

Well, fate intervened, and my whole life changed on August 29 when Hurricane Katrina came crashing into my beloved home via New Orleans’ backdoor Achilles’ heel, the Industrial Canal. That morning, I remember waking up and being glued to the news coverage of the storm. I saw a rescue crew floating in a canoe up to the edge of the pedestrian steps at the St. Claude Bridge, and that’s when I really broke down—seeing ten feet of floodwater in that area of my neighborhood.

The next few days and weeks, friends and neighbors checked in with each other for any scraps of news we could find. It would be several weeks before residents were even allowed on the Lower Ninth Ward side of the canal. By this time, my light and lively summer romance had turned exponentially more serious. I was homeless—not exactly ideal conditions for starting a new relationship. I ended up staying in Richmond with Louis, who, over the next few months, would become my fiancé.

We made a plan to get back to my house in early October. We rented a huge van. I wasn’t completely sure of my plan, but I thought I might pack up anything salvageable and bring it back to Virginia. Residents still weren’t officially allowed back into the neighborhood yet, but a friend of mine was printing bogus press passes, so we were able to cross the checkpoint by the St. Claude Bridge. I distinctly remember how emotional it was seeing my flooded house for the first time. Being a few blocks closer to the river, my house hadn’t been ten feet underwater—it was more like six feet (four feet inside the house, taking into account the two-foot piers). I was crying as I entered my front door, but then the tears stopped as I was immediately mesmerized by the bizarre system of chaos that the floodwaters had wreaked on my house and belongings. The smell was intense: swamp mud and mold. We wore respirators and Tyvek suits and emptied the worst of the flooded contents out of the house and onto the curb. I remember feeling oddly like the person who traverses a pristine snowy trail before anyone else. I was the first person on my block to start piling up the contents of my house out by the street.

I went back a couple more times before moving back to New Orleans in July 2006. I had a FEMA trailer waiting for me in my backyard. I was supposed to meet with a FEMA representative to sign paperwork and get the keys, but I utilized my Pop-A-Lock skills and picked the lock on the trailer. Opening the door for the first time was a shock: a thick wave of formaldehyde-laden air choked me and stung my eyes. My particular model of travel trailer was one of the more toxic ones. All the travel trailer recipients became well-versed in knowing which models were relatively fresh and which were toxic. I had one of the bad ones, and we had to get into the habit of turning on the AC in the afternoon and through the evening, then first thing in the morning, opening doors and windows to air it out.

Being in a neighborhood so close to the river, my house is located in a “good” flood zone, meaning we don’t have to worry about typical torrential rain event street flooding. So I hadn’t even purchased flood insurance when I bought the house. I can’t think of a single friend in my neighborhood who had flood insurance. I know it sounds crazy now, but we just didn’t worry about floods—that was a Mid-City/Lakeview, bottom-of-the-bowl problem.

Soon enough, my soon-to-be husband Louis and I launched into repairing my home for the second time. We had to navigate Road Home grant money, and there was a lot of uncertainty. I eventually received the full extent of the grant, and I don’t know what I would have done without it. The repairs I had made the first time had definitely strengthened the house, but having to do it all over again, I took it to the next level—gutting the whole house, putting in insulation, and even installing central AC and heat. (I didn’t even have a window unit before the storm!)

For a long time, I felt like I lived in Destructoville—that was my nickname for my neighborhood. For more than a year after the storm, you could still find houses in the middle of streets, and cars turned upside down or even perched on rooftops. We didn’t have mail service or garbage pickup for a long time. Most of the Lower Ninth Ward was still in pitch-black darkness at night—only the older neighborhood closer to the river had a functioning electrical grid. Then, crossing the bridge over the canal into “New Orleans,” life was eerily normal (relatively). It was jarring.

I had never attended any homeowners or neighborhood association meetings before, but after the storm, my friends and neighbors flocked to the weekly meetings for news and support. That experience was galvanizing—we were all in the same boat, navigating insurance claims, trying to get our Road Home money, and grappling with the controversy about how to rebuild the city. Many (outsiders) thought the Lower Ninth Ward should be bulldozed and no one should have been allowed to return.

Finally, I finished rebuilding my home for the second time in the fall of 2007. My house is pretty small (1,100 square feet), but it felt huge after living in a FEMA trailer for almost a year and a half. I finally got back to work in the studio, using my newly acquired longarm quilting machine. More than ever, I began to explore themes of place and did a deep dive on narratives about Fats Domino and imagery relating to New Orleans history and geography. Oh, and within a couple of years, my Katrina-induced marriage turned into a relationship-born-out-of-disaster divorce.

Now it’s been 20 years since Hurricane Katrina—hard to believe. Also hard to believe I’m about to say this—but I wouldn’t change anything. The experience is part of my makeup now and only made me stronger.

Inquire
GINA PHILLIPS, Yakamein Fats, 2025

GINA PHILLIPS

Yakamein Fats, 2025

archival inkjet print on paper

17.75h x 20w in
45.09h x 50.80w cm

Framed: 19h x 21w in
48.26h x 53.34w cm

Edition 1 of 5

GIPH069_001

 

I moved to New Orleans in August 1995 to attend Tulane University’s MFA program in studio art. I graduated in 1997. Over the next few years, I taught as an adjunct at Tulane and began my professional career as an exhibiting artist, showing at Marguerite Oestreicher Gallery on Julia Street. As I became more enmeshed in the New Orleans art and music community, I decided to buy a fixer-upper by the river. I found my house through a HUD auction site in 2004 and put a bid on the property without even seeing the inside, taken as I was with the house’s unique location—nestled in the Holy Cross pocket neighborhood, at the crook of the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal.

I bought the house for $55,000, with an additional $15,000 in renovation funds through the FHA renovation loan I had qualified for. I launched into the renovations right away after closing on the property in August 2004. Even then, $15,000 wasn’t a lot of money to fix a house, so there was a lot of sweat equity on my part. The house was completely clad in asbestos shingles—on the roof and over the original wood siding. That was the first thing I tackled: removing all the asbestos. I also tore out the worst of the termite damage in the kitchen area. I remember demoing a load-bearing wall in the kitchen and reaching for what looked like a solid piece of wood, only to have it crumble in my hands like toothpicks from the extensive termite damage. I patched the original heart pine floors and installed new hardwood floors in the kitchen. I also paid subcontractors to install a new roof, new electrical, and new plumbing.

After a year of hard work, I took my last FHA renovation loan draw in mid-August 2005. I celebrated by taking a trip to visit a new boyfriend living in Richmond, Virginia. We had a summery, long-distance romance going. He had been to New Orleans a few times, and this was the first time I was visiting him on his home turf. My flight was on August 23, 2005; my return flight was supposed to be August 30, 2005. I now think back on that week as the eerie calm before the storm. I enjoyed myself but also remember feeling like I was looking forward to getting back home to New Orleans to really begin my new life in my beautiful house by the river.

Well, fate intervened, and my whole life changed on August 29 when Hurricane Katrina came crashing into my beloved home via New Orleans’ backdoor Achilles’ heel, the Industrial Canal. That morning, I remember waking up and being glued to the news coverage of the storm. I saw a rescue crew floating in a canoe up to the edge of the pedestrian steps at the St. Claude Bridge, and that’s when I really broke down—seeing ten feet of floodwater in that area of my neighborhood.

The next few days and weeks, friends and neighbors checked in with each other for any scraps of news we could find. It would be several weeks before residents were even allowed on the Lower Ninth Ward side of the canal. By this time, my light and lively summer romance had turned exponentially more serious. I was homeless—not exactly ideal conditions for starting a new relationship. I ended up staying in Richmond with Louis, who, over the next few months, would become my fiancé.

We made a plan to get back to my house in early October. We rented a huge van. I wasn’t completely sure of my plan, but I thought I might pack up anything salvageable and bring it back to Virginia. Residents still weren’t officially allowed back into the neighborhood yet, but a friend of mine was printing bogus press passes, so we were able to cross the checkpoint by the St. Claude Bridge. I distinctly remember how emotional it was seeing my flooded house for the first time. Being a few blocks closer to the river, my house hadn’t been ten feet underwater—it was more like six feet (four feet inside the house, taking into account the two-foot piers). I was crying as I entered my front door, but then the tears stopped as I was immediately mesmerized by the bizarre system of chaos that the floodwaters had wreaked on my house and belongings. The smell was intense: swamp mud and mold. We wore respirators and Tyvek suits and emptied the worst of the flooded contents out of the house and onto the curb. I remember feeling oddly like the person who traverses a pristine snowy trail before anyone else. I was the first person on my block to start piling up the contents of my house out by the street.

I went back a couple more times before moving back to New Orleans in July 2006. I had a FEMA trailer waiting for me in my backyard. I was supposed to meet with a FEMA representative to sign paperwork and get the keys, but I utilized my Pop-A-Lock skills and picked the lock on the trailer. Opening the door for the first time was a shock: a thick wave of formaldehyde-laden air choked me and stung my eyes. My particular model of travel trailer was one of the more toxic ones. All the travel trailer recipients became well-versed in knowing which models were relatively fresh and which were toxic. I had one of the bad ones, and we had to get into the habit of turning on the AC in the afternoon and through the evening, then first thing in the morning, opening doors and windows to air it out.

Being in a neighborhood so close to the river, my house is located in a “good” flood zone, meaning we don’t have to worry about typical torrential rain event street flooding. So I hadn’t even purchased flood insurance when I bought the house. I can’t think of a single friend in my neighborhood who had flood insurance. I know it sounds crazy now, but we just didn’t worry about floods—that was a Mid-City/Lakeview, bottom-of-the-bowl problem.

Soon enough, my soon-to-be husband Louis and I launched into repairing my home for the second time. We had to navigate Road Home grant money, and there was a lot of uncertainty. I eventually received the full extent of the grant, and I don’t know what I would have done without it. The repairs I had made the first time had definitely strengthened the house, but having to do it all over again, I took it to the next level—gutting the whole house, putting in insulation, and even installing central AC and heat. (I didn’t even have a window unit before the storm!)

For a long time, I felt like I lived in Destructoville—that was my nickname for my neighborhood. For more than a year after the storm, you could still find houses in the middle of streets, and cars turned upside down or even perched on rooftops. We didn’t have mail service or garbage pickup for a long time. Most of the Lower Ninth Ward was still in pitch-black darkness at night—only the older neighborhood closer to the river had a functioning electrical grid. Then, crossing the bridge over the canal into “New Orleans,” life was eerily normal (relatively). It was jarring.

I had never attended any homeowners or neighborhood association meetings before, but after the storm, my friends and neighbors flocked to the weekly meetings for news and support. That experience was galvanizing—we were all in the same boat, navigating insurance claims, trying to get our Road Home money, and grappling with the controversy about how to rebuild the city. Many (outsiders) thought the Lower Ninth Ward should be bulldozed and no one should have been allowed to return.

Finally, I finished rebuilding my home for the second time in the fall of 2007. My house is pretty small (1,100 square feet), but it felt huge after living in a FEMA trailer for almost a year and a half. I finally got back to work in the studio, using my newly acquired longarm quilting machine. More than ever, I began to explore themes of place and did a deep dive on narratives about Fats Domino and imagery relating to New Orleans history and geography. Oh, and within a couple of years, my Katrina-induced marriage turned into a relationship-born-out-of-disaster divorce.

Now it’s been 20 years since Hurricane Katrina—hard to believe. Also hard to believe I’m about to say this—but I wouldn’t change anything. The experience is part of my makeup now and only made me stronger.

Inquire
GINA PHILLIPS, Walking Past the Battle of New Orleans, 2025

GINA PHILLIPS

Walking Past the Battle of New Orleans, 2025

archival inkjet print on paper

13.75h x 20w in
34.93h x 50.80w cm

Framed: 19h x 25.25w in
48.26h x 64.14w cm

Edition 1 of 5

GIPH067_001

 

I moved to New Orleans in August 1995 to attend Tulane University’s MFA program in studio art. I graduated in 1997. Over the next few years, I taught as an adjunct at Tulane and began my professional career as an exhibiting artist, showing at Marguerite Oestreicher Gallery on Julia Street. As I became more enmeshed in the New Orleans art and music community, I decided to buy a fixer-upper by the river. I found my house through a HUD auction site in 2004 and put a bid on the property without even seeing the inside, taken as I was with the house’s unique location—nestled in the Holy Cross pocket neighborhood, at the crook of the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal.

I bought the house for $55,000, with an additional $15,000 in renovation funds through the FHA renovation loan I had qualified for. I launched into the renovations right away after closing on the property in August 2004. Even then, $15,000 wasn’t a lot of money to fix a house, so there was a lot of sweat equity on my part. The house was completely clad in asbestos shingles—on the roof and over the original wood siding. That was the first thing I tackled: removing all the asbestos. I also tore out the worst of the termite damage in the kitchen area. I remember demoing a load-bearing wall in the kitchen and reaching for what looked like a solid piece of wood, only to have it crumble in my hands like toothpicks from the extensive termite damage. I patched the original heart pine floors and installed new hardwood floors in the kitchen. I also paid subcontractors to install a new roof, new electrical, and new plumbing.

After a year of hard work, I took my last FHA renovation loan draw in mid-August 2005. I celebrated by taking a trip to visit a new boyfriend living in Richmond, Virginia. We had a summery, long-distance romance going. He had been to New Orleans a few times, and this was the first time I was visiting him on his home turf. My flight was on August 23, 2005; my return flight was supposed to be August 30, 2005. I now think back on that week as the eerie calm before the storm. I enjoyed myself but also remember feeling like I was looking forward to getting back home to New Orleans to really begin my new life in my beautiful house by the river.

Well, fate intervened, and my whole life changed on August 29 when Hurricane Katrina came crashing into my beloved home via New Orleans’ backdoor Achilles’ heel, the Industrial Canal. That morning, I remember waking up and being glued to the news coverage of the storm. I saw a rescue crew floating in a canoe up to the edge of the pedestrian steps at the St. Claude Bridge, and that’s when I really broke down—seeing ten feet of floodwater in that area of my neighborhood.

The next few days and weeks, friends and neighbors checked in with each other for any scraps of news we could find. It would be several weeks before residents were even allowed on the Lower Ninth Ward side of the canal. By this time, my light and lively summer romance had turned exponentially more serious. I was homeless—not exactly ideal conditions for starting a new relationship. I ended up staying in Richmond with Louis, who, over the next few months, would become my fiancé.

We made a plan to get back to my house in early October. We rented a huge van. I wasn’t completely sure of my plan, but I thought I might pack up anything salvageable and bring it back to Virginia. Residents still weren’t officially allowed back into the neighborhood yet, but a friend of mine was printing bogus press passes, so we were able to cross the checkpoint by the St. Claude Bridge. I distinctly remember how emotional it was seeing my flooded house for the first time. Being a few blocks closer to the river, my house hadn’t been ten feet underwater—it was more like six feet (four feet inside the house, taking into account the two-foot piers). I was crying as I entered my front door, but then the tears stopped as I was immediately mesmerized by the bizarre system of chaos that the floodwaters had wreaked on my house and belongings. The smell was intense: swamp mud and mold. We wore respirators and Tyvek suits and emptied the worst of the flooded contents out of the house and onto the curb. I remember feeling oddly like the person who traverses a pristine snowy trail before anyone else. I was the first person on my block to start piling up the contents of my house out by the street.

I went back a couple more times before moving back to New Orleans in July 2006. I had a FEMA trailer waiting for me in my backyard. I was supposed to meet with a FEMA representative to sign paperwork and get the keys, but I utilized my Pop-A-Lock skills and picked the lock on the trailer. Opening the door for the first time was a shock: a thick wave of formaldehyde-laden air choked me and stung my eyes. My particular model of travel trailer was one of the more toxic ones. All the travel trailer recipients became well-versed in knowing which models were relatively fresh and which were toxic. I had one of the bad ones, and we had to get into the habit of turning on the AC in the afternoon and through the evening, then first thing in the morning, opening doors and windows to air it out.

Being in a neighborhood so close to the river, my house is located in a “good” flood zone, meaning we don’t have to worry about typical torrential rain event street flooding. So I hadn’t even purchased flood insurance when I bought the house. I can’t think of a single friend in my neighborhood who had flood insurance. I know it sounds crazy now, but we just didn’t worry about floods—that was a Mid-City/Lakeview, bottom-of-the-bowl problem.

Soon enough, my soon-to-be husband Louis and I launched into repairing my home for the second time. We had to navigate Road Home grant money, and there was a lot of uncertainty. I eventually received the full extent of the grant, and I don’t know what I would have done without it. The repairs I had made the first time had definitely strengthened the house, but having to do it all over again, I took it to the next level—gutting the whole house, putting in insulation, and even installing central AC and heat. (I didn’t even have a window unit before the storm!)

For a long time, I felt like I lived in Destructoville—that was my nickname for my neighborhood. For more than a year after the storm, you could still find houses in the middle of streets, and cars turned upside down or even perched on rooftops. We didn’t have mail service or garbage pickup for a long time. Most of the Lower Ninth Ward was still in pitch-black darkness at night—only the older neighborhood closer to the river had a functioning electrical grid. Then, crossing the bridge over the canal into “New Orleans,” life was eerily normal (relatively). It was jarring.

I had never attended any homeowners or neighborhood association meetings before, but after the storm, my friends and neighbors flocked to the weekly meetings for news and support. That experience was galvanizing—we were all in the same boat, navigating insurance claims, trying to get our Road Home money, and grappling with the controversy about how to rebuild the city. Many (outsiders) thought the Lower Ninth Ward should be bulldozed and no one should have been allowed to return.

Finally, I finished rebuilding my home for the second time in the fall of 2007. My house is pretty small (1,100 square feet), but it felt huge after living in a FEMA trailer for almost a year and a half. I finally got back to work in the studio, using my newly acquired longarm quilting machine. More than ever, I began to explore themes of place and did a deep dive on narratives about Fats Domino and imagery relating to New Orleans history and geography. Oh, and within a couple of years, my Katrina-induced marriage turned into a relationship-born-out-of-disaster divorce.

Now it’s been 20 years since Hurricane Katrina—hard to believe. Also hard to believe I’m about to say this—but I wouldn’t change anything. The experience is part of my makeup now and only made me stronger.

Inquire
AIMÉE FARNET SIEGEL, Miss River, Readies for Her Crowd, 2025

AIMÉE FARNET SIEGEL

Miss River, Readies for Her Crowd, 2025

artist painted paper, watercolor pencil, and acrylic on wood

60h x 30w x 2d in
152.40h x 76.20w x 5.08d cm

ASie160

 

I didn't know it at the time, but Hurricane Katrina was my catalyst to becoming an artist. When I returned to New Orleans after the storm, I found a city transformed—scarred, resilient and determined. One of the most striking mediums of our collective voice was the humble t-shirt. New Orleanians from all walks of life wore t-shirts as their personal billboards—raw, unfiltered expressions of grief, defiance, hope and survival. 

I gathered 81 of these t-shirts from across the city and used my platform as curator of the Country Day Art Gallery to exhibit them. 

Each shirt carried a fragment of the communal psyche: some shouted outrage at government failure, others offered declarations of pride, and some faced the

devastation with humor. Together, they formed a quilt of voices stitched in witness. And now, 20 years post Katrina, in revisiting this collection I realized I amassed and preserved a time capsule honoring our collective struggle.

While text and containment remain cornerstones of my practice, rather than sourcing voices from my community, I now search internally for clarity and meaning. 

My work is process driven. I build, tear apart and rebuild again layering text, form, color and line. Each strata, whether obliterated or excavated holds memory and meaning. 

My work can be monochromatic or multicolored; unstructured and free floating or stretched taut and conforming to the limitations of defined structures. They are 2 or 3-dimensional. Many are non-objective while others, including “Miss River, Readies for Her Crowd” reference the figurative.

And, much like my beloved New Orleans, my work is constantly changing and evolving, carrying within it the ruins and the renaissance—proof that healing, rebuilding and flourishing are possible.

Inquire
AIMÉE FARNET SIEGEL, Dance Party, 2025

AIMÉE FARNET SIEGEL

Dance Party, 2025

paper, oil pastel, and acrylic on wood panel

24h x 24w x 1.50d in
60.96h x 60.96w x 3.81d cm

ASie161

 

I didn't know it at the time, but Hurricane Katrina was my catalyst to becoming an artist. When I returned to New Orleans after the storm, I found a city transformed—scarred, resilient and determined. One of the most striking mediums of our collective voice was the humble t-shirt. New Orleanians from all walks of life wore t-shirts as their personal billboards—raw, unfiltered expressions of grief, defiance, hope and survival. 

I gathered 81 of these t-shirts from across the city and used my platform as curator of the Country Day Art Gallery to exhibit them. 

Each shirt carried a fragment of the communal psyche: some shouted outrage at government failure, others offered declarations of pride, and some faced the

devastation with humor. Together, they formed a quilt of voices stitched in witness. And now, 20 years post Katrina, in revisiting this collection I realized I amassed and preserved a time capsule honoring our collective struggle.

While text and containment remain cornerstones of my practice, rather than sourcing voices from my community, I now search internally for clarity and meaning. 

My work is process driven. I build, tear apart and rebuild again layering text, form, color and line. Each strata, whether obliterated or excavated holds memory and meaning. 

My work can be monochromatic or multicolored; unstructured and free floating or stretched taut and conforming to the limitations of defined structures. They are 2 or 3-dimensional. Many are non-objective while others, including “Miss River, Readies for Her Crowd” reference the figurative.

And, much like my beloved New Orleans, my work is constantly changing and evolving, carrying within it the ruins and the renaissance—proof that healing, rebuilding and flourishing are possible.

Inquire
AIMÉE FARNET SIEGEL, Midnight Rider, 2025

AIMÉE FARNET SIEGEL

Midnight Rider, 2025

artist painted paper and acrylic on wood

24h x 24w x 1.50d in
60.96h x 60.96w x 3.81d cm

ASie162

 

I didn't know it at the time, but Hurricane Katrina was my catalyst to becoming an artist. When I returned to New Orleans after the storm, I found a city transformed—scarred, resilient and determined. One of the most striking mediums of our collective voice was the humble t-shirt. New Orleanians from all walks of life wore t-shirts as their personal billboards—raw, unfiltered expressions of grief, defiance, hope and survival. 

I gathered 81 of these t-shirts from across the city and used my platform as curator of the Country Day Art Gallery to exhibit them. 

Each shirt carried a fragment of the communal psyche: some shouted outrage at government failure, others offered declarations of pride, and some faced the

devastation with humor. Together, they formed a quilt of voices stitched in witness. And now, 20 years post Katrina, in revisiting this collection I realized I amassed and preserved a time capsule honoring our collective struggle.

While text and containment remain cornerstones of my practice, rather than sourcing voices from my community, I now search internally for clarity and meaning. 

My work is process driven. I build, tear apart and rebuild again layering text, form, color and line. Each strata, whether obliterated or excavated holds memory and meaning. 

My work can be monochromatic or multicolored; unstructured and free floating or stretched taut and conforming to the limitations of defined structures. They are 2 or 3-dimensional. Many are non-objective while others, including “Miss River, Readies for Her Crowd” reference the figurative.

And, much like my beloved New Orleans, my work is constantly changing and evolving, carrying within it the ruins and the renaissance—proof that healing, rebuilding and flourishing are possible.

Inquire
AIMÉE FARNET SIEGEL, After the After Party, 2025

AIMÉE FARNET SIEGEL

After the After Party, 2025

painted paper and acrylic on wood panel

24h x 24w x 1.50d in
60.96h x 60.96w x 3.81d cm

 

I didn't know it at the time, but Hurricane Katrina was my catalyst to becoming an artist. When I returned to New Orleans after the storm, I found a city transformed—scarred, resilient and determined. One of the most striking mediums of our collective voice was the humble t-shirt. New Orleanians from all walks of life wore t-shirts as their personal billboards—raw, unfiltered expressions of grief, defiance, hope and survival. 

I gathered 81 of these t-shirts from across the city and used my platform as curator of the Country Day Art Gallery to exhibit them. 

Each shirt carried a fragment of the communal psyche: some shouted outrage at government failure, others offered declarations of pride, and some faced the

devastation with humor. Together, they formed a quilt of voices stitched in witness. And now, 20 years post Katrina, in revisiting this collection I realized I amassed and preserved a time capsule honoring our collective struggle.

While text and containment remain cornerstones of my practice, rather than sourcing voices from my community, I now search internally for clarity and meaning. 

My work is process driven. I build, tear apart and rebuild again layering text, form, color and line. Each strata, whether obliterated or excavated holds memory and meaning. 

My work can be monochromatic or multicolored; unstructured and free floating or stretched taut and conforming to the limitations of defined structures. They are 2 or 3-dimensional. Many are non-objective while others, including “Miss River, Readies for Her Crowd” reference the figurative.

And, much like my beloved New Orleans, my work is constantly changing and evolving, carrying within it the ruins and the renaissance—proof that healing, rebuilding and flourishing are possible.

Inquire
TRENITY THOMAS, Cowboy at Poor Boys, 2025

TRENITY THOMAS

Cowboy at Poor Boys, 2025

archival pigment print

16h x 20w in
40.64h x 50.80w cm

Edition of 5

TrTh534_001

 

My experience as a 6-year-old evacuee during Hurricane Katrina marked a pivotal moment in my life. The unfamiliar surroundings and uncertainty of displacement became a catalyst for resilience. From FEMA trailers to my great-grandparents' home, each new environment shaped my perspective. As I grew older, I realized that evacuations are a recurring reality for many in Louisiana. This awareness fuels my determination to persevere and emerge stronger, inspiring my artistic expression.

Inquire
TRENITY THOMAS, Sidewalk Steppers, 2020

TRENITY THOMAS

Sidewalk Steppers, 2020

archival pigment print

20h x 16w in, edition of 5

14h x 11w in, edition of 7

 

My experience as a 6-year-old evacuee during Hurricane Katrina marked a pivotal moment in my life. The unfamiliar surroundings and uncertainty of displacement became a catalyst for resilience. From FEMA trailers to my great-grandparents' home, each new environment shaped my perspective. As I grew older, I realized that evacuations are a recurring reality for many in Louisiana. This awareness fuels my determination to persevere and emerge stronger, inspiring my artistic expression.

Inquire
TRENITY THOMAS, Girl Sleep During Second Line, 2020

TRENITY THOMAS

Girl Sleep During Second Line, 2020

archival pigment print

20h x 20w in, edition of 5

10h x 10w in, edition of 7

 

My experience as a 6-year-old evacuee during Hurricane Katrina marked a pivotal moment in my life. The unfamiliar surroundings and uncertainty of displacement became a catalyst for resilience. From FEMA trailers to my great-grandparents' home, each new environment shaped my perspective. As I grew older, I realized that evacuations are a recurring reality for many in Louisiana. This awareness fuels my determination to persevere and emerge stronger, inspiring my artistic expression.

Inquire
TRENITY THOMAS, Second Line, 2020

TRENITY THOMAS

Second Line, 2020

archival pigment print

30h x 20w in, edition of 5

14h x 11w in, edition of 7

 

My experience as a 6-year-old evacuee during Hurricane Katrina marked a pivotal moment in my life. The unfamiliar surroundings and uncertainty of displacement became a catalyst for resilience. From FEMA trailers to my great-grandparents' home, each new environment shaped my perspective. As I grew older, I realized that evacuations are a recurring reality for many in Louisiana. This awareness fuels my determination to persevere and emerge stronger, inspiring my artistic expression.

Inquire
TRENITY THOMAS, Our Home, 2019

TRENITY THOMAS

Our Home, 2019

archival pigment print

30h x 20w in, edition of 5

14h x 11w in, edition of 7

 

My experience as a 6-year-old evacuee during Hurricane Katrina marked a pivotal moment in my life. The unfamiliar surroundings and uncertainty of displacement became a catalyst for resilience. From FEMA trailers to my great-grandparents' home, each new environment shaped my perspective. As I grew older, I realized that evacuations are a recurring reality for many in Louisiana. This awareness fuels my determination to persevere and emerge stronger, inspiring my artistic expression.

Inquire
TRENITY THOMAS, Coffee and Beignets, 2019

TRENITY THOMAS

Coffee and Beignets, 2019

archival pigment print

30h x 20w in, edition of 5

14h x 11w in, edition of 7

 

My experience as a 6-year-old evacuee during Hurricane Katrina marked a pivotal moment in my life. The unfamiliar surroundings and uncertainty of displacement became a catalyst for resilience. From FEMA trailers to my great-grandparents' home, each new environment shaped my perspective. As I grew older, I realized that evacuations are a recurring reality for many in Louisiana. This awareness fuels my determination to persevere and emerge stronger, inspiring my artistic expression.

Inquire
TRENITY THOMAS On The Way, 2017 photographic print 30h x 20w in edition 1/1

TRENITY THOMAS

On The Way, 2017

archival pigment print

30h x 20w in, edition of 5

14h x 11w in, edition of 7

 

My experience as a 6-year-old evacuee during Hurricane Katrina marked a pivotal moment in my life. The unfamiliar surroundings and uncertainty of displacement became a catalyst for resilience. From FEMA trailers to my great-grandparents' home, each new environment shaped my perspective. As I grew older, I realized that evacuations are a recurring reality for many in Louisiana. This awareness fuels my determination to persevere and emerge stronger, inspiring my artistic expression.

Inquire
TRENITY THOMAS, Canal Street, 2017

TRENITY THOMAS

Canal Street, 2017

archival pigment print

20h x 20w in, edition of 5

10h x 10w in, edition of 7

 

My experience as a 6-year-old evacuee during Hurricane Katrina marked a pivotal moment in my life. The unfamiliar surroundings and uncertainty of displacement became a catalyst for resilience. From FEMA trailers to my great-grandparents' home, each new environment shaped my perspective. As I grew older, I realized that evacuations are a recurring reality for many in Louisiana. This awareness fuels my determination to persevere and emerge stronger, inspiring my artistic expression.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, July 4, 1900 - July 6, 1971, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

July 4, 1900 - July 6, 1971, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

18.75h x 20.25w x 6.50d in
47.63h x 51.44w x 16.51d cm

PAVI140

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Midnight At The Oasis, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Midnight At The Oasis, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

11.50h x 9w x 8.50d in
29.21h x 22.86w x 21.59d cm

PAVI135

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Saturn / Ebony Eyes, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Saturn / Ebony Eyes, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

16.75h x 12.75w x 8.25d in
42.55h x 32.39w x 20.96d cm

PAVI136

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, After The Gold Rush, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

After The Gold Rush, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

16.50h x 18w x 7.50d in
41.91h x 45.72w x 19.05d cm

PAVI137

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Endless Summer, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Endless Summer, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

18.25h x 18.75w x 8d in
46.36h x 47.63w x 20.32d cm

PAVI139

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Dirty Work, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Dirty Work, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

16.25h x 18.50w x 8d in
41.28h x 46.99w x 20.32d cm

PAVI138

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Best Of The Byrds, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Best Of The Byrds, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

19h x 14.25w x 7d in
48.26h x 36.20w x 17.78d cm

PAVI143

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Synchronicity, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Synchronicity, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

18.50h x 17.75w x 6d in
46.99h x 45.09w x 15.24d cm

PAVI142

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Candy-O, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

Candy-O, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

10h x 8.50w x 5.50d in
25.40h x 21.59w x 13.97d cm

PAVI157

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

21h x 14w x 8d in
53.34h x 35.56w x 20.32d cm

PAVI160

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, John Cage, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

John Cage, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

11h x 8w x 5d in
27.94h x 20.32w x 12.70d cm

PAVI164

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Never Gonna Fall In Love Again, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

Never Gonna Fall In Love Again, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

12h x 13.50w x 7.50d in
30.48h x 34.29w x 19.05d cm

PAVI167

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, One For My Baby, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

One For My Baby, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

13h x 11w x 5.50d in
33.02h x 27.94w x 13.97d cm

PAVI168

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Pump Up the Volume, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

Pump Up the Volume, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

9.50h x 8w x 6d in
24.13h x 20.32w x 15.24d cm

PAVI169

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Sonny and Cher's Greatest Hits, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

Sonny and Cher's Greatest Hits, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

14.50h x 16w x 8d in
36.83h x 40.64w x 20.32d cm

PAVI172

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Stoned Soul Picnic, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

Stoned Soul Picnic, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

6.50h x 5.50w x 5d in
16.51h x 13.97w x 12.70d cm

PAVI173

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Such A Woman, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

Such A Woman, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

16.50h x 11w x 8.50d in
41.91h x 27.94w x 21.59d cm

PAVI174

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Supremes Greatest Hits, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

Supremes Greatest Hits, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

9.50h x 6w x 6.50d in
24.13h x 15.24w x 16.51d cm

PAVI175

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Trixie, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

Trixie, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

12.50h x 14.50w x 6.50d in
31.75h x 36.83w x 16.51d cm

PAVI176

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, All I Have To Do Is Dream, 2025

PAUL VILLINSKI

All I Have To Do Is Dream, 2025

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

10h x 9.50w x 6.50d in
25.40h x 24.13w x 16.51d cm

PAVI155

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Abraxas, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Abraxas, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

17.25h x 16.50w x 7.50d in
43.82h x 41.91w x 19.05d cm

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Theme From Mahogany, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Theme From Mahogany, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

17.50h x 13.25w x 8d in
44.45h x 33.66w x 20.32d cm

PAVI132

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Take It To The Top, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Take It To The Top, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

15h x 11w x 7d in
38.10h x 27.94w x 17.78d cm

PAVI131

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire
PAUL VILLINSKI, Eric Clapton and the Yardbirds, 2024

PAUL VILLINSKI

Eric Clapton and the Yardbirds, 2024

found vinyl LP records, steel wire

13.75h x 12w x 8d in
34.93h x 30.48w x 20.32d cm

PAVI130

 

My work with vinyl LP records began in post-Katrina New Orleans. In 2006, I visited there to try to take in what had happened and to scavenge materials among the ubiquitous piles of debris. On a concrete slab in the Lower Ninth Ward - once someone’s home - I found a number of vinyl LPs, mud covered and warped by the sun, their round center labels rotted away. With patience, I cut these albums into large, black birds, then heated them to further warp the vinyl and fold the wings into form. Many of my LPs contain personal anthems; many are markers of life events... To me, these pieces are about the thought and work of the musical artists I love floating into the world and spreading its influence like migrating birds carried along by the wind. It’s about the ability of this music, and by extension, all art, to connect us, console us, shape us, and to transform us in small and large ways - in ways its creators can’t even guess at.

Inquire

Press Release

FERRARA SHOWMAN GALLERY is proud to present This City Holds Us: Twenty Years After Hurricane Katrina, a group exhibition featuring ten gallery artists who experienced the storm, reinvested in the city in its aftermath, grew their studio practice as a result, and became or remain productive, successful fine artists working in New Orleans who have achieved national and international recognition..

This City Holds Us will be on view 23 July through 13 September, with an opening reception in conjunction with the Arts District New Orleans’ highly anticipated, Fidelity Bank White Linen Night –  summer art walk, that attracts over 30,000 art lovers to the arts district - Fidelity Bank White Linen Night – on 2 August from 5 – 10 PM. A second, closing reception will be held during the monthly First Saturdays on 6 September from 5 – 8 PM.

In their own words: 10 artists revisit their experiences post-Katrina and how it impacted them as artists, and citizens of New Orleans. This exhibition celebrates the resilience, persistence, and inherent passion of artists in New Orleans. 

*click on individual artists' works to read their stories

Press Release cont'd

Ferrara reflects on his experience as an artist and gallery owner . . . 

Katrina surprised me in its rapid ascent…On Friday night I was playing board games with friends and on Saturday morning I was freaking out at the approach of this monster storm. I immediately began boarding up the gallery windows and moving all the artwork as high up on the walls as it would go…there was no time for anything else…move it all up and pray that the potential floodwaters didn’t get that high.

As a transplant, I had never had to evacuate for a storm before and like many of my fellow transplants, I didn’t really have a plan… I gathered a bag full of random clothes and my dog and hit the road only to get stranded in standstill contraflow traffic on the highway as the first bands of the storms came through.  I made my way to Baton Rouge where I slept on the floor of a friend’s home and waited for news.  It was days and no real news came besides the continual refrain of “the levees were overtopped” and “the city is flooding” and “who knows how long til residents can return.”  After waiting, wondering and worrying for five straight days, I finally got word from some filmmaker friends, that my house was still there, my gallery was still standing but the building next to it was a pile of rubble.  Nothing more than that, but at least they were still standing.

Artistically, oOne of the first bodies of work I made in response to Katrina was a series of multiple canvas installations  called Overtopped that toured the country with the New Orleans Artists In Exile traveling exhibition that travelewads to 7 cities around the country between 2007 and 2009.

When I was evacuated for Katrina all that I heard one the news was that “the levees have been overtopped, the levees have been overtopped,” and considering my fragile state of mind, it was as if these words were seared into my subconscious somehow, and I struggled to put a visual image to the words…. I had not seen any real pictures of that exact moment when the water flowed over and into the bowl, we call home but the phrase haunted me. So, I set out to make a series of works that captured that moment when things would never be the same.

With a mixture of sand and gesso and fluid acrylic, I developed a pouring process that help me visually replicate that fateful moment.  The mixture was like cornmeal and when poured slowly creeped its way “over the top” of the canvas and down the front, like the water over the top of the  levee top.  I was able to freeze the drip in time and as it dried, the mixture began to crack just like I imagined the levees had.  It was cathartic and meditative at the same time.  Over the course of the next two years, I made about 60 panels of various sizes using this process, changing the colors to vary daylight and moonlight, all with the same basic effect of recreating that moment in our collective history.

As the immediate aftermath of Katrina unfolded, I was continually checking on my artists and my friends.  Seeing who was where and how they were holding up…sharing our mutual misery and dismay.  Information was hard to come by, and communication was limited to say the least.  But every day I made the effort to be the glue that kept the gallery and our artists togethetogether,r as best I possibly could.

After almost a month of being displaced, I finally had enough, and I made my way back to the city evading the State Police checkpoints and getting back home. As I reentered, there was a crazy quiet that rang throughout the city.  It was empty, uninhabited, and just desolate.  In this eerie vacuum, I tried to restart my life and my business.

In a city devastated by a major hurricane, who was going to buy art?  So, I came up with the first of many ideas that would help New Orleans artists rebuild in some way.  With the local market in a state of shock, I rented my gallery space to a roofing company, and I took our show on the road.  The goal was to bring New Orleans artists affected by Katrina to other cities where their work could be sold and the money repatriated to NOLA for them to begin to rebuild their lives.  And thus, New Orleans Artists in Exile was born.  Over the course of the next two years, I brought the work of 20+ artists to Atlanta, New York, Miami and Shreveport.  These shows gave artists opportunity, gave these hosts communities a way to directly help artists by buying their work  and it provided inspiration for other likeminded efforts. 
 

At the same I was organizing those shows; I was working through a non-profit I started call ARTDOCS,  with another local think tank non-profit called the Idea Village,  to raise funds mone y to do a direct money give away to artists of all disciplines.  We raised over $40,000 and gave small grants to artists in need, to help them get back on their feet and start making work again.  It was a very successful endeavor in which we were able to cut through the red tape and get artists money very quickly.  We did good, and it felt good!

As I traveled around the country for New Orleans Artists in Exile, I was asked repeatedly, what impact do you think Katrina will have on New Orleans art?

My response was always the same…

Do you think that great art comes from pleasure or pain?

If you believe it is the latter which a lot of people do, then how can the artists of one of the most creative cities in the world go through such a traumatic experience and not create amazing works of art?

Did it take time for these ideas to manifest, yes it did…but in the end, like a lot of New Orleans, the local art world came out the other side stronger, richer, more entrenched in their belief in their city.

At one point, like so many other New Orleanians, I considered and explored opportunities to move to other cities.  I looked at Portland, Nashville, Atlanta, Miami and New York, but ultimately decided I was going to stay and fight. Fight for my city, and fight for the place where I discovered my creative self and began my artistic career.  As a creative, as an artist, no other city inspires on a daily basis like New Orleans.  This place is magical, crazy, creative, eccentric and extraordinary.  It is not for everyone, that is for sure. But if it gets in your blood, you can live nowhere else… that’s a simple fact.  So, I stayed and rebuilt, dug in and joined hands with my fellow creatives and plotted a course forward against all odd and in the face of great adversity.

For the past  20 years, my gallery has grown from a small locally based creative space to one with an international reach working artists on 5 continents, doing projects across the US, in Europe and the Middle East, participating in seven art fairs a year in New York, Miami, San Francisco, Houston, Seattle and Basel, Switzerland and working with institutions and collections around the world. 

I have written a book on guns and art entitled Guns In The Hands of Artists.  I curated and toured an exhibition of the same name with over 30 nationally renowned artists that traveled from New Orleans to The Aspen Institute, Washington University in St. Louis, Minneapolis, Art Basel in Miami Beach, The New America Institute and Fairfield University.

The gallery’s growth has been greatly influenced by my now partner Matthew Showman who moved to NOLA in 2011. Another silver lining from Katrina was the amazing influx of talented young people who saw in New Orleans, an opportunity to reshape an American city.  They came with big hearts and big minds and their impact on this city has been profound….and we are truly grateful.  Matthew was one of those people. Matthew has shepherded the gallery from small time space to big time gallery.

As I look back on Katrina and consider how it affected my gallery and my life, it is hard to put into words.  It was such a profoundly horrible experience to have gone through.  One that I don’t choose to remember, and that is painful to ponder.  It rocked my world, devastated my home and shredded the very fabric of my existence, but as I said before, I do believe that great art comes from pain and this profound experience made me, my city and my fellow New Orleanians stronger, harder, smarter and more creative.  We had the, hopefully, once in a lifetime opportunity to reshape a major American city and we have done just that…and the arts have played critical role in that.  Artists came to New Orleans and added their voices to our chorus. They invested their time, money and energy and it shows.  We are stronger now than ever, even as we still live on the precarious front line on climate change.  But we are still here, and we will be here til the ship goes down or the tide washes us away.  We are artists and we believe in this magical place that we call home.'

For more information, press or sales inquiries please contact Gallery Director Matthew Weldon Showman at 504.343.6827 or matthew@ferrarashowman.com. Please join the conversation with FSG on Instagram (@FerraraShowmanGallery) via the hashtags: #FerraraShowmanGallery, and #ArtsDistrictNewOrleans.